Porn movies and rattlesnakes in like California…
Disclaimer: this post contains like all the bad language, sex and total blonde generalisations that I’m known for. Just so you know. Did I mention porn? Oh, and you have to have someone read this to you in a West Coast accent, otherwise it doesn’t make sense. I’ll do it if you cast me in your movie. Just call my Manager.
It’s like so totally not like me, to rant you know? ‘Cuz I’m like California all over. I mean we believe in solar power, organic fruits, beach bodies, sexual liberation, Entourage, positive manifestations, meditation and charitable organisations for starving Actors (usually called “bars” and donations come in the form of “tips”). So like, I’m just gonna be so not me you know for once, and be like totally like non-positive about the world, because I think there’s been too much petroleum pumped into the brains of those non-Californians out there. Know what I’m saying? Srsly. So going against The Secret (the modern-day bible of Cali) and the all loving people, I will have to say that the world is a tad mad. I’m not saying I’m not mad. Like I see myself thinking thoughts that aren’t real, but I realize they aren’t real. Just because I’m scared of snakes doesn’t mean that the rattlesnakes will be in the bushes just as I jog by. I still jog as if they were in the bushes though, just to be sure. And I try to not wear too short shorts whilst jogging, as I could have men running behind me then, scaring the snakes. But maybe I could wear the shorts and still be OK, if there aren’t any snakes that day. See what I’m saying? Like I’m reacting to something that isn’t real, but it could be real. Reality is a bit screwed up. But most things can be fixed with a big smile. Fakeness goes a long way in LA. I mean positivity. That’s what it’s called – positivity. So anyway, here’s my list. I hope you digg it and reddit and facebook it to like all your cool friends. Like the ones in the hills and that producer on The Hangover.
People are still throwing stones at each other because they want to play in each others’ gardens (a.k.a. countries), but aren’t allowed. But hello? Where are the mommies hiding? They should like bake cakes for each other instead. This is so some 1850′s Wild Western complex.
People walk around feeling happy just ‘cuz they are holding a gun and can shoot the bastard who’s father’s uncle’s brother’s daughter’s niece shot someone they would be related to if they were alive, but it was 200 years ago. I mean we all had to read Romeo And Juliet in high school. Fighting doesn’t solve ANYTHING. It just leads to more people getting killed.
People think they have power when they have the biggest resources of things that can kill people, which is like a stone age mentality. Didn’t anyone read The Secret? It’s all about the POWER OF THOUGHT. Jeeze people.
People fight over who has the best product, like Cheerios v.s. Cornflakes. This is like kindergarten stuff. You should go with the healthiest one. Let the best man win. If you are trying to conquer someone who is better than you, you are simply losing anyway. You may sell more, but you are worse. Like not cool at all. Duh.
People are very much into getting a bigger diamond to hang around their neck, whilst people are dying from starvation. No, they’re not your problem unless you gave birth to them, but it’s still twisted somehow, because everyone tells you sharing is caring. You know, all the Stars in Hollywood share their wealth. And they only borrow their diamonds and when they feel really guilty for being rich they screw up their life and go into rehab.
It’s really weird because like everyone knows that if you are someone in LA you drive a cool car, you have cool shades and you live in a cool crib in the hills, like, but all these people are in AA, go to therapists and spend their time stressing about raising more money to make their movies that don’t make any money. It’s like they take the paparazzi so seriously – when they leave they get so sad they throw canned beans at them, because they no longer get on the cover of People Magazine, so they can’t sue them to pay their bills when they win.
People then think these people are their heroes. So they want to be in rehab too?
Most people can’t remember the best night of their life. I always thought that was kinda weird, but I guess it’s OK so long as the paparazzi caught you on camera.
Smoking kills, so people really like dying. Not so much in California of course. We are too healthy, like here people do coke to save their lungs.
All these porn movies that suddenly get released by some angry ex lover…I mean isn’t that soooo yesterday? It was news when Paris Hilton did it, but come on? Can’t all the ex lovers just get over it? Don’t they understand they like so humiliate themselves by showing they care? If you want someone back you just get a new partner and make sure you film that sex instead. Just so they know what they’re missing.
I like don’t get it. Someone thinks she can manifest the ass she had at 20. But hello. Like the whole world mis-read The Secret. You have to take inspired action too. Like build a time machine.
Yesterday I was standing in Ann Summers in Soho, having a nakedly blonde moment as I was waiting for the other half of Two Naked Blondes & Co. Amongst Pussy Rub and Dick Lick I realised I have been single for long enough and definitely not gone to Soho often enough since I got back. I love Soho, because of all the movie companies and cafes. Not the sex shops. Doh. However, I have seen some of London since I came back and as an almost Californian, most definitively Swedish person I have made some observations about London and the Londoners…
Londoners love keeping mice as their pets. It’s the most popular pet in town. The city is so overcrowded that people feel lonely because no one knows who they are, not even in the local pub, so they have decided they need pets around and mice was the best option, as they don’t cost anything (living in the most expensive city in the world already ruins their personal economy) and they don’t require that you are around much either. As most Londoners are stuck on some train platform waiting for a tube that never arrives due to adverse weather conditions (rain…) they don’t have that much time to hang about their house. Especially not when it’s raining as there will be leaks everywhere. They have to go to the local pub then, as there will be a fireplace amidst the leaks where they can dry their clothes and drench their sorrows. Then they go home stinking like beer and feel even less lonely as they now have the beer with them.
The other way in which Londoners overcome loneliness is by having too few buses and tubes, so that they all overflow with people, meaning everyone is squeezed together, holding onto each other for dear life as the train or bus shakes you about. Especially the bus as the drivers really want to make people hug each other by driving so badly that if you don’t, you fall over. It’s a special trick of theirs. They often also make you extremely grateful for the kindness of fellow passengers by being so grumpy that in comparison Margaret Thatcher would come across as a ray of sunshine.
The most popular accessory is the umbrella, of course. It is highly useful for knocking people over when you try to walk down Oxford Street any given day. Especially when you walk through the crowds around the Jesus preacher who tells you that you are a sinner. I mean you can’t stand around listening to that for too long – you may get brainwashed on some semi-conscious level. Umbrellas can also be useful to poke hot blokes with, then pretend to be awfully sorry and ask for their number, but since it’s Britain they may consider this suspicious behaviour – you don’t talk to strangers here.
Another highly suspicious behaviour is smiling in the tube (and you know you have to report all suspicious behaviour on the tube). People don’t smile on the streets of London unless the sun is shining and we already know it’s almost always raining. And in the tube it’s never sunny – either it’s under ground, or if it’s above ground it’s either cloudy, or the sun has turned it into a sauna and all the windows get so fogged up you think you are underground anyway.
The sense of humour is so dry that anything bad can be considered a joke. Which is lucky really, because there is no fake positivity vibe in this town, like there is in LA. So even when people say bad things about you, you can write it off as a joke and walk away smiling. Blooming marvellous. And it’s good for me too, because people actually laugh at my jokes here. In Cali they just thought I was mean. Sarcasm doesn’t hit the Californians. They are too fake positive to get it.
London is London, innit? And I fucking love it because I can swear so bloody much, which is extremely useful – whenever I get confused I don’t answer people in a rational manner – I just open my eyes really wide and say “FUCK a duck” or “For fuck’s sake babe” or “Bloody hell!” and stare at them in wonder. Then they solemnly nod and say “Fuck, yeah.”
Another thing I love about this country is that I can put an x in every sentence. Kissing in writing is very popular here. In LA it was almost considered rude, which is illogical as all their billboards display sex in one variation of a theme, or another. But kissing is clearly beyond impersonal sex, so they don’t really get it in Hollywood. Londoners may never smile and they most certainly don’t think everything’s totally awesome, but at least they can kiss, which gives you hope they will be able to make love. So maybe I landed in the right town after all – I can’t shag surfers in hot tubs under the palm trees whilst the neighbours are sneaking in the bushes hoping to capture the new smash hit home porno, but I may end up making love in some Victorian mansion where the bed is creaking whilst you’re rocking and only the ghosts are watching. Not too bad, not too bad.
All the world’s a stage and all the men and women mainly players…
He wants to shag you, but you don’t wanna shag him, so you avoid him
You wanna be friends, but he wants to date you, so he avoids you from fear of heartbreak
You want to shag him, but he only wants to shag you if he gets to date you
He thinks you want to date him, so he avoids being too close friends with you from fear of leading you on
You want to date him, so you get confused in his company and behave like an idiot (dizzy blonde)
Your friends think it’s a really good idea that you two should be dating so you both freak out in each others company trying to avoid the other getting the impression that you agree with your friends
You would like to screw him, but don’t because it would screw with the friendship
He would like to screw you, but he doesn’t because that would screw with his friend
You would like to screw him, but you don’t because that would screw with you
All the world’s a stage and all the men and women mainly players…lovers…friends…
I feel like a change…maybe I should become a lesbian???
Warning: sexual, potentially funny content.
Becoming a lesbian when you’re straight is like anal sex: whether you’ve done it or not you are screwed. If you have done it you are a slut, if you haven’t you are frigid. On the other hand, if you screw men, you have men trouble, but if you screw women you don’t get to screw men. Like Charlotte said in SATC – my vagina would be depressed. I mean it’s like life is this constant frustration. Unless of course you find Mr Right who gives you no problems and you get laid for the rest of your life by the greatest shag around, that keeps getting better. Naturally I don’t need men to be happy, it’s just so much easier if someone else carries the shopping for me, rubs my shoulders at night and keeps my vagina happy without a rabbit. And of course you could do just the sex, but that’s like saying you want one piece of chocolate, when really you want the whole bar.
Then there’s the question of what city to live in. In LA everything is totally awesome and in London nothing’s too bad, which kind of sums it up right there, apart from the fact that even though LA is awesome London has everything awesome in it. It’s like that bitch that has Mr Perfect inside her, whereas lovely gorgeous next door is shagging a somewhat alcoholic, fame obsessed nobody with too big a car and an even bigger ego.
My choice of cities feels like my choice of dream marriage: on the one hand I’d love to drive to Mexico on a bike, get hitched in really high heels and the sexiest skimpiest dress on the planet, drink tequila all night and have my honeymoon in oblivious bliss to the world, high on chocolate, sex and chili. On the other hand I would love a fairytale wedding in France with a hundred people, or more and a honeymoon which is the deepest spiritual journey on the planet, connecting my soul with my husband’s. I always figured I could get married with the aid of tequila first and then do the proper vow once I’ve grown up enough to handle the pressure and need a bit of a lift in my every day life. I mean weddings tend to perk things up. If nothing else you can argue with your mother in law five times a day.
My choice of ideal wedding is kind of like marrying an Angelino v.s. marrying a Londoner (who’s preferably of exotic breed – you need a house in the sun and some HOT blood if you are to survive that town): with the Angelino you feel sure they will file for a divorce and make you a millionaire, whereas with a Londoner it may actually last forever. I guess it depends on what your priorities are.
Life is confusing. Like you want the bad boy and the romance, the skyscrapers and the open fields, bohemia and luxury, all at the same time. Like snow and 80 degrees Fahrenheit.
So time for a change? Well the lesbian thing is outruled by logic: I can’t take prozac for my vagina. Marriage ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, so that’s outruled too. That leaves moving cities. Well, who knows? I don’t. Maybe I should just try a new pair of shoes first? Prada, Prada… Where’s my sugar daddy when I need him??? Or at least a bad boy with a pure heart???
“The universe may not always play fair, but at least it’s got a hell of a sense of humor.” – SATC
Miranda Hobbes: If he goes up your butt, will he respect you more or respect you less? That’s the issue.
Taxi Driver: [to Carrie] No smoking in the cab.
Carrie: Sir, we’re talking up the butt. A cigarette is in order.
Samantha Jones: Front, back, who cares? A hole is a hole.
Miranda Hobbes: Can I quote you?
Samantha Jones: Don’t be so judgemental. You could use a little back door.
Charlotte: I’m not a hole.
Carrie: Honey, we know.
As men know, housewives do dirty things – that’s why men refuse hiring cleaners; they’d rather have a dirty wife than a dirty cleaner (although some prefer both). That’s also why they never do their dishes – the dirtier their wife gets, the better. Women, on the other hand like gardeners, because when their husbands work late and they are left alone to their dirty deeds, they need someone to get down and dirty with them. Gardeners are their preferred choice as they use their body all day long, leaving them looking like Greek gods. Of course, if their husbands do the gardening and don’t spend all day with their secretary, it’s all that much better because they actually get the man they want, as they want him – half-naked and dirty. The moral of the story? Get dirty with someone you love.
My great sex life and God…dirty, shameless and filled with profanities…
Disclaimer: this piece is dirty, shameless and religiously offencive. It’s my lunch hour profanities. The thing with taking the piss is that I’d only do it with the things I love (normally anyway). God included.
In the future, if anyone asks me if I have contacts in LA, I will just refer them to Jesus. I mean he’s Universal after all. Sure they’ll get a good deal with that company if they mention that reference. Besides, he can often be found walking down Sunset Boulevard, on a “religious” high, and that’s where most people fancy themselves walking. With a real tan and fake tits.
I got upset the other day and exclaimed “Jesus fucking God.” I didn’t mean to be incestuous. It just came out that way. I’m really not sure where it went wrong with me and religion? I’m actually quite pro it. I mean I scream God’s name when I come too, clearly praising the divinity of being human. Maybe that’s where it went wrong though? I should have been in love every time. Or maybe it’s because I’ve fallen in love with too many men that didn’t make me come simply because they didn’t fall for me, so they never ended up in bed with me? I’ll blame it on the men and myself so I don’t have to blame it on God. After all: he made the naked body, but it was I who fell in love with it. Apparently he made me too though, but maybe the problem is that I never found God in the men I had sex with, even if I said “Oh my fucking God?” So I got deluded? *sigh*
I keep wondering what would happen if you put one person from each religion in a room and asked them who’s going to Heaven? As I said to a friend on Facebook (the new intelligent medium for sharing opinionated beliefs): The wise know they do not know, yet beyond that they know…the unwise know they know everything they know and everything that they don’t know…but they do know, they really know beyond that, they just don’t know that they know, because they’re too busy knowing.
Everything is an illusion and the greatest illusion is thinking it is no illusion, but then again thinking it is an illusion is an illusion if everything’s an illusion. No one really knows what is real right, we just choose what to believe…like God, Jesus…sex. I mean someone said the other day that imagination is real and in that case I have a great sex life. Hallelujah. Or at least hallelujah for my imagination.
I actually started writing this piece last night after watching a clip on Youtube with David Walliams. I looked him up after reading on the front cover of a magazine that he is the new king of comedy. I disagreed so much I had to try to be funny to prove another sense of humour exists. As my only religion is love though, I totally love this guy for not making me laugh. Means I need to get creative to make myself laugh. I probably will end up in a mud pool for trying, given my dirty sense of humour. But it’s alright: I clean the house with Eco-over so at least I’m environmentally friendly.
I now feel everyone has laughed (or echoed in silence) enough at my religious sense of humour, which by now you realise is not quite real, right? Because nothing is real and other times I’m serious about spirituality, that’s why I have to take the piss of myself as my seriousness can’t be real. Seriously. I’m putting my faith in Jesus of Los Angeles. I mean, after all LA is my Mecca – where would I be if I couldn’t dream of being resurrected with plastic surgery after age 40?