My Face Will Be on Buses BABEE

Ten things I'm gonna do to get on "Idol".

10 Show up in my bikini. Make out with Paula with enthusiasm.

9 Bring my family. My family of one member from every ruthless gang in my prison.

8 Act confused when rejected and claim I thought I was trying out for Hells Kitchen.

7 Tell them Kurt Cobain sent me.

6 Yell, "WHO ARE YOU GONNA BELIEVE? ME OR YOUR LYING EARS BITCH."

5 Show off my ability to sing like a rock star and puke at the same time, saving myself a step.*

4 Collapse limp so they cannot haul my no talent ass away.

3 Punch out Seacrest for my golden ticket.

2 Bring my back up dancers. Train feral cats a few steps first.

1 Show judges handmade tabloid of me and the Rock's illicit affair.


I will not beg. I have my pride eh.

I'd Call it Rapids Myself

There is nothing peaceful about Stillwater. As a matter of fact, nothing ever good came of Stillwater.Old school bricks, and bars, and rifles. Only thing still about it is the people that spend a life time there.
And with today's budget cuts, I wonder if I want to step up to that plate.

Messages in the Sand

Dear Fire Dancer,
You need someone the rub fire retardant on your body before shows. I am that person.
I am very good at circles.

Messages in the Sand

Dear Fire Dancer,
I have my creme brulle torch at the ready and have been practicing tribal tattooing.
You remember me right? I was the only woman there smart enough to throw you my room keys. Sorry the pineapple I shoved them in hit you in the grunion. When you send for me I will bring salve.

Messages in the Sand

Dear Fire Dancer,
So I lit my Bic and waved it over my head during your performance like a 1987 concert goer. I wasn't trying to outshine your dazzle. I was showing appreciation. Write me back. Seriously.

Messages in the Sand

Dear Fire Dancer,
You gotta admit you felt "our" sparks. I did. And it wasn't just the third degree sunburn I'm talkin. You still got my room keys er address. Get ahold of me.

Dried Grass is Trouble

At first you will just blame it on the jet lag, but eventually you will have to admit yourself have a situation in your basement. Your teenager often spent extended periods of time down there, but you will soon realise you haven't laid eyes on him now in weeks.
Then one afternoon on you day off, while chopping okra for the effete, you will think you just heard a soft giggle over the sound of your knife.
"Son?", you will call. "That you down there?" He will just dodge your question and ask what is for dinner. You will forget your query and yell, "Effete". "No, I'm not mom, why can't you just leave me alone!!", will come his agitated answer.
Shacking your head remembering how difficult it was when the boy had gone through adolescence, and praying he is not having some sort of hormonal relapsed, you ignore the out burst and decide to chop the jalapenos and onions next as it easier than arguing with family.
Later, he will not come up for dinner, claiming to dislike his once favorite spicy dish, asking for fresh fruit instead. This will become his habit.
You will soon began hearing pulsating drum music in your dreams.
Then one night you will wake, disturbed by your dreams of drums and swaying palms and leave your upper level bedroom for the glass of salt water you crave.
On the ground floor as you turn on the stairs in time to catch the swish of a skirt in your peripheral vision and distracted you will run smack into your startled basement dwelling son. You hardly recognize him. He is quite pale, skinny and his eyes dilated. Your baby resembles an dishevelled anorexic owl.
A normal mom would call rehab immediately.
You on the other hand march straight to the basement door and beller, "HULA GIRLS GET OUT OF MY BASEMENT!"
You turn the scantily clad girls out into the cold only after bulking them up on a nice potato and cheese laced hotdish and congratulate yourself on your parenting skills.
Your son on the other hand never speaks to you again.