(Guest post courtesy of EyeRoller, a brand-new, yet well on his way to his Donk PhD, Type-A hater)
By Donkey (One-eighth to one-quarter Jewish!!!, at least when I am trying to snag a rich Jewish dude)
Here’s to a good year, to my sea of Jewish and non-Jewish readers alike. It’s ME, Donkey! It’s been a puffy week and I’m too full of resolutions, revelations and deep ass thoughts to count, so before we get started, for the broken-record-umpteenth time, let’s get one thing crystal-zirconium-clear — I NEVER READ HERE. Now that we’ve straightened that out, I’ll waste no time catching you, my humble public, up to speed on everything ME.
I know, I know…
Anyway, I’ve wasted dozen of sleepless, “brainstormy” hours tailspinning in my usual patterns, all over the country. Part of these cerebral thundershowers included the light bulb moment “DUDE, WHERE’S MY DOG,” so I immediately packed up all my pink shit and fluttered off to the airport to:
1) Put the ‘chic’ in Chicago
2) Receive a “This is what we paid $100,00 for a Georgetown diploma for?!?!” lecture from my parents
3) Reclaim my elderly dog, who’d be better off staying with my parents and eating guacamole and cranberry Alpo every night rather than stuffing her back into my Vera Bradley rollaway and resuming the grifter lifestyle in which I’ve raised her.
“I Heart Chicago”
Unfortunately, I had to leave my little Agador behind so that he could make fish and steamed vegetables for Timothy Sykes every night. I even slipped him an extra $20 to bleach the toilets and scrub my spray tan moltings out of the tub in @Tim Sykes’ guest bathroom. That’s right, THE BOYFRIEND doesn’t have a master’s degree and more importantly, he’s not a professional violinist, therefore I feel extremely comfortable employing him as a housekeeper. Don’t worry everyone, that #taskrabbitloverboy will be fine while I’m away.
“It’s Donkey with the ‘E’ and ‘Y’ scraped off.”
So then I hopped a flight and failed, rapidly upwards and homebound, at 500 mph towards Chicago. Actually, it was a little east of Chicago (as in Ohio) because that’s as far as I could afford to go and figured I’d grift out the rest from there. I found an amazing airport bathroom that provided a great venue for a makeshift fauxto shoot. I tried to get this guy to hold my phone and snap the photos while I posed, but he seemed highly uninterested.
“Stop tapping my foot under the stall, Donkey.”
I waited for him to exit and proceeded with my shoot, which I tweeted for your enjoyment. Isn’t a shirt and shorts and boots the craziest travel outfit you’ve ever heard of???
You may think this is where the journey ends, but we’ve only just begun home fries, because I managed to sell enough blood to a Red Cross in Cleveland to afford me a Greyhound to Peoria and a commuter flight from there. I was then personally dropped onto the roof of my parents’ home:
“Hometown Donkey Makes Good!”
Once I landed and untangled my pelts, it was time for to look my parents flat in the eyes and hear the truth:
“Where the fuck have you been, Jerlier?”
The only reply I could think of to do was grab a baton, start twirling, and screaming a Cyndi Lauper lyric:
They didn’t respond well to that. Specifically, they both started openly weeping, so I stomped, hard, then stormed upstairs and blamed them for my life, crouched in the hallway underneath my framed 4th grade piano recital picture, and got my revenge by tweeting the following:
“Was anyone else taught by their parents that fun = bad? So in their adult life they always feel guilty about having a good time? Just me?”
“As a result, I am very talented at looking like I’m having fun without actually having fun at all.”
“I’m talented and miserable. JUST LOOK AT ME!”
Then, I stormed back downstairs and respectfully explained to my parents that my show just ended. They then explained that Miss Advised wrapped filming a looooooong time ago and that WATCHING the show when it airs a year later doesn’t count as working.
I cried and cried and stormed upstairs again. Then I stormed downstairs again and cried some more, with my hands over my ears, until they agreed to switch the topic and argue about national debt with each other, thus placing us squarely back where we always end up — sitting, wordless, mouths deep, in guacamole-filled silence.
September 17, 2012: An uncomfortable night at The Baughers.
After that, there wasn’t much to do but head upstairs again, to my childhood bedroom, where I’ve settled in and logged online as I type this to you now dear readers, but I must wrap up soon, because PencilDonk and I have a “doll fuck” date on Skype tonight. For all you tech virgins out there, that’s when I take my Barbie, PencilDonk takes his Ken Doll, and we smash and grind their smooth plastic crotches against our screens while making kissy face smooch noises. Don’t worry, we use protection. And by that I mean we scotch tape Saran Wrap over our screens so we don’t scratch up our monitors.
“Boyfriend, can you see me?”
Yes readers, I like my PencilDonk, but instead of tweeting about what a Prince Charming HE is, I prefer to tweet links to bridal blogs that refer to other women’s husbands as “Prince Charmings” —
“Read the groom’s sweet sentiments below the photos. WOW!!! See, Prince Charmings DO exist!! (cc @StyleMePretty)”
I want this woman’s husband! Wouldn’t be the first hubs I’ve targeted, amirite??!?!??!
In short, friends and haters, it’s been a jetlagged couple of whacked-out days and I can’t tell oily pelts from from skunk tails right now. I’m sure I’ll figure it all out one day, right? I’m just an innocent girl making mistakes in a modern world LOL!!! It’s like that random quote I tweeted a couple of days ago, from the great writer and 1929 Boston Bulldogs football player Ralph Waldo Emarston:
“The greatest embarrassments happen when you go way beyond the point of insanity and still refuse to quit.”
Or something like that.