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2004-09-02 - 10:26 a.m.


Tonight promises to be a good one. I wore a long, flowy dress to work today, for the sole purpose of greeting The Honey tonight in said dress. If the bargain I made with Lucifer last night works, the wind will be blowing at the perfect mph for my dress to flutter prettily in the wind as I get out of the car, holding my briefcase. The Honey will think to himself, ah, look at my girlfriend, so pretty, so classy, so pure. Then we’ll go to dinner, which will commence with the rapid drinking of many peach margaritas. My perfect locution and extended vocabulary will give way to a trucker mouth that could rival the gutter talk uttered by Calamity Jane from HBO’s Deadwood. My outfit will be very rock and roll, with my highest pair of heels, jeans with the metal belt with a cowboy buckle, and my KISS t-shirt, perfect with its Gene Simmons tongue in the middle. As I swill margaritas and talk shit, The Honey with think, ah my girlfriend, so bawdy, so funny, so nasty. I can’t wait to get home and do bad things to her.

Before we head to our final destination, I will call Pastori-I, because there’s nothing better than drunk dialing Philly’s nastiest whore.

PASTORI-I: You’ve reached 555-HORE. Two dolla, sucky sucky. Leave a message.

PENCOPAL: Good evening slut. Why have you forsaken us tonight? “Plans with an old college friend?” I thought the janitor who cleaned your dorm was dead. What other college friend do you have? I know where you really are. You’re in New York, getting it in the ass from a gay Republican. I’ve got no problem with the gay part, but the Republican part? You’ve crossed the line. I turned my head when you whored it up Bella Vista, I ignored it when you threatened to beat me senseless at the Franz Ferdinand show, and I let it go when you hacked into my blog to espouse your love for PBR. But pleasuring Republicans for large sums of money is a deal breaker. God damn you Pastori-i, god damn you to hell. You’re dead to me.

THE HONEY: That’s right, sucka. You’re beat.

Then The Honey and I will drive to our final destination, where we’ll see Festival Express. The stink of Pastori-i’s heinous deeds will be washed away by one and half hours of staring at my favorite female rocker, Janis Joplin.


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