Normally, I don't use this blog to air my dirty laundry, but my bloomers have skidmarks and there's only one way to get 'em clean. I need to unload, and you, dear reader are the receptacle.
You see, I just got off the phone with my slut of an alcoholic ex-wife and, as usual, she's managed to ruin my sunny disposition with her incessant clamoring for her share of that residual check I earned by doing a guest-spot on Dharma & Greg a few years ago (I was the hot dog vendor in the park the fueled some great homo jokes, IMHO I stole the show). That gin-soaked harlot has a sixth sense when it comes to prospective johns, half-price daiquiris and my money.
What makes this situation so infuriating is that we were married for just six weeks and the only evidence I have that the marriage was even consummated is the permanent rash I seem to have developed "down there". But the fact I'm still paying "The Mistake That Jumped From The Cake" fourteen years later just seems patently unfair. But, as my agent is fond of saying, "life isn't fair unless you have a movie deal" and I, dear friends, don't currently have a movie deal.
Anyway, her latest telephonic tirade has me spitting nails, in fact I've chewed them to the knuckle. She says that if I don't Western Union $200 to the Flamenco Motor Lodge in Bypass, Texas by noon tomorrow she'll tell the tabloids my "Awful Secret." This would ruin me and my economic future. You see, I was planning on selling "My Awful Secret" to the tabloids myself when the time was right, but this be-yatch may force my hand sooner than I planned.
Well, thanks for listening. I have to sign off now and run over to Olde West to pawn my watch (again) and then over to the Western Union counter at Holiday and send two hundred freakin' dollars to the Flamenco Motor Lodge. What can I say, she's got me by the short and curlys.
Bitch.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
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3 comments:
"she's got me by the short and curlys"
Um, yeah. "Short" is the operative word when I think back on the fond memories of our brief-but-oh-so-unfortunate-union.
I only want what I deserve - compensation for medical bills, therapy. You know -- the Harry Ames Ex-Wife Settlement Special.
BTW - you may want to hurry and market that Awful Secret before a certain bulimic ex-spokesmodel finds her way out of rehab. They call her Little Miss Spill-It for a variety of reasons. And the photos she's got? "Disturbing" is only a word.
Mr. Ames, I really dig you're picture and clever wit, you are so hawt. Can we meet sometime over a cappuccino and see if there is any chemistry between me and you?
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