- I mean NOW.
And bring something with you. These kitchen cabinet things are closed and no one is here to open them.
- Your nostrils are more cavernous than even MINE! How can I compete?
- She's the only person I know who can blow cigarette smoke at you with her nose!
- Why couldn't your Psychic Friends warn you that they were going to catch you with pot going through airport security?
- I will, darlin' but I will never fall in love again
- I have been waiting down here at the Cinnabon like I said for two fucking hours and your sorry ass has not arrived with the car. And I have been out of smoke for one of those miserable hours.
Where the hell are you, Damont? I don't hire you and your shitting service so you can tool around and leave me here in the Grove like some non-icon. There are people here who DO NOT HAVE NAIL EXTENSIONS and there are people here WHO ARE WEARING THEIR OWN HAIR. Do you get me?
SO get by here NOW, Damont, and stop by Dr. Pop's and pick me up eight ounces of the Oahu Velvet on your way or I swear to God I am going to start cutting me some chicken necks in sweat shirts for the five o'clock news.
Hello? HELLO??? Shit. I got to call out before talking? Mother FUCK!!
- Answer the cunting questions you dried up old prune, or you'll have to say a little prayer.
- [R7] I got your number, hussy!
- Rent was due on the 1st! You think I won't throw your ass out on the streets if I don't get a fuckin' check by noon tomorrow? Try me!
- Damn it, I need to go to the Moo and Oink to cash my royalty check!
- Hello? Hello, Whitney, Baby? Listen. It's Cousin Di, Baby. Listen, I'm all out and it's two weeks until my residuals are due and that rent man is bitching like a mother fuck and I just need some... What? No, Baby. I don't have your Grammys. I've got my own Grammy's. I just need some weed, Baby, and if would please... What? No, Whitney. I did not steal your Grammy Awards. They're MY Grammy Awards. All five of 'em. Yes, I know you got six, little girl. Look, my nerves are shot and I just need to smoke some...
Listen, you dumb fucking crack whore. Shut the fuck up about your Goddamned missing fucking Grammy Awards and let me fucking come over and snake a handful of weed from that pile I know you've got stuffed in your pillows or I'm calling Cissy and telling her what I know about that baby. Bobby did target practice on those fucking A-wards years ago and I heard you sat there in your shitty panties laughing your fool head off.
Now I'll be over in thirty minutes and you be standing there with a paper bag with a present for your cousin. Or Cissy's gonna hear about the baby in the Maytag, Whitney. I swear to God she will. OK, Baby. I'll see you.
- Girl, we are all so over you
- Helloiss Warwick, I understand you've requested assistance in getting to San Jose. I'm more than happy to assist you.
Firstly, go up, opposite of the way to Mexico. I'd say go up about two or three hundred miles. You might want to stay the night in Reeferville, just past Psychictown. They have lovely olives.
San Jose is just past that, a bit down from San Francisco.
Again, it's been a pleasure to assist you. Have a lovely trip.
- That's what FRIENDS are for, you cunt.
- How old are you now, you gravelly voiced ancient cunt?
- See how big of a bitch Miss Warwick is in less than 15 minutes:
- [R11] Auntie Noni! It's Little Whit!
Hey, listen up, ho….you have "borrowed" from my stash one too many times. Family or no, it's over.
So the next time you have a jones to smoke, bitch, sing yourself this song: "I know/I'll never/SMOKE this way again….but I keep jonesin' on, until the stash is gone…."
Yeah….puff on that, you old dykey ass bitch.
Love you! Mean it!
- BEST. THREAD. EVAHHHH!!!
- Whitney, I KNOW you have problems. But have I EVERY said a word to the press? Have I EVER opened up that can of worms you call a life to the media vultures? I could SNAP.... MY.... FINGERS.... out my window and I could have me a press conference like no one has ever seen before.
Do you REALLY want to be the woman who makes your family leaving the Jacksons looking like WHITE BREAD NORMAL?
Girl, I will tell them all about the fact that when your hair was coming out the scalp was coming with it and you looked like Mrs. Fucking Custer lying there on the floor. I will tell them about when Bobby slapped your face so hard you ended up with the one big nostril instead of two and the first thing you did was snuffle up a line of white that turned out to be skin flakes from his bad legs he was saving - you know we have to be careful with our noses in our family. And I will tell them about you pushing those Hostess Cakes up your privates singing about your HO HO HOO HOO and having that nasty-ass dog clean you up. And I took me a picture.
Now it has been three whole hours since I had my medication. You know your cousin needs her medication or she gets ugly. You send me a bag over NOW and I mean RIGHT NOW and we will forget about my memories, Whitney.
Okay, Baby? Family first now. Love you.
- OMG this thread makes me LOL
- why do you live in brazil, Dionne?
- why don't you sneak over to Kmart...you'll feel do much better.
- Dear Diary,
Damn. Those hemorrhoids are back. Just back from Germany, one of those damned balloons hasn't passed yet and I think it's starting to leak cuz I'm feeling like cleaning my teeth for the fourth time today, all that shit with my Baby Girl, and having to head out to some Palace Theatre in Greenshonkeytownburg Pennsylvania for my Valentine's Day, and I now feel like I'm sitting on a fucking sack of jacks. And blood! I haven't so much blood down there since Angie D. found me with Burt and she broke that wine bottle the hard way before I flattened her nose so we looked like twins.
Anyway, I'm going to take me a long bath if I can find someone to fill the tub, and then I'm lighting me a little peace pipe, and then I'm having Damont head out to the Colonel. That boy owes me one and I'm good for two buckets tonight.
I just wish people would give me some respect and that that damned Aretha would quit calling and hanging up. I know it's her. No one else belches like that. And does she have the weight back on!
I'm going to need to sit on a doughnut in the tub. My poor ass. I wonder if any those Dunkin's are left down in the kitchen?
Enough for now.
- [quote]Damn. Those hemorrhoids are back.
Cause you full of shit, girl!
- Stop singing my material, you bitch.
- Miss Dionne, what in the hell is going on here?
- Well looks like I ain't gettin' my fucking meds tonight. Bitch!
- I can spare some Preparation H Miss D.
- You know I'm going to put a curse of the damned through the soul of the first mother fucker who says one word about my Baby Girl. You know she couldn't hack it. That dirty son of a bitch. Don't laugh. Please. Shit.
- So, are you still standing (metaphorically that is)?
- My condolences, bitch.
- Well, life does go one, El.
Speaking of which, I just lost one of my main connections due to tragic circumstances beyond anyone's control. So - I know, I know, you're the father and all that shit - but do you still have the number for that little Cambodian who used to have that great Hmong Bong-Bong? I really need me some tonight. Call him for me, will ya, and have him send it in a Chinese Delivery truck. Those fucking reporters are all over my place tonight, and I've got to get ready to sing in P.A. next week or I lose the advance. Come on, El. You know I'm good for it. And I never told about that little piss trough incident where the guy ended up brain damaged because you had to sing every verse of "Yellow Submarine."
- Marry me, R32!
- Yeah, what magazine did you say are are? and you want a feature about our poor Whitney, by ? Just how much are we talking about here? .... send one of your hacks over and they can write it up then, and have them stop off at the deli on the way for some snacks and deli filler sandwiches. I might need something more stimulating too to get my memory going, ya know what I mean ?
- R34. there is only one Dionne Warwick here, and it is I, sitting here in my leopard print chaise waiting for the fucking Chinese delivery boy to arrive with my special fortune cookies. Use troll-dar and stop it now. I am in grief. I have dyed my hair black in mourning and I am wearing a new black sweatsuit. I am the number one superstar in my family and I will not be denied by the likes of you.
There's the bell. I hope to fucking Christ someone is here to get it.
- I go all the way to England for that fucking Jonathan Ross show and all they want is "Walk On By" - they could have played the record, at least I can get my staff to bank the fee tomorrow. I even had my hair dyed blonde specially - and didnt get any private time with Denzil, instead those British upstarts hogged all the cameratime. Whitney might have needed me ....
- Who the fuck is "Denzil"?
- I do wish the mother fuckers (pardon my froggy voice) would stop talking for me here. I am in pain enough without impostors like that punkass Karen Carpenter stealing my Bacharach attention. What ever happened to that stick, anyway? Not that I care.
But I tried to get Damont to take me back to my Baby GIrl's room because I remembered she had something of mine in her purse but those ass holes wouldn't let me in even though Whitney was right there and if they'd have let me get to her I could have given her poor head a nod to show she agreed I needed to get into her purse for one lousy minute.
I am deserving of more respect than those detectives gave me. And some of them were brothers, too. One even said he didn't believe it was me. He said he maybe could believe I was "Dionne Warwick's ugly uncle." But I didn't cut him. I am too much of a lady to shiv a cop in front of a CSI team on a major case with cameras flashing. That's the kind of lady I am.
But I am dry and needing some uplift and fucking Elton hung up on me and no one is taking my calls. I got to get to Whitney's stash. I knpw she kept it in her pillows, in the the spice jars, in the television set boxes, in the pockets of her coats, in her shoes when she lost one of a pair which was always, inside used Tampax boxes, in the kid's toys, in cereal boxes, milk jugs, buried in the yard, inside garden hoses, up the noses of her dogs in little plastic bags superglued up there, inside the toilet tanks, under the loose tiles in the patio, behind the wallboard wherever she and Bobby had an accident with a hatchet or a gun or a bowling ball or his fist, and inside the upholstery of all her furniture. I just need to get in there and pick me up some of what she owes me, because it won't be in the fucking will.
And those mother fuckers Did... Not... Even.... Ask... Me... To... Do... The... Tribute tonight on the Grammys. They got that deflated air mattress Hudson instead. I guess they though family grief would be too much. As if Michael's death did show how show biz brings us all together as a family for the fans of the world. We need to strike while the lights are on - Whitney always told me that if she died she wanted me to sing her eula gee.
Shit. It's two o'clock. I'm hungry. Where is that asshole Latina bitch with my breakfast?
- I will rephrase a question from earlier in this thread: Miss Warwick, did your psychic friends see Whitney's death coming?
- Y'all! Stop! She has feelings too, you know.
- Make up! Make up!
- Oh, Nippy, why you play me like that? You knew you had my stash in your purse. Now those muthafuckin cops won't let me in the room to get my chronic. Shit. Knowin' yo' crazy ass you probably dropped the whole thing in the bathtub. I need my shit - they're gonna make me sing a tribute or something an' I need to relax. I can't sing my Grammy winning hits unless I'm nice an' cool, ya dig? Now that moron Damont is tryin' to score a new stash but you know it ain't the good shit like my Carribean hookup. Sheeeit.
- Dionne, you still living you old bitch? Dont nobody want to hear that shit you call singing.
- Girlfriend, you niece be daid.
- R40, I just know those folks would have warned me if they'd have had a chance, since I turned state's evidence to save my poor self and had to put them away and now none of them will let Damont go visit them to get info on lucky numbers and shit like that.
But I knew there was something terrible going to happen. All those sun spots and solar flares, like fires in the sun. And the sun is a star, and my Baby Girl was a star. See? SEE?????
I know I'm going to cry. It's just my tears are kind of thick and take time to get through that tube to my face. When my mama died it took two months to get the crying started, and it burned like volcano juice. Whatever it's called. Smagma. Yeah.
My family is a galaxy of stars. I'm an old nova, baby. Yeah. And thank God, as you can see, Damont got to Whitney's purse and I'm feeling so much better. But I had to have that Mexican girl dry it out in the microwave. That weed was all wet for some reason. Damont said her purse was all full of bubble water.
Walk on by, walk on by. Foolish something something little prayer....
- This is one of the cruellest, funniest threads on here in a long time, well worth my $18 renewal!
Poor Miss Dionne, there she was singing "Walk On By" for the umpteenth time on J Ross's show in England while Whitney's time was running out ...
- [quote]I will rephrase a question from earlier in this thread: Miss Warwick, did your psychic friends see Whitney's death coming?
Stevie Wonder could've seen this coming.
- I keep telling you, CIs I don't want to go to Atlanta for the fucking funeral PLUS you need to sell tickets PLUS keep that fucking Latoya out of the place because she's already threatening that she has seen Nippy and Michael in heaven together PLUS don't let the King family try to take it over PLUS I will sing if you sell tickets and I get a piece of the action.
But here is the deal, Cissy. I been thinkin' hard as I wait for my tears to rise up.
You need to put it in the Philips Arena. I'll do six numbers and take forty percent of the gross because it's me they'll come to see. We'll do three shows. Cis, I know it's hard for you, but is there any way you think you can see taking Nippy out on tour for a few week? Quality gigs, major venues? New York, Chicago, Philly, Boston, maybe back to the west coast and even a couple overseas? No more than a month. A funeral for all her fans to say goodbye.
Cis, Whitney Houston Superstar deserves her Farewell Tour. Her Baby Girl can use the money and we can see she get 4% of the net at least. And After six weeks we can bring her back to Atlanta for a series of final shows. With those new special effects we can project Nippy up like she's right there. People will go wild. I see $1,000-2,000 a seat for the last seven shows at least. We'll let people come on stage and touch her for ten grand.
Come on, Cissy. You know it's what Nippy would want. I've got some lawyers drawing up the papers now and Damont will fly them to you. Be brave, cousin. We gotta turn what was left in that bathtub into lemonade.
- Miss Warwick, I thought that DAMON was your son's name. Since when did you start calling him Damont?
- Damont is the guy at the car service I use, ass at R50. Do you think I'd trust my son driving me? What is wrong with you?
- That was me, Dionne Warwick, at R51. I simply hate to be challenged by non-fans in my hour of grief and planning for Nippy's farewell tour.
- [quote]Damont is the guy at the car service I use...
And Miss Dionne only rides shotgun.
- I'm dying! LOL!
- I need Burt Crackrock to write me some funeral music!
- The trains and the boats and planes take you away... away from meeeeeee...
Miss Warwick, tearing up at the tribute...
- This is classic DL right here folks!
Love how her body is being flown on Tyler Perry's private plane! Is Madea the stewardess?
- [quote]Love how her body is being flown on Tyler Perry's private plane!
First time I bet Miss Houston's ever flown cargo...
- Cissy, I told you good comes from bad if you believe in Our Lord Jesus Christ. I had a call from Donald Trump and we've got a pitch for you.
You know how I am putting together the package for Nippy's farewell tour? Well, dear one, Mr. Trump himself has offered our Whitney an exclusive TWO WEEK DEAL at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City as part of her tour. He said seeing that she now is more stable and reliable than she's been in years, and isn't an insurance risk - no more partying, no more bad voice nights, no more medicine problems - he thinks she is ready for a whole new phase of her career. And NOW is the time to get her out there in front of her fans.
So, Cis, take all those plans I sent you and add THIS: If Nippy works out in Atlantic City Mr. Trump will book her for THE WHOLE FUCKING SUMMER at the TRUMP INTERNATIONAL in LAS VEGAS. ME and her will headline together - that was my idea, because fans would demand it - and we'll be in the big room. ISN'T THIS FUCKING GREAT????!!!!!
My lawyers and his are working it out. We can still work around the other dates in NYC and Chicago and I really want to do L.A. And Berlin, London, Tokyo, Capetown, Sydney, and maybe a couple more.
One other thing Mr. Trump said he thought would be great for the quality, top drawer types AND the tourists. He thinks we need to build the show around a theme, and it should be Sleeping Beauty. I'll be the Fairy Godmother and and Nippy will be Sleeping Beauty and each performance a group of men who pay and extra grand will get to take turns kissing her in her crystal casket to see if they are the prince who can wake her up. Jesus Fucking Christ, it is brilliant! That's why he's a billionaire, Cissy.
So get back to me. Listen, Cousin - DO NOT BURY THIS LITTLE GOLDEN GOOSE in Atlanta. She needs you now to let her prove she finally can make that comeback stick.
And with all this extra I'm gonna take 60% of course, but it all will be in the details I send.
P.S. Did you see that terrible pic of me? All my wigs ended up with bed bugs from that shitty London hotel and I had to go with my natural blonde, like you.
- Did Dionne really call her "Nippy" when she was alive?
That tickles me to no end.
- R60, that was indeed Whitney's family nickname...all her life.
- Thanks, R61. Whenever I see that word I can't stop laughing.
- Why yes, R60.
And for some reason close family friend Tyler Perry is called "Tucky."
- Anybody seen my sneakers? The black ones? I'm supposed to be in fucking mourning here, you know.
- Cis, okay, you got her in Jersey. Good. Mr. Trump is pleased. Now go ahead with the "funeral" plans till we get the papers signed for the Farewell Tour. I'm waiting, but I'm not budging on my 62% of the gross, Cousin Aunt. Biness is Biness. I'll be there but they can't find my shoes and someone threw up on this sweatshirt I'm wearing. Love you, doll. Hang in.
- Where in the goddamn is Tucky? Shit. I bin waitin' at La Guardia like a fool for the last 3 hours, and I ain't been asked for a single autograph the whole muthafuckin time. I'm outta cigs, outta grass, and I am freezing my black ass off! Sheeit.
- Damont, listen up.
I want you to call up Sister Ether down in Jacksonville. She's the only one in the old network who ever was worth anything. Find out from the spirits who that racist asshole at R66 is and give me her address so I can call some friends to deliver that thing a message with my regards, wrapped in brass.
I may be a shiftless, lazy, used-up, has-been, dishonest, croak-throated, drug-abusing, foul-mouthed, hateful sub-diva who has been parlaying my former talent and connections into a sad semblance of a money-grubbing career after bilking charities out of hundred of thousands of dollars, but I am neither illiterate, ghetto-low, nor an excuse for typical white-trash anti-black shit. I am my own special case, Baby.
Shit. Who slipped sodium pentathol into my special travel mix?
Get that info, Damont. That bitch is going down.
Nippy looks real nice. The Farewell Tour is going to bring me back to the top of the top. You watch.
- I am wetting myself (from laughing!)
- "Miss Warwick" is genius, the kind of perfect dark humor that Bonnie Mace wanted to be, but never was.
- Dionne, will you be singing your infamous cover of "We Built This City" at the service?
- Cissy, here's an update.
Mr. Trump agrees that Nippy's preview at the church is okay because she won't be singing there. It's more of a tribute, he said. So the contract with the Trump Taj Mahal is still on. Yay! I told him to forget about the South American leg of the tour because, much as I 'd like her to do Rio, it's too hot down there now that she has special weather needs. I don't want to pay the ice bill - the charge by the cube down on the beach.
AND Mr. Trump is working with a conceptual hip-hop troupe from Romania called Cirque de Uranus. He says that with special rubber bands and clear tubes and winches and shit, Whitney can be part of the dance numbers and even do some costume changes on stage. It's an answer to a prayer. We need to get her fitted for her costumes the day after her Saturday gig - DO NOT book anything because she also needs to have some special makeup and hair work done, and I want a doctor to see her about those damned scars that aren't healing from where the doctors worked on her.
Our Baby Girl has to be perfect for her Atlantic City gig - my future and her baby's future are riding on it. I will take my 64% off the top and David and Damon will be on the consulting to make sure the family's interests are 100% there.
Got to go. My medication delivery has arrived and Damon (I had them send him back east to me because he drives we where I need to go) says they don't take checks. Shit. Keep on.
- Hussynator, will there be cameras at the funeral?
- Bitch, you didn't answer my question you old hussy!
- R72 and R73, I do wish you would show me some respect because I am fucking in mourning here and the Trump Tower is nice enough but it ain't home and it ain't comped like I expected it to be considering my headlining the Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston for Mr. Trump opening at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City after a quick and limited preview in Newark this Saturday.
There will be cameras at the Funeral Concert as part of the documentary filming for "Saying Farewell Is Forever - The Making of the Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston." No other cameras will be allowed.
So if you don't want to "accidentally" walk through another glass patio door and give yourself another Pablo Picasso facelift, Della Reese at R72 (I may be red-eyed but I know my troll-dar), you will keep that phone on vibrate way up in that deli section you call a snatch. I saw what you did to Red Foxx at his wake. I know it was you. No one else wears that shade of dogshit brown on her lips and Red's old cock deserved better for the tabloids, Della. You know it did.
I did consider singing "I Built This Planet on Rockin' Soul" (I have been using different lyrics since 1991 - you obviously are not a fan, baby, and were not at my sold-out concerts in Vilnius in 1993 or Astana in 1995) but there is only so much time in the new routine. I've upped my numbers to 12, and me and Whitney will do four duets, capped with her singing "I Will Always Love You" to me, and then she will do two more numbers before we have to cool her down for the finale while I do some skits and answer questions and pass the hats for my charities. Then we have the guys come out who have paid $1,000 who will kiss Sleeping Beauty to try to wake her while I play the Fairy Godmother and then we close with a duet of the Star Spangled Banter thing. But if you send me $45 dollars and $10 for S&H I promise to send you my rendition of "I Built This Planet" as a ring tone. It is Solid Gold.
Gotta Go. I am so high. I keep telling Nippy her dying was the best thing that could have happened to my and her careers, and she just sits there with the sweetest smile on her face, saying nothing. Saving her voice. L.A. shit cannot touch this new Kroco-whoco stuff from Moscow they have here in NYC!
- I'm crying from laughter. Please stay alive Miss Warwick! Don't go taking any baths!
- Miss Warwick, what do your psychic friends say about this Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston?
Have they given you a figure of how many millions you will make?
If you'd like, I'll tell you what my psychic abilities say about this tour. For a modest fee, of course.
- Dionne, it's me, Sally Snyder, long lost daughter of your old pal Linda Goodman!!
Might I assist you with some numerology guidance? 2012 will really be YOUR year, but you must be cautious about a few things. Have your manager call me!
- Miss Cleo, when did you get out of prison? No, I do not need your phony ass bullshit to meddle with my gold mine. Do your psychic abilities see why I'm going to have to throw away my right Nike because the front seven inches of it turned brown and nasty from hard contact with your fool ass? Back off, bitch.
But for your information the "Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston" (I've tinkered with the name to make it perfecter) is only the beginning. I see new record deals with a real label, movies, a TV variety show on prime time, maybe a daytime talk show with Nippy and me and some friends like Etta James (Her people already have expressed an interest) - I'm going to make billions out of this. Billions. I knew some day Nippy would finally find a way to kick those bad habits and we'd be teaming up. She always was a non-hacker.
Now I have got to get myself together. Two days to our big preview. I am heading down to the bar and I am having me a skittle-tini and then I'm finding me a man to come up and massage my feet. That corn is pounding. Maybe I can get him to lick it soft and chew it off. Mmmmm. I do love this Russian shit.
- As if..bitch! please sit down
- Miss Warwick,
Why do you have to be such a heartbreaker?
- Miss Dionne, where was all this creative energy on The Apprentice? And yes, Im about to alert the authorities in five states. Im a lawyer, you know.
- Please keep us updated re. the tour plans, Miss Warwick. I'll share my stash with you.
- You know, you'll never….smoke that way again, so you keep holdin' on…until your stash is gone!
'Cause bitch, you ain't paid me in three months. And I ain't interested in your velvet painting of Al Green, or your wigs, or some Betamax VCR you're tryna pass off. CASH DOLLARS BITCH, or you won't be experiencing the herbal essence anymore.
- Hussy, please. I am a living cultural icon and chanteuse to the stars. I've been savin' all my luvin' for Nippy's memorial where I am going to blow the damn roof off with my own tribute medley. Then it's off to Atlantic City to start my worldwide "Cousin Di Sings Whitney" tour. Once we hit the tropics I'll be swimming in the sweet leaf. Lawd have mercy on us all!
- Do tell, Dionne: what is a skittle-tini, and how do you prepare?
- Watch out for me, Di. I'll cutcha if you try and upstage me on Saturday.
- Should be "Cousin D", you silly bitch. You were always called D, not Di.
While we're at it, when are you gonna pay us all the back taxes?
California Franchise Tax Board
- Miss Di, can we hope to see a re-release to theaters of your epic SLAVES film?
- Damn, Retha, let poor Nonnie be.
Plus both y'all bitches don't have voices anymore. They just raspy ass croaks!
I'm fixing to sing on Saturday! It's MY time!
- Dionne + Stephen Boyd = Happiness
- Fantasia, I definitely got yo' number! You'll be joinin' Nippy in that casket if you don't watch yo' nasty, big footed self.
- I am SICK of this shit. What is that whack on R84 doing with that Mammy shit? If I had a broom in my house I'd have Damont Fed Ex it to me so I could find that bitch and make an umbrella out of her.
I am TRYING to get a man to work on my tired feet here.
JQ, I told you in L.A. that I am working the deal of a lifetime and I am good to pay anything you think I may owe you in just a few more weeks. Now back off. I am not one of your little 3 gram a day Lindsay Lohan asshole customers. I order your weed by the bale like they feed the fucking horses and my foo-foo dust orders look like fucking C&H sugar sacks heading into a bakery. You want me to call The Man, JQ? Do you want that? Do you? Now. Back. Off.
Miss Star Jones, you were paid scale. I was paid for being the star of The Apprentice. You had to work. I had to show up. Fuck you. I hear and can see from the looks of you it's true that they've had to start transporting you in a big barrel because you're now just a big old sack of greasy gut water since your acid bitterness has softened your bones to mush. Did I say fuck you? I forget, because I'm about to become a billionaire, and I'm in mourning.
Luther, would you like to guest star on my and Nippy's talk show when it starts up? I think people would like to see how much better you're doing since your demise. I asked Teddy Pendergass but I'd rather have you in the first season, sweetie. Teddy's embalming didn't take so good. But what do you think is in a skittle-tini? You order a straight-up vodka and dump some Skittles out of your purse into it form some pretty. I KNOW you carried Skittles in your purse, Lu.
Now let me alone. My feet have got to get laid between the legs of a man who will work on them.
- Oh Hell no! Now Cis tells me they're burying Nippy in Atlanta? How am I supposed to start my career-defining world tour from Georgia when the opening date is in Atlantic City? I ain't no cheap opening act. I am a CHANTEUSE who has entertained four kings, two popes, and three different Tonight Show hosts with pure velvet soul. Damont! Get me Mr. Davis on the phone now! And then rub these muthafuckin feet!
- I do NOT know who these fools are here, but the plans for the Taj Mahal are still on, Nippy is NOT being buried anywhere unless and until she is ready to retire permanently, and I will not have my luster stolen by cheap imitations.
The godforsaken mother fucking race baiting bastards who are putting bad English in my mouth had better not come near the preview Saturday in Newark or I will use my little silver spoon to carve their nostrils into D-time fac-fucking-similes. Shit.
Nippy is looking a little tired tonight, Cissy said, so I didn't go over to visit. She also has a bad case of the farts or something. I think it's that new diet she's been on. Barely touching a think, Cis says.
Fantasia, when is your next litter due, because I hear Miss Mariah Carey is wanting her a new coat and with so many pelts needed she's willing to go cheap for it.
- When do the services start? I'm HONGRY!
- I'm sorry Miss Warwitch .. er, Warwick, but all I could book on such short notice was a stand by on Southwest to Baltimore. Mr. Perry says there is simply no room on his private jet what with the many VIPs he is shuttling to Newark.
- No, Dee. It's not right AND it's not OK.
I want my money now, you old smoke stankin', raspy ass voice growlin' pothead. Come this weekend I need my G's. Or let me tell you: I know the way to San Jose, and it involves your ass in the trunk of a car.
Now run tell your psychic friends THAT.
- Damont, never mind. I got here without your fool ass help. Keep up. And UPS me my blue pipe to the Trump Tower. I'm under the name Miss H. Breaker. Today, Damont.
And get a message to JQ. Tell him that he does not fool me and let him know how I've been having you and your brother Lamont collect middle fingers from every girl he's been dumping in the dumpster behind his place for the last three years and I will make a gift of them to the LAPD if he keeps fucking with me. He will be paid as soon as my billions come through from the tour. Better carry some protection, too, Damont. JQ's been sampling the batches lately. Shit head.
Nippy is looking better and we're doing a full dress rehearsal for the preview tomorrow at the little church place. SRO baby. I'll be in blue. She's staying in a reclining pose. Very relaxed, to show her new look. People may as well start getting used to it. They're still having a little trouble with the machine thing to make her mouth move. The wires were showing before and those fools dressed in black made it look like a Lion King reject.
Send my pipe, Damont. And tell JQ I signed off holding up four middle fingers to him.
- EAT ME CUNT, YA BUCKTOOTHED GIT.
- We're not all deaf like you are, Cilla. Don't the dole and NHS afford prewar relics like you better hearing aids? Still mourning that "husband" of yours? Still using his black lungs for charcoal when you pull the hibachi out, bitch?
Man, I love this Russian shit. I got my hat on already and my feet aren't swelled at all this morning.
- Where in the motherfuck are my lozenges? I cannot sing my world-famous vibrato without the damn lozenges - not that cheap Riccola shit, either. This is voice is an instrument that will make angels weep for Nippy come tomorrow, but not without the muthafuckin loz - Damont, you better have something mentholated or smokable in that bag, or your black ass is gonna be floatin down the East River.
- Don't you DARE put down Bonnie Mace, r69! She's DL ROYALTY!!
- That drag queen impostor at R101 has nothing resembling my iconesquitude except her soup can nose holes that come from fisting booger gobs out playing coke face with her mama's flour can.
Fuck. As if I don't have enough to do with my dress rehearsal and problems with Nippy falling apart LITERALLY before the preview show Saturday.
Stop this shit, you foul-mouthed racist slag, or I'm cleaning one of my Grammy's with the turn of your transverse colon.
Damont - ship me the award with the tetanus on it. You know the one.
- Goddamit - Aretha and Stevie Wonder have now got in on the act, and both will sing ... !
Still my ace card is Burt Bacharach - now 84, how much longer can he go on for - I will certainly be reigning supreme at HIS farewell sendoff as the prime and only surviving warbler of his songs ... come on Burt, Dionne will do you proud.
- Miss Dionne again here, as I was last time ... no way in hell am I going to follow Aretha on stage, its top billing for me or else !
- Lupella, you have GOT to promise to keep your mouth shut about this, or I swear I will come down to Rio and tear that tongue of yours out of your mouth and feed it to that parrot of yours (By the way, how are you, Baby?), but if I don't tell someone I am going to have a stroke and I can't afford another one - people have been asking if I'm O...K... for the last seventeen years and my career comes first. Lupella, you've been a good maid and got me my stuff when I needed it when I'm down in Brazil, so just be Jesus' little daughter and listen.
Nippy is using again. We don't know how, we don't know who, we don't even fucking know why. But she is. I went in this morning to tell her hi and see how she was doing after her fix-up yesterday when those stitches were coming loose and her facelift (and those autopsies literally lift the face right up off the head) was settling in, and Cissy was already there screaming at her. And Nippy just lay there with that fucking-ass smile on her face like she didn't know what he mother was talking about.
The signs were all over. Powder under her nose, eyes rolled back when you opened them, quiet as a mouse, the shit all over, fast food boxes and another God Damned turkey sandwich and jalapenos on a plate by her and the bathtub running over - it was a dayja view.
Love may be forever, but love of the rock is more than forever. It snatches from the beyond. Cissy wants her to go to rehab right away and I told her no fucking way is she going to ruin my chance at a solid gold comeback. So we have her under 24-hour guard. Retha took the sandwich. She was on a show here called Today and her boobs look like unleashed torpedoes running out of gas.
Anyway, I'm scared, Lupella. I have worked for so long for this family, putting my own drug use on the back burner to support their issues with theirs. I will not be denied. If I got to shove a mop stick up Nippy's butt to make her dance across that Taj Mahal stage, I'll do it. Tomorrow she just has to lie still and not stink. I stapled her mouth shut (it came loose with all the crack pipe stuff last night, I guess) double time when Cissy wasn't looking, and I shot two big globs of super glue up her nose holes. Let's see the devil get some blow smoke up there now.
Other than that things are fine. NYC loves itself some Dionne Warwick, girl. My hair is sort of a blonde/rust/salmon/pumpkin color, real short with just a little scalp showing through. And the Miss Mary here is great - there's this Russian shit that pops. It eats the meat off the arms and legs of nonhackers, but it's like champagne to me. 'Cept I make my own bubbles.
Keep that mouth shut, Lupella, because that super glue and stapler are right here in my purse.
Say hi to the neighbors. I'll be back down after the "Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston." Then I'm buying me a hotel and a beach and plot to grow my own.
- "Other than that things are fine."
This is some funny shit.
- Damn, these reefer farts can peel some paint off a fuckin' wall!
- Okay, Jesus. I'm saying a prayer of thanks and prayer of gimme. The dress rehearsal for the preview went great. Nippy never looked better and even though her music was non-lip-synched when they played it, she did her part perfectly. Maybe her getting back on the stuff was a fluke, and my fix helped keep her system closed down to it.
I of course was great and my shining moment is coming. I know I'll be loved that way again, just like I was 46 years ago when I was on top of the world. There's the gimme, Jesus. Mr. Trump will be in the front row tomorrow and even though I am sharing the stage - it's more a review than my and Nippy's show's gonna be, we all know that no matter what it's really all about me anyway.
Come on Jesus. Seven come eleven for your old girl D.
Now I got to get down to the hotel bar and see if I can score something for the wee hours.
- Miss Warwick, the newsmedia is dissin you! WTF? You were nowhere to be found on the 11:00 news. WTF? You be Nippy's cousin and all. Three golden limos and they stuck you in the Nissan Altima? They be dissin you, girl. You can't even buy any news coverage, girl. No mention even from that groundhog, Sue Simmons. You better flail yourself into that grave with Nippy so you get some coverage, girl. You need the exposure for the tour!
- Sorry Miss Warwick but Burt Bacharach is in perfect health and intends to go on till he is at least 90 - you better plan something else gurl !
- This Is IT.
My moment has arrived.
Thank you, God, for my golden opportunity, and for Nippy's shoulders to stand on to reach it. Or whatever part of her it is. I'll take it, Jesus.
That was not me in the Nissan. That was my double. I have had death threats and am traveling incogneato during the preview/funereal festivities. I think Gladys was behind them because you haven't seen that fat thing anywhere near the Center of the Diva Universe (Newark) lately.
And, R111, that wasn't me talking about Burt. Some impostor. I wouldn't sing at his funeral because that Jewass family would want to charge me for the rights to sing his own songs at it. Fuck that.
On to Church and Stage! I'm an Pumped.
- Dee, your girl Sue Simmons was talking to you on the television!
- Dionne, try no shit today, ok? And keep your eyes off my fine husband. If I see you looking at him too long I will take my taser gun right out my purse to zap you. Star Jones has her mace ready to go too.
- Phaedra, Dionne fittin' to snatch Whitney out that coffin and take her on tour!
- I'm in the car five minutes and this shit starts up.
Damont, keep that cranl-riddled trap of yours shut or those loose teeth are gonna fall out from the breeze. My and Nippy's tour is no secret but it is a CAREFULLY crafted reveal. So shut up and keep recording the show. Did you ever find my pipe? These ones here aren't fitting my mouth right. Send it, Damont.
Sue was talking to herself in the mirror, where her eyes never leave. Bitch.
Miss Parks, I could have had that man when he was a man, before your nasty-ass pussy gave him that you-know-what that makes his whing whang bend so fat to the left he looks like he's got an elbow in that thing. Shoo, fly. At least you got your shifty-look down.
And just in case any of you wonder, Mr. Trump and me decided we would not make my songs available on free TV today. We are on pay-per-view on the BIT Network and if you haven't paid your bill this month in these troubled times we also are beaming live on closed circuit in Waffle Houses (Is the plural Hice?) around the United States. Aretha can afford to give it away for nothing but I'm preparing a world tour here.
So see me and smell me.
Watch that cab, fool! Shittin cab - I mean limo - drivers.
- Miss Dionne, Star and I will meet you outside after the services are over. Dont bring your goons, I have Nene outside in the parking lot.
- I am so sitting at the Newark auditions for American Idle here. And my feet are killing me. At least that case of habanero poppers I sent to Aretha's room last night backed up on her and I won't have to listen to THAT. Shit - Cissy sees me texting. Gotta go. Man do I look good.
- How like Aretha to be "ill" and not turn up - she won't do anything for free, not even for Whitney ...
- Somebody pop a glock in that fool's weave at R119. Hijacking shit. I'm trying to grieve here. Asshole. Get your own platform, phony.
- Miss Warwick, get off your smartphone! Now isn't the time!
- Please stop impersonating "Miss Warwick."
Trust us, you not as funny or clever as she is.
- I'm sneaking in one more message to you Damont because in just another hour or so we'll be getting close to the halfway mark and I'm going to have to go find me a place for a little tinkle smoke. If you've never been to one of our family funerals you don't know that around now a lot of the rocking back and forth is because those old bladders are fixing to blow, and as soon as one gets up it starts a cascade of need. I've been having little collapses for the last half hour or so so no one will be surprised when I have to get some relief. What kind it is they don't need to know in a house of God. But I am dry and a Baptist communion wine would make Mr. Welch ask if it came right out of the tap.
Of course the Baptist dos are all alike - weddings, funerals, Sunday services, interventions, lockdowns when there's a thug battle going on. We take our time and FEEL it all. And if we want to move we move. Back and forth. Up and down. Side to side. Out the door is fine, too, so long as you come back for your mama. And bring carry out with you. I once left and went to a casino, had dinner, met a man, had a good time, sobered up, took a shower and went back and the preacher hadn't even finished the Invocation. Not that I go much now. The IRS keeps men watching the doors to make sure I don't donate, since I still owed that $1.6 million in back taxes. Donations. As fucking if.
Nippy is being nice and quiet. I can't wait until the second half when I do my thing. Fuck, Damont, I sure can use that billion dollars I'm gonna make.
Last night Cissy was making a stink about the signatures on the contracts with Mr. Trump. She said it didn't look like "my daughter Whitney's signature." I said, "Cousin Aunt, how could it. She DEAD!" And she shut up.
Oh, I gotta make a run for it. Someone said my hair looks too butch in my mohawk. But it goes with the ensemble for my numbers coming up - I am the Great Spirit of Soul. What do you think, Damont?
- Shit. Got up for a smoke and they thought I was doing a eulogy. I guess it went okay. Nippy owes me one. Could you tell I forget my underwear, Damont?
I'm getting sleepy waiting for my number. I should call out for a latte. They deliver to Newark, don't they? For a Star?
- Miss Warwick, your hair looked beautiful. A cross between Olivia Newton-John's "Twist of Fate" 45 cover and a beautiful racoon pelt.
- Damont! THIS LONG ASS SHIT IS OVER! I don't care if you have to drive the wrong way on the HOV lanes, come get my ass NOW!
And stop and get a bucket of Church's on the way. I'm hungry as hell.
- Dionne fell!! Rushed to hospital! BREAKING!!
- These People. If I had not become accustomated to drag queens pretending to be me for the last 73 years of my career, I would be seriously offended by all the impersonators. (Rolling eyes and hoping no one thinks it is another grand mal seizure again from an adulterated batch of "medicine")
It's only the PUBLIC portion of the service that is over. For us insiders it's the firstest intermission.
The family and the pay-per-view/closed-circuit preview of the "Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston" is just getting started.
Thank you, Baby at R125. I do love the color, too. Burnt Goatnutbutter and Butterscotch, the boy called it. Cletus of Bushwick. My poor hair never recovered from that bug thing back in 1990 during my Siberian tour. Things spread in those tents. I just didn't like that little bitch Brandy calling me Donny and asking where I parked their car so she could get her extra tissues. Frog-mouthed bitch.
And I actually felt for Bobby Brown. He was always good to me, is all I'll say. Always shared freely, and I mean the good stuff. He was crying hard. No one likes to see the Golden Goose sitting in the oven. But he doesn't know about the tour. I didn't want HIS ass trying to take advantage. Bad enough his poor little BK who sounds like a power mower running over a cat when she sings had to be shown the stage apron when she tried to horn in on Nippy's and my show. Nuh-uh. One look at her and you know Nippy was hitting it hard while that baby bump was festering. I told her that her Mama has been talking to me psychically and gave me the message that Bobbi Kristina needs to get knocked up and do a reality show STAT if she wants a career.
Gotta go back. Cissy smells bad. I think her mourning wig came from the discount barrel at an Amvets store. She's bald, you know. Always has been. Her first husband Fred tattooed a big "8" on her head one night when she was passed out and that ended that marriage.
What a day. I'm so proud of Nippy. Finally. Seven whole hours in public without disgracing herself. A personal best for the last 20 years for her.
I smell the money coming.
- The preview just finished, Damont. And I was GREAT. I closed the show, of course. I had to cut things down to 29 numbers because Cissy's blood sugar was going whack and if she didn't a couple pies in her she was going to have a coma thing going.
A Letter from Dionne
You've Lost That Loving Feeling
We Never Said Goodbye
Games People Play
Walking Backwards Down the Road
Walk Little Dolly
You're My Hero
Hey Jude ('cept I sang it to Nippy - "Hey Whitney")
Say a Little Prayer (I told the fans/mourners that even after my big hit there was still a little left in the song for Aretha to do something with.)
You're Gonna Need Me (I sang this to Cissy)
Betcha By Golly Wow
You're Gonna Hear from Me (I sang this to Mr. Clive Davis)
Don't Burn That Bridge
San Jose, Walk On By, Dolls Theme - can't get away from it
How Can I Hurt You
Only the Strong Survive (I showed a slide show of my life during this number)
I Cry Alone
You'll Never Get to Heaven if You Break My Heart
You're the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me (I sang right to Nippy sitting on - well, straddling - the coffin after getting the lid open. Her breath was terrible. Well, not her breath exactly.)
Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah (Because I wanted something up and that last line I sneaked in during the bridge in the last song was taking hold anyway.
My performance was so overwhelming that people actually had to let themselves out before I was done. You couldn't hear a pin drop when I finished. All Still. And by the time I got myself together and had a little toot in the ladies they had all left and no one was there with a car for me. Nothing but the goddamn little people all screaming and waving at the church ushers locking up.
So I walked two blocks down to get outside the rope-off zone, called 911 on my cell, lay down on the sidewalk and took a nap until the ambulance arrived. When they picked me up I "came to" and told them to take me to Lenox Hill across the river because I was a star diva and then when they got close to the Trump Intl. Hotel I just started screaming and when they stopped I hopped out.
I have to forgive the family because they obviously were blown away by my work and just staggered away in a daze. Plus that choir of Cissy's had so much bad Jersey perfume on you'd swear we were in the Civet House at the Tijuana Zoo - we were all getting dizzy. I'm catching up with all of them them later. Not Whitney. She headed off to a nice little country place for the night. Lots of guards, though. I'm seeing her for breakfast. I've got some notes for her. And then we start rehearsing for Atlantic City.
So my big comeback has started. Shit. I can't believe what a two-week ride it's been since I just wanted someone to open those damn cabinets and get me something to eat. If I wasn't around so many lazy ass people I could get even more done. But as it is things ain't too bad - with a billion bucks I'll be able to tell Aretha how fat her ass still is. And tell Mariah how she looks like a cockroach carrying two medicine balls. And tell Miss Alicia Keys that we all call her Goober because she is as nuts as they come. And tell that fucking Oprah that no one is fooled by her denials. She makes Queen Latifah look like a lady.
My secret, Damont, is the same as always. Taste, class, and keeping absolutely focused - on me.
- Miss Warwick you sure you do have alot of fucking time on your hands.
But my god, please don't stop these journal entries.
This last one had me howling. I almost weed my self.
- The moment I wake up I put on my make up make up. Then Bacharach to bed.
- No one likes to see the Golden Goose sitting in the oven."
Too too screamingly funny. You are a genuis !
- Dear Miss Warwick, in order for me to part with my heard earned monay, and purchase a ticket for you and Nippy's show, I would love for you both to duet on "Do You Believe In Love At First Sight". It's my favorite song of yours, and I know that Nippy would make a great back-up singer on that one.
- Back in my room at the Trump International Hotel for one last night. I'm heading for the Park Savoy tomorrow after we all visit with Nippy and get her situated in her country place for the little rest she needs. I heard the P. Savoy not only has a classy name but you can score on the elevators. Cash is getting a little low and I'm waiting for Mr. Trump to advance me something.
So since I'm still vibrating from the events of my Day of Destiny I thought I'd answer a little fan mail. Yes, R133, "Do You Believe in Love at FIrst Sight" is on the show list for the Taj Mahal and the tour. Nippy will be backing me up. It's scheduled early in the act so she'll still be cool enough. Cirque de Uranus will be dancing and manning the wires for her. I'll be in a silver pants suit with faux-ruby wine drips on the silk blouse. Nippy will be in something non-flammable and stain-resistant that shows off her new figure. That girl already has lost six pounds getting ready for the tour!
Here is an old rendition from when I had more than a two-note range, before my voice got its current "ox-leather-and-cassoulet-belch quality" as the South London Chav Times said last year. I love my picture there. I'm so happy and relaxed. Unfortunately after the photo snapped all that hair came out in my hands. That was when that batch of coke went through L.A. cut with radium tailings and powdered disposable diapers from some Mexican landfill. You'll automatically be charged three dollars each time you listen to it. I'm so glad you love me, Baby, R133.
Shit. I forgot to call Cissy back and tell her to keep that Rev. Winans fool out of the sanctuary at the next family funeral. Sitting there and standing there pretending to be some Catholic Cardinal, looking like a fool. Just because he's got a taste for angelboys doesn't give him cause to mess with THAT juju.
Enough for now. Someone said I have a lot of time on my hands. No fucking way. I simply am efficient. Like I've typed this whole things while sitting on the pot doing some overdue business. Now all I got to do is ring up a maid for a little wipey wipe (My nails melt if I go anywhere near my own nasty). and I'm ready to head down to the bar for a nightchap.
- Damont, get up and call Cissy and find out what the fuck is going on.
I overslept. What kind of shithole expects a body to wake herself up? That's what got my little cousin in her present predicament.
So I head over to the country park where Nippy was overnight for a late brunch and no one is there. They've all been and left without me. And some little nappy girl standing at the gate crying said that Nippy has been put in some kind of underground bunker for security or something.
How in hell are we going to rehearse for the Taj Mahal and tour if she's being in an underground bunker?
So I'm walking around on my sore feet and there's nothing. That thing is hid good. I know Nippy needs security, and I do too as a diva, but this is ridiculous. So I got me a shovel thing off the back of a truck and I'm going to start digging where I see some loose dirt to see if there's a back door to the thing.
I hope Nippy and her entourage have got some grub down there because I am not working for nothing. Shit.
So get my fucking Cousin Aunt on the phone, Damont, and find out what the address is for where Nippy is because my future is on the line! NOW, Damont.
- Where am I?
- Miss D, after your excellent job of emceeing the service yesterday, I would like to reach out to you see if you'd like to make a business venture out of it. Your evil...soothing tone was enough to calm even the most distraught. We could sell your services along with my burial packages. I know you want in Miss D. But you have to promise not look at my husband, or I will be creating YOUR burial package...
- Miss Warwick,
You need a new P.R. person. That fat fatty, Auntie Re, keeps upstagin you. She's a no show and she gets all the press. Best u keep her alive, cause she may just upin die on you, right before the big opening. It would be just like that cow to upin die and rain on yours and Nippy's parade.
- I have had my plans taken from me and torn to shreds like a little sparrow in a pit bull's mouth. What a fuck-me day. I got corpse mud on my good sweatsuit and it's one a.m. and I never got brunch or a kiss my ass or nothing. Is this a dream? Am I here? Where the fuck are you, Nippy? TELL ME.
But CIssy finally called and said it's all about money. Big surprise. CIssy is holding Nippy in the bunker until I drop down to 7% of the fucking NET because she's got needs and little Bobbi K's future to think of. My purple butt. She just wants to have a helicopter with a big C drop her in on Katherine Jackson's place so she can flip her the bird with one of those arthritic claws of hers.
But I shouldn't talk about blood that way. Not when I spent the day in the crip. Some of those bones still had meat on them. Nasty. NOT like chicken. I did pick up a couple gold teeth though. Well, fillings. Well, silver. I think.
Phaedra, with those shifty eyes you look like a ventriloquist dummy that got caught in a house fire. And I know you're used to have men's fists up your ass to make those eyes pop open a little. But I'll think about your offer. If things don't work out. And don't worry about that many of yours. WIth my new creme brulee hair and billions coming in as soon as I deal with my beloved Cousin Aunt I don't need your leavings. That poor man's fist smells funky up to the elbow.
And, yes, R139, I been considering Her Majesty and wondering what she's going to pull nextest. It's just that she's got something on me that I can't get out from under. Sure, those habanero poppers knocked her out of the limelight at the preview Saturday, but she's immune to real poison. Don't ax.
What a day. I am so tired. You dig?
- [quote] creme brulee hair
- Miss Warwick - it's Cindi, your….um….wiping maid.
Damont told me to run here and tell you a message from JQ. All he said was:
'RUN BITCH RUN"
- OK. That's IT. I'm done and out of here. OUT OF HERE.
Apparently my private messages have been hijacked and read by complete strangers who have been commenting on them.
And NOW I am finally getting the strong suspicion that I have been dooped by Cissy and Retha. Did you see how Retha was standing in Radio City Friday night singing her fat guts out while my baby was lying there waiting for her preview? THEY USED ME.
I don't know what their game is but I'm not letting them get away with it. I'm heading home with my head held high. These hotel towels and that little lamp are in my shopping bag, my suitcase is packed, and since I'm on the second floor I'm just walking down and skipping check-out. Fuck them.
Nippy can find me when she gets out of the bunker. I know her and I know when that crack itch gets going six feet of dirt and a little cement and a bit of cheap metal ain't going to hold her back. I give her three days and then back to planning for the Taj.
Damont, pick me up when I get there.
Cindi, thanks for the message, which has nothing to do with my taking off.
- Best thread in ages... Ms. Dionne you are masterful, just masterful.
I haven't laughed so hard here in ages.
Please keeping posting... it's just one man's opinion, but you are so much better than any Helen Lawson or Tony Stewart thread.
If the Taj doesn't work out, perhaps you could do a stint in NYC? Take up space in some empty theater?
Please don't go away - even if you're on the run from Cissy, the Donald, the IRS, Burt, and/or Damont find a way to post from the road!
- Miss Dionne:
Who made the tacky program for Whitney's funeral? Did you get a refund since they were too lazy to retouch the space between her left arm (that remains gray, while the rest of the program is blue)?
- Hi, hater!
- Nene, honey, don't you have to go blow your parole officer or something?
- Damont, I THINK this is a secure line. You wouldn't believe it. Twelve fucking bucks for the bus to La Guardia. And I had to STAND the whole way there because some fat-ass white man was on his way to have a heart transplant. Nurses and a wife that wouldn't stop crying. Like I haven't had enough of THAT in the last week. If I could've found that cooler his new ticker was in I'd have gone to a microwave at the airport and made him a fucking cheese steak sandwich out of it and handed it to him. "Eat shit and die" would take on a new meaning Damont.
I'm just pissed, Baby. I'm glad to be coming home to my own stash. Bobbi K disappeared after the funeral for three hours and I found her giving the security guys bjs for weed. I had to take her aside and shake her. I said, Little Girl, No No Never give up your dignity like that. Never. It's not worth it. HAND JOBS for weed. Blow jobs for snow and crank. This is why I am the mentor for this family, and led them all out the church door like I was the Pied Piper leading the - well, you know.
And some bitch complained about the program for the preview. Yes, I know the photos were less than ideal. But it was fucking NEWARK. Do these people know what it is like to try to get press kits done in a city that does not have electricity??? But anyway the gray color was untouched, because Nippy's substance abuse tragedies left her with what the doctors call "Pit Fog" in which toxic emissions escape through the arm pit follicles, tortured as they are by a lifetime of abuse by funky razors and discount stink-cover. Why can't people just be kind to me, and also somewhat Nippy?
Damont, didn't I tell you to send JQ that photo of that NeNe trash with a message that I had an fiery car accident and that is what I now look like, so he should find the ho that looks like THAT and buttfuck that 12 G's out of her until she's puking nickels for change? Maybe I forgot. Welll, do it.
If I ever see that Detritus from Detroitus Retha again, and she's laying in the street with a turkey leg stuck in her throat, I'm going to get me a ladder so I can step over her and than I am going to walk on by. Bitch.
- I got front row for the Taj opening night, Miss Warwick. I can't wait.
- [quote] Never give up your dignity like that. Never. It's not worth it. HAND JOBS for weed. Blow jobs for snow and crank.
Officially fucking GENIUS!
- Miss Warwick, please. The neighbors are complaining about the stench.
Tussy only costs a dollar, girl!
- Dionne, I have 2 questions:
1. Do you rent out space in your cavernous nostrils for private events? My niece is getting married later this year and we've all heard how spectacular the views are.
2. Would you be willing to perform at the reception for $2.99 the first minute and $0.99 each additional minute?
- Damont, I will not need you to pick me up at the L.A. airport with your yellow "limo" with the towels on the spilt seats and the weenie wrappers stuck to Christ knows what on the floor. I was sitting waiting to book stand by at La Guardia and read an ad for a better service more suited to a diva queen to arrive in. Plus I know DQ has got the airport watched. Plus Plus my purse is running a little light after I got a little carried away with my last score of Kroco-whoco. BUT I can ride in an elegant, roomy, super-sized SUV with a commode in the back for my lady needs for cheap. And it's elegant and the driver wears a uniform. And there's not only a racing stripe - there's a racing DOG on the side of it. Snap. So, Damont, you tell Lamont he better snag you a couple free Rally Burgers cause you ain't getting a tip from me. I'll be home in four days. Now scuse me I got some business, fool.
Hello, R153? Why don't you book my snatch instead? It's dry, got a nice shag carpet but plenty of hard planks for dancing, and when I'm tooting it's got it's own light show going. But I would consider doing a wedding reception because I believe in supporting the little people. I'm like fucking Dorothy Gale that way. I'd have you talk to my agent but he hasn't been seen since I saw how they were including those unflattering outtakes after he signed me on "The Apprentice."
But my song list is set - "You'll Never Walk on By Alone" (I love Rodgers and Hammerhead), Elton John's "Rock It, Man," "Bewitched, Bothered, Bangles, Bewildered and Beads" (I LOVE the standards and they never let me record them), "Great Balls on Fire," "Herded It Through the Grapevine," "Stand by Your Men" (I can do country, too. I can do anything.), "Can You Fill the Love 2 Nite," and of course some of the numbers I sang at me and Nippy's preview Saturday, which I listed for posteriors earlier. My immortal hit parade. Make it $3.99 for that first minute, but if you got Skype I'll give you a reduced rate. Cash only, in advance. I'll send a guy to pick it up. OR for convenience why don't you just give me your bank account number and PIN ID Number identification code #, and I'll take care of it. Cause I know families get busy when there's a wedding. Or funeral.
Damont, I'm back. When Mr. Trump calls tell him I am taking a special quality transport back and will be out of touch for a while, as they don't have any electric outlets on my exclusive conveyance. It's that special. But I better board that thing soon because I'm feeling a little leaky after getting a little squeaky, if you know what I mean.
I'm talked out. Fucking Retha.
- Miss Dionne, I am THOROUGHLY SCANDALIZED by your behavior. That, and my leg cramps, led me to a decision to skip Nippy's funeral.
But I will….uh…."say a little prayer for you." Especially since everyone know my version is better.
Oh, and Dee? Try not to put on Sun In with a comb. That shit is real, real visible.
- Listen, Aretha, you Jabba the Pizza Hut, if you had spent less time bouncing naughty on your preacher daddy's lap when you were growing up maybe you wouldn't have turned into the lap smasher you became. I don't know. But I do know that you are the only person in history who stretched her lap band out playing it like a hula hoop on her gizzard. GIrl, when the sun is going down on your west side it's coming up on your east, you're so big again. And those sacks of gristle and lard you're carrying on your front side - why don't you just tie those things up like two giant balloon animals and entertain cancer kids like a clown? You've already got the face for it.
Lay off my hair, Re. We all know under those black rubber shreds you call a wig you've got nothin' but some plop that looks like what they fished out of the drain trap in Nippy's last bathtub. You've got what they call evidence on that huge, scrofulous old head of yours, Baby. Probably there's still some of your daddy in it, too, the old squirter.
But anyway, I hope your cramps are better. I know if one of those legs of yours starts to cramping it must be like one of those stampedes in an old western. All that dust and if that metal shoe hits one of your handlers in the head it could be fatal for him.
Now get one thing straight, old one. I want you to back off with CIssy and I want my Taj Mahal gig and tour with Nippy to go along without your interference. Or else, Re. You know I mean it. Don't you forget how Marvin Gaye pissed me off and I told his father how he was going to lock him up and take all his money. Don't you forget how Otis Redding refused to sing a duet with me and they never figured out why that plane went down. Don't you forget who was so sick of Miss Ross' little pet that I told that dumb little jumping jack brat Michael that his nose looked like a pig turd and that he was so black you couldn't see him daylight? I mean it, Aretha. I want that gig and I want Nippy to come up out of that bunker for rehearsal. You fix it with Cissy.
Now you take care of yourself. Please, dear. Pay attention to that good advice we've all been giving you for years. Try, try, try to remember:
- Miss Warwick, the setlist is amazing.
I can't wait to see you and Nippy at the Taj.
- Miss Warwick! Miss Warwick!
It is I, Ollanta Humala, president of Peru.
I hate to inconvenience a great star such as yourself but….you snorted me into your cavernous nostrils last week along with a lot of high grade Peruvian cocaine.
Can you please free me from your sinus cavity? My country and my people need me.
Very sincerely yours,
- Miss Warwick, your dignity and compassion for others has made me a new fan. I am determined our paths will cross one day and I will ask you out for dinner and a dime bag.
Given that I am a fellow lady like yourself, would you consider going Downtown with a sista?
Still serving that creamed corn?
- Has anyone else developed a desire to see Miss Warwick in a real-life concert, after reading through this wonderful thread?
- Miss D, did you ever bitchslap Linda Goodman for advising you to go by "Dionne Warwicke"?
- Dear New Diva DIary,
I am sitting here in his charter stretch SUV with a racing dog on its side just relaxing, heading for L.A. I found a stack of me and Nippy's preview programs from Saturday in my bag and I decided to start writing me a diary again, maybe for my memorywars. I would have thought that after fourteen hours we'd have gotten out of New Jersey by now. It must be bigger than I thought. But we have had a lot of stops to pick up what must be other V.I.P.s. But I don't know them so they must be traveling ingogneato like I am. Nice people - a lot of brothers and sisters and they must have all brought their domestic help because they rest look and sound and smell Mexican. I wish I was traveling with some help. Like that little Cindi with the dead tooth from the hotel. She did me a good wipey wipe and only threw up the first few times. First thing I'd do is have her clean up that bathroom on this limo.
So anyway I am feeling kind of blue. And of course black, no matter what they said my appeal was back with Burtie B. And maybe a little tawny rose. And kind of a concord grape purple. But mostly blue.
Because I am alone. I realize it. All stars are alone, whether in the sky or on V.I.P. transport. People say, well, you got two sons. Why don't you do more with them? Why you gravitate to Nippy and Cissy? Yeah, I got children. But they always were so dependent. Even as babies. I hate that.
It started when I was a baby. My mother knew I had special needs, and the only thing that quieted me down was when she would blow smoke from her Parliaments into an empty baby bottle and give it to me to suck on.
But being a star is also a great responsibility. I have so many fans who would die if they knew how bad that bitch Retha and my dear Cousin Aunt and Tina Turner who tried to use my nose as an ash tray before she found her The Buddha treated me. My fans are what keep me going. Because a lot of them work and got money.
Even royalty loves me. And politicians. I fucked LBJ. I did it to get back at Eartha Kitt for thinking her shit was a c'est si bon bon. And the president of Peru is so delusional she thinks she's my coke booger. Shit. I swallowed her gross national product four years ago and left it in a ditch on the side of a road in Bolivia thirty-six hours later.
But I know that most people can just take one look at me and see the class of my stardom. We are a humble diva. My spangly sweatsuits with the hand-spray-painted butterflies are not worn for my pleasure. They are for my fans to see. No matter what people say, I do not have a mean bone in my body. No way. It's the cartilage you gotta watch out for.
I do need a smoke. I picked me up a couple of Kools from some purse up the way. I'll go to the powder room and smoke them.
Shit. Another stop. Luxury sure requires a lot of discomfort.
- [quote] I do not have a mean bone in my body. No way. It's the cartilage you gotta watch out for.
HAND JOBS for weed, diva. Hold your head up high!
Shut up and listen. I got three minutes. My cell is out of juice and I am calling from the only pay phone left in the eastern fucking United of States and America at some place called Chen Chen House of Dragon Pagoda Noodles in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Twenty-four fucking hours on the road from NYC to get to this shit hole. This shit hole is so low I got to look up to see the turds floating over me. BUT V.I.P ingogneato travel - meaning none of DQ's AK47s making the seven last hairs on my head stand up on end as I see my life flash before my I's - is like that I guess.
But it ain't no Piper Cub with Frank Sinatra's dick as a seat belt over my lap like that trip to Palm Desert to deliver a box of cat feet to Phyllis McGuire as a "message" from some of Frank's friends.
Plus I had to give some old gal on my stretch SUV limo I'm traveling in (Why the got that dog on it I don't know but it's a racing dog so I guess it's a classy thing) a Snicker Bar and tell her it was "diabetic" and wait for her to go under so I could snag some change from her clutch to make this fucking call.
So I CALLED for you to get that Cindi the maid girl with the dead tooth from the hotel in New York who was so obliging and such a fan and get her to meet me tomorrow morning in some place called Allentown, Pennsylvania. I DON'T KNOW OR CARE HOW SHE GETS THERE, DAMONT. SHUT UP AND LISTEN. They said it would take that long to get there - must be halfway across the country.
Tell Cindi I need me a maid like the common people on this bus. I know she's a black girl but tell her to dye her hair red and straighten it and start saying SI SI SI and no one will know. They'll just think she's one of them low-life mixed-up things. BECAUSE I cannot be the primo diva on this VIP limo and not have a domestic when every other lowbrow sister got one. And the funny thing is that those Mexican maids don't even act like they know the black sisters they must work for. Uppity bitches. I mean, it's not like those Mexican gals would know what a vehicle without a donkey pulling it was without having these sisters work em and make the arrangements, right? I know Jennifer Lopez. She still calls an elevator a magic box and says a Hail Mary when the door closes.
I'll just push one of the other red haired Mexican bitches off the bus and Cindi can take their place, and I'll tell the sister if she screams her maid is missing that she got knocked up and had to say a rosary and missed the bus.
Time's up. Call her, Damont. Has Nippy surfaced yet, have you heard? I spect her to be up and about looking for a connection any time now. If Cissy calls tell her to sweat it out herself after how she did me. Serve her right if Nippy takes a bite out of her old turkey neck.
Gotta go. My poor butt is so sore it's like I'm sledding down a rocky hill on a cheese grater. Tell Cindi to bring me a quart of Prep H, three boxes of Tucks extra large, and a couple feet of piano wire in case I gotta do some tie-offs.
What? No, Operator, you fucking bitch. i do not want to deposit another three dollars. I want to deposit my fingers in your face like it's a bowling ball and play your head for a strike.
I have GOT to find me some smokum. D is getting punchy.
- Dear Miss Warwick,
It is I, Simon Cowell. Nippy said she'd do American Idol, but I don't think she wants to leave the bunker. Any chance you'd be interested? I can use someone of your star caliber and expertise. I know you don't have a mean bone in your body, but can you be a little critical?
Stop by once you get to L. A.
- Dionne, we want to hear about your Solid Gold days! Were you and Darcel doing lines of blow together?
- Miss Warwick, you are a hoot. I wish you were doing the writing for NBC.
- Dear DIva Diary,
Quick Entry. Star Date - Today. Because every day there is I am a star.
I was thinking about my Solid Gold days here on the VIP limo transport stretch today, and the main thing is how little those fucking Vegas dresses made my head look. As incredibly beautiful as I am, I have always been sensitized because I was one of those pinhead babies when I was born. It's true. My mama would tie rocks to my ears to try to stretch my head out, and it worked some, but they had to trim my earlobes back when I was two because I kept choking myself with them all tied around my neck in my little baby bed. Still, my beautiful, Cleopatra-like head is a little petite compared to my trim frame, chic as it is.
Well, in the 1980s I had a little weight on, and they kept giving me Dynasty-Hottentot-Razzle-Dazzle gowns. And my head just looked too small. That's why I left the show and fucking McCoocoo took it on - Miss One Dimension. I keep a tape in my purse and here it is here. I keep it because at the end I hold a note and sling-shot around it longer than any note in my whole career. 'Cause, yes, dear old Darcel and I had done a double line before that number that looked like something a snow plow ought be clearing on Mount Hood. And of course that little snitch Pam Rossi had to run and tell. But then I did my number and they shut up about it.
I don't know if anyone realized how committed I am to get the job done. I work and see things through. For example, in that number you get a good look at how with my gorgeous nose I have to turn my head upside down in order to snort a fucking line, because I have a condition called Reversal Nostrilis. It's genetic. And my neck was killing me in that number.
I'd like to get back on TV again. Even if it means getting up by the afternoon. I had a call in to Simon Cowell and I'm hoping that he will have left me a message when I get back to L.A. He's a fat fucking nancy stuffed into his Spanx and with his money you'd think he could get his toupee a decent haircut, but better him that Nigel Whoozits who always looks like he just got done puking and is mad about it. And I know Simon kicked that dipshit cameltoejockey Paula off his show. That girl has to shave her face twice a day just to keep from being called plain Abdul. Arab women stink too. All that weird religion shit means they never air themselves out. Like leaving a meatloaf sandwich in the glove compartment. Thank God for Jesus. We ladies need to ventilate. Tussy my ass.
But I think Simon Cowell better remember he's got the X Factor now, not Idle. And I'll consider it only if my television plans with Nippy don't pan out. I still have hope there. Mr Trump, the Taj, the tour, and all the TV shows with Nippy first. That stiff bitch had better not stiff me.
Well, Diary Dear, I am out of program to write on and if I keep going someone will say I need to get a life. Fuck that. I am stuck on a dog limo in Pennsylvania and need to use my Bic lighter to see with to write, and there's a fat brother across from me snoring like he's a Tennessee wood chipper being used to dispose of drug war bodies. I got a fucking life. What I need at the moment is a better one.
- [quote] I'd like to get back on TV again. Even if it means getting up by the afternoon.
tears…running down my face laughing…..
- How was the food at Chen Chen House of Dragon Pagoda Noodles?
- I love your raspy voice, Miss Warwick.
Would you call this "drunken warble" or "death croak?"
- To my cousin Dee, I sing from my bunker:
I've got to get ready..
Just a few minutes more..
Till I see my cuz Dionne..
And I slap that old whore!
Don't even try! Don't you know / that I died?
Everyone else in the world has…heard the neeeeewwwwsssss
I'm resting peacefully - so Dee - fuck YOUUUUUUU!
- Dear DIary,
I should say Dear Diarrhea because I swear those Oriental noodles were wriggling on their own and had nasty little faces on one end. What a night. Everybody pushing into that powder room and filling that bowl over and over until the V.I.P. stretch limo was driving down the road with the front two wheels off the pavement. So the driver (T.T. - He's got a grill that looks like it came off a '59 Impala someone pulled out of a swamp.) pulled over and took out a little 45 from under his Rasta yarn snood and walked out to the back and shot the shit out of that tank - and I mean literally - and we took off again about a thousand pounds lighter but now when you got to go (and we all still have the scoots real bad) if you look down you get vertigo from seeing the yellow line between your legs. (T.T. aims for the middle of the road and lays on the horn to split the difference.) And I've got the dizzies bad ever since that gig I did up on that African mountain Kill-a-Man-Jarro and I didn't know what the effects of freebase at 49,000.). We lost the three littlest Mexican gals some time around dawn. One after the other they went into the powder room but never came out. Knock knock knock. And then the next one. I swear T.T. was watching and hit a bump every time he figured they were getting their scrawny asses situated. Good riddance. More room for my poor legs to stretch out.
And in the morning there I was in Bethlefuckinghem Pennsylcocksuckingvania in the parking lot of a Little Dutch Girl Sausage Pothaus and we're all puking our sad guts out from the smell of the fucking veal schnitzel breakfast buffet (I am having a talk with that charter company because this is NOT my idea of Diva First Class, Italian Racing Dog on the side or not) and what a surprise. NO CINDI. Little bitch. But I thought, well, that asshole Damont may have had a dee-lay. So I took off my shoe - I haven't had a chance to get to my pedicure doctor at the Glendale Pethaus since all this family tragedy started up - went over to the bus and just kicked my toenails into those tires until they popped. And of course T.T. had no notion of what to do so it took until tonight to blow some air back into those things.
But still no CIndi after all that waiting. I gave up. I couldn't make no more calls because all the women got wise and were holding their purses between their hairy legs so I couldn't get change for a pay phone. So we took off.
And here I sit riding down the middle of the Pennsylvania wilderness, uncertain of my future after all my love and greatness.
AND NOW WHAT??? The bus is slowing down. Some dumbshit is standing in the middle of road with a flaming torch. Shit! Wait a fucking second -
It's Cindi. And she's got someone - or something - with her. Tall. Dirty. In purple and a bad weave.
Fuck. It's Nippy.
Jesus, you are my sweet loving Savior! I Believe All Over Again! I AM SAVED!
Turn this shitting kennel on wheel around, T.T. THE TOUR IS BACK ON!!!!!!!
- Sweet baby jesus, I love you, Miss Warwick.
Please keep those diary entries coming.
- Listen, Missy. NONONONONO!. I will NOT be put on hold AGAIN to wait to talk to Mr. Trump's assistant Junkvanka. You take this down NOW and you make sure he gets my message.
One. I, Music Legend and Cultural Icon Dionne Warwick, am sitting here in Atlantic City with niece-cousin of Dionne Warwick Miss Whitney Houston and my new backup singer and prota-jay, Miss Dallas Houston.
Two. Tell Mr. Trump that we are ready to commence our contractual obligations to star in the Once in A Lifetime Kick-Off of the Soon to be Famous and a Big Hit "Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston and Introducing Dallas Houston."
Two Plus Something Else. We will be waiting for him at the up on the roof of the Under the Boardwalk cafe. We will be wearing pink chiffon so he can recognize us.
Six. Or Something. And if Mr. Trump is not there at 9 PMS sharp, I am sending my new Security Chief, Bodyguard and Acquisition Agent T.T. to pick his sorry ass up and bring it to me. Literally. And T.T. has instructions to leave everything BUT that sorry ass back in the office in whatever shape he wants.
GOT IT, LITTLE GIRL? I have been to hell and Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and back to get Nippy here, and I have seen more shit and rubbed shoulders with more Mexicans than I EVER dreamed possible north of the fucking Rio fucking Grande. My comeback will not be denied.
- Dear Diary,
Thank God Almighty I am a strong woman. There was that little maid from the hotel Cindi in the road waving what looked like an arm on fire with Nippy right next to her and the bus stopped and all those people started screaming. I pushed the window out and climbed out and Cindi says she got my message and she brought me a present. And she's not a maid any more. She's a chanteuse. And she's got me over a fucking barrel.
Turns out her real name is Cindi Birdthong Jr. (She lisps sometimes with that dead tooth). Miss Ross had some of Cindy Birdsong the First's eggs removed way back and Cindi was growed in some lab as a potential new Supreme because Miss Ross the Everynasty Hateful Bitch figured she didn't have to pay a clone. But Cindi ran away to Louisiana where she learned the Hoodoo. And she went and got Nippy out of the bunker and gave her some tannis root beer and Nippy is in her power. So she wants in on the act because she says otherwise Nippy is REAL mad at me (I only took those earrings and necklace off her in that casket because I knew she wanted me to have it and the camera phone snapped accidentally and I didn't know the National Enquirer was really going to pay me for those photos and besides I needed the fucking money to get my seat on the Dog Limo.) and will eat my neck if I don't do as I'm told.
Well, I'm pragmatic, like all stars. So I said she needed a different name and we only work with family. So I gave her the name Dallas Houston and we're gonna tell people she's Cissy bastard little girl who she lied about having and put up for adoption. That's fix my Aunt Cousin good. And now here we are back in Atlantic City FINALLY ready to meet with Mr. Trump and get our rehearsals started. I left him a message.
Nippy looks okay, considering. When we get situated in the penthouse I'm gonna make sure she gets a bath (Maybe marinade is a better word at this point.).
And I got T.T. to be my new Security Man. He can take care of D.Q. and besides. I saw that boy tap a kidney off the side of a road and I could do Double Dutch with the thing and still have enough left over for a workout. Except before I consider getting personal with a man again (It's been pretty much blind girls in vegetative states for a long time - that's why I do the hospital gigs) I have got to get some of these little dinglerocks burned off my personals. He might think I've been around otherwise.
But it is so good to get this far. And I have myself to thank, of course. My last hit was 25 years ago and I had to team up with a fat blind brother, a fat fairy and a sister who's been taking the same midnight train to Georgia for the last 40 years and she ain't never bought a ticket yet. THAT'S what friends are for? Fuck that shit. Friends are for kissing my ass. And if little Cindi Birdthong AKA Dallas Houston thinks she's got my Nippy under her power, all I got to do is rub a little rock dust on my old bottom and wiggle it in front of her, and Nippy will be puckering up like the rest of them.
I AM ON TOP AGAIN.
Shit. My purse is on fire. Gotta go.
- Dear Miss Warwick, you most certainly are on top again.
Do you know when the Farewell Takes Forever tour will hit the West coast?
- Poor thing - wheezing along to her "greatest hits". Still looks a dutch pig in heat, too. 'Least ReeRee got the leg cramps and kept her dignity. Ol' Wheezy was stumbling 'round the stage, throwing herself on the coffin, Nippy this and Nippy that. Lord, I thought Cissy's eyes were gonna come loose from rolling. Anyone who had a heart would've pulled that bitch off the stage. She stank up the joint worse than Whit's Xanax farts after a turkey club an' Heineken. Speaking of Heineken, D looked a little "refreshed" for a sister in mourning. With all that talk-singing she does it's hard to tell. Leave the real thang to the pros is what I always say.
Gladys, chatting with Patti
- This just in from the A.P. wire:
Newark police put an APB out on music legend and cultural icon, Dionne Warwick, for Grand Theft, Corpse. According to sources close to the family of Whitney Houston, a golden brooch with emeralds, diamonds and rubies, which was reportedly worth $500,000.00, was missing upon the family’s arrival at the Fairview Cemetery, in Westfield, NJ. Whitney’s favorite godmother, Darlene Love, was interviewed by detectives and reportedly had this to say:
It was all love at the homegoin. The sun was shinin on Nippy and that bad ass brooch was glistening and beamin in the sunshine. I was the last to leave the casket, but then, as I walked out of the church to the cheers of my adoring fans, I spotted a streak of crème brulee wiglet on top of a large assed ho sneakin into the New Hope Baptist Church. I’m not throwing dispusions or making any insinerations, but who else could it be but that money grubbin, tight-fisted, pot- headed pseudo godmother? You do know I’m the real godmother, don’t you?
The Newark Police Department has asked any persons who have spotted a woman fitting Love’s description to call them on their hotline, 973-555-1212.
Sgt. Joe Friday
- Dionne - YOU IN DANGER GURL!
You and Cindi best find the way to San Jose and then go DUE ASS SOUTH into Mexico.
- Miss Dionne, I told you Whitney would rise again on the third day!
- Mr. Trump, I have reconsidered my meeting arrangements and me and my entourage will be awaiting your hairness at a different location than I had prioriously stipulated. We have experienced an unexpected need for proximity to large quantities of ice which I am sure will be short term and is related to hoodoo tannis poisoning (NOT a drug Mr Trump do NOT go there PLEASE). Also some fat-ass Baptist head-up-the-butt-looking-for-chitlins family FALSE friends are spreading trouble and my diva jets are now cooling just off the Jersey shore limits of US legality.
Yes, we got Nippy on an iceberg and T.T. is coming to fetch you, Mr. Trump. If you don't want to break in half and go down like the Titanic with all those little things in your hair screaming and singing "Near My Dog to Thee" you will let him blindfold you with the pair of my panties he has and he will bring you to me.
Next call. Hello, Patti? Listen, Baby. I have decided to let you do the opening act for me and Nippy's tour. IF YOU PROMISE not to embarrass me and shit yourself going into a coma from another three-Big-Gulp-Coke fill-that-bladder-so-my-belly-doesn't-look-like-a-deflated-beach-ball concert preps. If you didn't insist on squeezing yourself into your clothes like five pounds of pork meat into a baby pig's little sausage casing, you wouldn't need to fill out those sad crevasses, girlfriend. Anyway, I know Glady has had those two flaps of liver she calls lips going, and I don't want her to poison you like she did all them Pips who you never hear about any more. So I'm sending my dear friend T.T. over to pick you up and bring you to my Ice Castle Yacht (way off) Manhattan. He's a hot one, Patti. If you're good I'll let him snap that grill to your Pope's Nose and stick a cattleprod up his butt and have you go to town. I know your like that, sister. Be there ready now. Or fucking else, Baby.
Next call. Hello? Darlene Love? Hi, Honey Sweets. No, it's not Dionne, Silly. It's her brother, Lionne. Yeah. That's right. No, she never talked about me. Yeah. We sound alike. Anyway, I'm afeared for you. She's an evil bitch, you know. So I'm sending my dear friend, Bishop T.T. Jakes Goodness to come pick you up and take you to his Goodness Church of Holiness in Christ and Pawtuck Casino Buffet. He will give you a SUITE, sister, and $50 in free chips AND a buffet punch card. Uh-huh. Sure, you can have the crab legs. You can have all the fu, uh, fun crablegs you want, dear one. He'll pick you up right away. Now don't tell now Po-lice, sister. Dionne has them on the pay because they are ALL her big fans. Right. OK. Yes. OK. Uh-huh. Sure. OK then. Right. Bye-bye. OK. Bye. BYE. Sorry, I can't hear you. Bad connection.
Done. I love the circle of life. Those crabs are gonna get their own back on her tough old hen's legs.
And that is that. Ain't NO BODY is taking this away from me. My destiny is to rise like Jesus and Nippy will see me through. If we can keep those staples in her mouth in place until "Dallas" figures out what went wrong with the Hoodoo.
Ain't this little brooch pretty? Sparkle sparkle. And these earrings. Too bad they hang so low on my earlobes that the fittings keep catching in my love handles. Ouch. Maybe I can do a little hock job and trade up to some turquoise and peridots. Something more tasteful.
- Patti, girl, is that you? I hate to be the one poisonin' the well, but you need to avoid Nasty D like no one's business. Something ain't clean with her, and I'm not talkig 'bout that tacky-ass costume bling she's got pinned to her nostrils. Word is Whit wasn't even cold before Miss Thang had that brooch in her claws. Darlene is practically beside herself with all the bullshit that's goin' on. Mmmm hmmm, Di is up to her usual tricks.
From what I hear, ticket sales aren't too hot, either. That's right, girl. Dionne's probably sweatin' like a whore in church with those numbers. Ree and me might comp some tickets just to watch the ol' fool fuck up royal.
- I'm praying for sister Whitney, and sister Cissy, and sister Dionne. When we throw light unto the water, the apples rise and the stars sparkle.
Nasim, pass that dutchie.
- Miss Warwick,
My psychic powers saw all this happening to you. Too bad you didn't pay the modest fee for me to do a reading on you. I would have told you how it will turn out.
I will give you some free psychic advice. Don't even have to call my hotline for it or pay the charges.
Are you ready? If not, then quit reading now!
OK, If you're still there, here's what I'm seeing.
My psychic powers say that you should leave on the midnight train to Georgia. Make nice with Gladys for a while.
Then go see Rev. Della Reese. Have some of her Reese's Pieces. She's been touched by an angel, so she'll say a little prayer for you.
And after that? Well, my psychic powers are getting a little foggy from that point on. But I'm sure a couple dozen hundred dollar bills will help the fog clear up and I'll be able to give you a crystal clear reading.
Call me. Love you.
- Hello, Hello, Sgt. Friday, is that you? Yeah, it’s me, the once and future godmother. WHAT? NO, I AIN’T THAT FAT COW! Don’t you know anything you Detective, Cracker Boy, you? It’s the utha once and future godmother, the true one, the one that those whiter than white lads from Liverpool wrote a song about, ya know, “Alls ya need is LOVE, LOVE, LOVE!”
Yeah, that Sir Paul still owes me some money for that one, he tol me at the Grammies that my check was in the mail-I’ll hold my breath for that one, Sir Prune Face!
Yeah, okay, listen up, I may have been too full of LOVE the other day, I think I’z made some mistake, yeah, did I say Crème Brulee wiglet on top some large ass ho? Okay, well we’re changing that, ifin you don’t mind. I didn’t think so, as long as you make the collar, okay, well I meant to say butt ugly, large-ass church hat, big, no really big, great big ol’ gray bow, ya know, kinda looks like one I seen at our great soul brother-in-chief’s par-tay a few years back, ya’ll know what I’m talking about, I’ll send ya a link. Anyways, I’d describe it as a glimmering vision of hope outshining the sun…yeah, that one! Anyways, the person, oh, on the hefty side, big head, bigger body, bigger than your average bear, or pig, long, straggly, shades of auburn wig, WHAT DO YOU MEAN LIKE MINE? How do I know it was her and not Miss Crème Brulee, well ???? Oh yeah, she wuz passin air biscuits just like she had some kind of lap band surgery, ya know how they get? She’s the one with that gleaming, emerald, diamond, ruby brooch. Got that? Good.
Dinner, tonight, you want to take me to Church’s. Love to, but can’t. I’z got me a lifetime supply of free buffet dining an never endin crab legs at the Trumpin Taj Mania Hall. No guests, honey, more for me. Only to happy to do my civic duty, don’t mention it.
Hello, Dee? Got that? One punch card ain’t enough for what I did for you. I want 7%, just like that Dallas and Cissy. Hey, I dun raised that Nippy, she was nuthin but trouble, those nuns at St. Dominic’s wanted to kick her ass out, I kept her on the straight and narrow, well, maybe the narrow, she ate like a bird, that one did. Anyways, 7% and one buffet punch card ain’t enough, it’s never enough. Like I tol Sgt. Friday, a lifetime of buffet an never endin crab legs. If it can’t be at the Trumpin Taj Mania Hall then I’ll take Red Lobster.
Good, I’z getting me some crab legs tonight. Yup, alls ya need is Love, Darlin!
- This is the greatest thread in the history of DL, please keep it going.
- Miss D, please pop a cap in the jacked-up imitatress @ R187.
- Ebony Special Edition
February 24, 2012
"Dionne Warwick's Amazing Comeback - D-Mentia or D-Light?
I write this story from the AMAZING new Kool Kool Fortress of Solicitude located on a large iceberg located 23 miles from the New Jersey coastline, and from the palace-like "Warwick Wigloo," a solid ice pavilion that Mr. Donald Trump constructed for his new favorite entertainer, seemingly overnight. Miss Warwick and Mr. Trump insisted that I immediately come to interview them for a special edition of Ebony for the occasion. Since Mr. Trump unexpectedly purchased Ebony overnight - it will be called simply Trump's "D" with the next issue - naturally I had to see what all the fuss was about.
LB: Mr. Trump, what is this sudden change in your business strategy all about?
Mr. Trump: I always have admired Miss Warwick from afar, like a Mirage in the desert or a cloud over a nuclear power plant. But now an opportunity to tap that quality has come up and naturally, being the pre-eminent entrepreneur on the planet, I had to snatch it before someone else did. Miss Warwick is hot - and I mean in many, many ways.
Miss Warwick: Oh, Mr. Trump! Stop!
Mr. Trump: I mean it. God. What a woman. And what a talent.
Miss Warwick: Well, I can't deny that.
LB: And you are now planning a huge new show and tour, with all kinds of product connections? And it all somehow features Whitney Houston? How is that even possible? Or, you know, desirable?
Miss Warwick: I'll take this, Mr. Trump. Yes, Lisa. We are preparing "Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston and Introducing Dallas Houston, With The Comedic Stylings of T.T. Also With Patti LaBelle." We will open at the the main room of the Taj Mahal Casino Hotel in Atlantic City as soon as some practical arrangements are worked out.
And, yes, product placement is important. I am introducing a new line of delicious health drinks, "D's Teas" - I just call it "DTs" - based on an old family tannis root and chicory concoction my great grandmother used to spoon me when I was a little girl. It is D-Lish. Mr. Trump had him some last night and immediately offered to fix up my humble ice boat and here we are!
Have some, Lisa.
LB: Well, Okay. Ugh. It's so muddy and. Uh. Well. Uh. Golly, Miss Warwick. I never realized I can see my soul in your nostrils, stereo-like.
Miss Warwick: That's right, Lisa. Good, ain't it? Well, all my life I have been on top. And others have been pale black imitators. Jealous. Stealing my thunder. Attempting to imitate my struts and snaps. They hated me because I could make the white boys groove to my Burt pop, and they hated me because I was such a smash in the movies. "Slaves" was ahead of "Roots" by seven years - and I was HOT as FIRE, girl. I am an octuple contender, counting my psychic connection career, my reality show career, my hair products, my eternal hit machine, and now my soul health beverage product line. My motto for it is, "D's Teas - What's a Little Soul for Your Health?
LB: That's wonderful, Miss Warwick. You truly are the greatest. I love you. Would you please take my watch and money?
Miss Warwick: Of course I will, Baby. Thank you the interview. Now go out and proclaim the Good News that Dionne Warwick - who never left - IS BACK!
- Mmm hmm. Cindi brought her mojo rocks out and put them in the brewing pot for D's Teas.
I can sense it!
- Patti, did you read that Ebony article? Bitch is certifiable. DTs? Hah! I almost shook my weave loose cacklin' at that shit. The only time Miss Nasty had a DT was when her Newark hookup couldn't score her some nose candy. That's right - me and Ree got seats front row center. Ticketmaster even had a two-for-one special. Poor thing - it's like charity buying a ticket for Warwitch. At least we'll be close enough to watch them freaky ass nostrils flare. Ree wants to load up at the oyster bar before so she can blow some stank upstage. I'm just going to see Whit's brooch. Apparently Di already had it engraved with some "African Goddess" shit. Whatever. See you at the Taj buffet bar, girl!
- Miss Warwick,
I know you're busy with the tour, but can I borrow your nostrils to cyphon me some gas; it's close to four bucks a gallon.
- T.T., when you're finished icing down Nippy and checking her staples, would you PLEASE have our Mr. Trump lend you his jet and go get Miss Gladys Knight out of the Roadkill Arroyo Trailer Park in Henderson, Nevada, and bring her to me? Every since that sorry old sow wandered out of the wallow and into the Mormon temple she has been turning her sour old wart hog face into a snot machine against my Return to the Toppest of the Top. Apparently she has forgotten how I loaned her my talent to help in her pathetic "Farewell" tour (snort) in England three years ago when all she could get to fuck her was Tito Jackson and he did it up her butt so he didn't have to look at that face of hers.
SHe and I need a little talk. Expecially how she has started talking like grew up in a peanut patch instead of Atlanta, Georgia.
- Miss Warwick,
I'm still seeing midnight trains to Georgia and Reese's Pieces.
- Dionne, ah Dionne. It's been many long years since I have seen you at Grammys and other award shows. I think of you often.
I have heard of your difficulties and think it's time you come to stay with me at my compound in Switzerland. We can certainly get you some tour dates on the Continent. Now, Nippy….she may have a problem clearing customs.
Come, Dionne. Come and be beside me. Let us be two strong, invincible women together. And remember, if you're good to Mama….Mama's good to you. Rolling! Rolling! Rolling on the river…...
- Tina Baby,
Thank you, Baby, for your kind offer. I am so glad your last rehab/redo/restore job went well and you are back to making some sense in a language we who are not The Buddha can understand. Sort of.
I appreciate your kindness SO much, but at this time the size of my entourage prevents me from taking you up on it. Plus I am in the middle of climbing to the top of Everest, Baby, and that is higher than the Matterhorn.
BUT I would like to offer you a chance to return to the stage with me. I have decided that there is room on me and Nippy's venue for a few more Legends of the Stage and I will be announcing a Cattle Call for the Cattle types and a special invitation for special friends such as yourself. Or yourselves if you still believe in that reincarnation shit.
Let me know, Baby. How are those legs of yours, climbing those Swiss Alpsmen?
By the way, Nippy is fine. She's only dead. Don't believe what you hear from TV or any of the skunktwats spraying their hate juice all over the internests.
- FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact: T.Napoleon T., Director - Security/Diva Protection, Transportation, Food Service Quality/Tasting, and Communications, Dionne Warwick International Conglomeration of Extraordinary Ventures, LLC
ATLANTIC CITY; MANHATTAN; HOLLYWOOD; MOTOWN; LAS VEGAS; HOTLANTA; PARIS, FRANCE; LONDON, ENGLAND; RIO DE JANEIRO; SOUL SISTERS' RETIREMENT HOMES, TRAILER PARKS, DAUGHTERS' COUCHES, OR CARDBOARD BOXES UPSIDE THE RAILROAD TRACKS; UPSTARTS' GLITZ PADS THAT SMELL LIKE MONEY & ASS (THAT MEANS YOU, BRANDY):
February 25, 2012 – Miss Warwick is now accepting applications for auditions for well-known singers of a darksome soul, pop, black rock, R&B, hip-hop, rappadappa, or whatever distinction for consideration to join her in the "Six-Hour Spectacular Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston and Introducing Dallas Houston, With The Comedic Stylings of T.T. Also MAYBE With Patti LaBelle" to start soon at the Trump Taj Mahal Casino Hotel in Atlantic City. Miss Warwick has a few slots in between her costume changes and smoke breaks for other legends to take a bow and do a number.
Your application MUST include the following. Do not bother us with any shit other than the following or we will get back to you and we know where you are, ladies. You know we do:
1. Why are you worthy of consideration.
2. What your favorite Miss DIonne Warwick moment is.
3. Whatchew been doing lately, girlfriend?
4. What are you gonna wanna sing.
And we'll get back to you. Also, your application PRESUMES you will keep your fucking mouth shut about Miss Whitney Houston and any of her belongings that may be allegedly not in her mother's late-onset Alzheimer's confusion-state remembrance where she put them.
Get back in three days. GO.
- Thank you, T.T. I don't want any shit about being a hog around here. You KNOW how these old twats can be, much as I love 'em. Plus 25 numbers three times a day, six hours a show is gonna take it out of these finely tuned pipes of mine if I don't treat them like the solid gold they are. Let Della or AbadaBadu or Mariah take some of the heat while I do a toot. After all, the cash is mine.
By the way, have you seen Nippy lately? It sure feels warm here in the Wigloo this morning.
- CHICAGO - SOUL LEGEND DIONNE WARWICK, LESSER-KNOWN COUSIN APPEAR ON "THE ROSIE SHOW"
International songstress and megastar Her Royal Highness Miss Marie Dionne Warwick will be appearing on the March 12 episode of "The Rosie Show."
Accompanying Warwick on the program will be her lesser known cousin, Whitney Houston, and a host of her fans and friends, including Tina Turner, Marilyn McCoo, Donald Trump, Miss Cleo, Rex Smith, Darcel Wynne, Gladys Knight, Patti LaBelle, and Busta Rhymes.
Warwick will debut her new song, "I Got Your Number, Hussy" from her new album "Creme Brulee and Oil of Olay."
- Miss Warwick, have you considered a reality show companion piece to your amazing rise-to-the-top-again comeback? I have a need for some quality, top notch programming and if you can give me 10 hours a week, I can promise you a cool 2 mil, plus a stake in my network, PLUS all the left-overs from my last "favorite things" taping. We're talking good stuff, sister.
Let me know...
- Um, Dionne - quick question:
Why is my number billed in the press release as "Marilyn McCoo Watches Dionne Warwick Perform Burt Bacharach as Originally Sung By Marilyn McCoo"?
This is the third time I have called you today. I KNOW you are there - call me back ASAP. Oh, and let me know if you're wearing your usual gold lame. I don't want to outshine you in the same outfit.
- Marilyn, honey, look closer. There appears to be a mistake in the press release. You were listed as Marilyn McPoo.
- T.T., please advise that Pretender that you are handling all of my bookings and that NO ONE has authorization to presume that I would ever appear on that bitch's candy-ass fucked-up bull-shit unwatched unloved uncared-for unmarketed unsponsored uninteresting and unmanned 52 minutes of balloon-headed-with-a-mustache derivative crap when I've got O's tongue out for a lick of the D. Tell that phony bitch to STOP IT NOW. Miss Cleo eats my dead dog's shit. As if.
Marilyn, Sweetie. You still around? I didn't see your application, honey. If you turned one in through the proper channels AND it met with the approval of the certification committee AND it passed inspection by the Well Smell Her Coterie for a Full Look by the Executive Consideration Bunch, and if Nippy didn't eat it, then I promise I shall take a little look and give you ALL due consideration.
In the meantime, Marilyn (Are you still going by your pre-transgender name, dear one?), though, I am deeply concerned that you think I would EVER give you a billing such as "Marilyn McCoo Watches Dionne Warwick Perform Burt Bacharach as Originally Sung By Marilyn McCoo." All my lesser lights will receive equal billing en groupe. I am thinking of something tastefully simple like "And Others." I also am considering a seventh-act oleo-type new-old girl group while I slip into one of my more challenging costume ensembles. Something you might be good for, a Cowboy and Indian theme. You could be one of my "Westward Ho's." I'll let you know. IF your application makes it as far as I. I do hope this helps settle your upset tummy and puts things in a clearer perspective for you.
Cindi-Dallas, have you seed Nippy? And where did that pile of dead herring up on the north side of War-and-Peacewick Ridge come from. Bloody fucking mess. This iceberg is drifting fucking south and I'm up to snatch in old has-been sister performers who think they can boss me around just because they are older than I am and look like junkyard dogs wearing skunkass wigs on their heads. Idolatrixes, that's what they are! Find Nippy, PLEASE, Cindi-Dallas!!!!
- BREAKING NEWS - Off the coast of Manhattan - Singer Aretha Franklin has been arrested for causing a large-scale toxin incident.
The singer's oyster-fueled flatulence has killed several hundred seals off the coast of Newfoundland and sent thousands of US Navy ships scattering for gas masks.
It also affected sea levels and caused various glaciers and ice floes to partially melt.
The original release of the foul-smelling stench may have been at a rehearsal for fellow legend Dionne Warwick's comeback tour. Warwick was unable to detect the scent herself, as the interior of her nostrils have been sealed shut after several decades of cocaine debris.
More as this story develops.
- Miss Warwick,
I am pleased to alert you that my legal team is on a speedboat at this moment with the contract for your new reality program, titled "Livin' Large with Dionne Warwick: The Making of the 'Farewell Takes Forever-The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston and Introducing Dallas Houston'". As per our agreement, 2 million US dollars have been wired to your numbered Swiss account.
We start filming tomorrow, so please be prepared to steer your iceberg to the coordinates in the contract so that my team of professionals can install the equipment. As per your request, we have purchased those special Japanese camera they use for Diane Sawyer at ABC. You will look 30 year younger, guaranteed!
I will also airlift the cargo your requested: 20 cases of Hot Pockets, 20 gallons of formaldehyde, the entire 1978 Zsa Zsa Gabor Glamours Wig Collection and as a special surprise, a half ton of that special medical marijuana that Jennifer Anniston swears by!
Tell Nippy I said hello, and realize you are making history. Your show will be the hit my network needs!
- r195/Miss Cleo that is ME you seeing in those readings! Warwitch, you stole my struts and snaps, and my style. Im coming to one of those shows, and I hope Damont got you some tight security. Cause the Skunk-Do will be the last thing you see, bitch!
- [quote] Why couldn't your Psychic Friends warn you that they were going to catch you with pot going through airport security?
Or better yet, why couldn't they tell you Whitney was about to take her last bath ever?
- Dear T. T.
Darlene Wright (Love) applying for a position on the tour:
1. I ain't seen, heard or talked about nothin missin or supposed missin since I threw suspicion on the fake, phony godmother Auntie Re. I also am a Icon at The Rock and Roll Hall of fame. Backed up Miss Warwick for ten years without seein, hearin, or sayin nothang.
2. When I bailed Dee out in Miami and gave her a defense to the drug charge: Marijuana joints? I bought those Wet n Wild lipsticks at Walgreens!
3. Mournin by beloved goddaughter, making a cottage industry out of mournin my beloved goddaughter, makin nice with Sgt. Joe ( if you get my drift ).
4. He' s a Rebel, Christmas and I promise I won't sing about anythang else (if you get my drift).
- Oprah, dear one, a few little things, my own true peer colleague.
First, steer the Ice Yacht NORTH only. There is an effluvial issue to the northeast and to the south it is getting a little warmish for my domain.
Also, please change the item to "formeldajekyllandhyde." AND please make sure those cameras are not the same ones you use for your - uh - video enhancements, Baby, or I will look like a cartoon stick figure with two big black holes where my naturally-and-not-chopped-off-like-a-Jackson cute little nose should be appearing.
Also, please note the name of my show has changed a tadpole: "Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston and Introducing Dallas Houston, With The Comedic Stylings of T.T. Also Maybe With Patti LaBelle and Some Others You May Know, Presented by Champale."
And it was 2.25 mil, Baby, full points and that share of the gross we talked about. Until then you do need to quit eyeballing me like I'm the last shrimp on the platter at a Biloxi wedding reception. And you need not to step foot on my Ice until I give the go ahead. You may think you walk on water, but I've got LaBelle here on board and you talk about throwing the non-essentials overboard to keep above the water - Sheesh?
OK, Sister O? And, by the way, I love your new hair! See? Unlike what you always say, dead Mexicans ARE good for something.
- Dear Mr. T.T. and Ms. Warwick"
Anita Baker applying for a spot on the tour.
1. I'm worthy because my classy songs will fit nicely with the grace and class of all of Miss Warwick's hits.
2. Her rendition of the theme to "Solid Gold" brings me to tears.
3. I had a big fight with Jill Scott and whupped a bitch's ass. Also, I've been dumpster diving at the Safeway. A girl's gotta eat.
4. Giving You The Best That I Got! And of course, I will be "And Others" on whatever Miss Dee wants.
Now, y'all bitches need to reply REAL QUICK because Mama needs her anti-psychotic meds. Or I'm fixing to take my weave off and beat this Jill Scott bitch again.
And I don't even wear a weave.
- R208, the difference between what I know and what I get myself motivated enough to do something about is my own business. What am I? Superfuckingdiva? Shut up. If Jesus Fucking Christ walked into fucking Jerusalem with his eyes open don't be pestering me about going to the airport when I've got my mind on being constipated for five shitless days. As for Nippy, it's all worked out so what's you got to piss on about? Buy a ticket, order up a nice tall Iced DT at the $15 special rate, and watch the six hour show. And then fuck off to your little life and die while I laugh myself to Glory.
Now I have GOT to get back to my voice work. I am trying to hit a A. Any of them.
- [quote] I am trying to hit a A. Any of them.
*tears laughing my ass off….side hurts*
- Miss Warwick,
Gayle King here! The almighty O had to jet off to her Hawaiian estate to take care of a few things and she asked me to follow up on this project. She told me that you and the new show are priority number one.
I have spoken to the captain of the SS Beloved and he will meet your Ice Palace at the location you described.
The production team has assured me the cameras we are using for your show are the EXACT ones Diane uses. Honey, if they can make that old wrinkled white lady look so good, you may wind up looking better than Nippy crica 1988. No fears.
The cargo changes are made. The helicopter will drop it all off tonight. Have your man TT send up a flare around 9 PM.
As for the extra quarter mil, don't push it. O told me to what to do in case you "forgot" the terms of the deal. I can authorize that change IF your tour and show use the title: "HARPO Presents: Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston and Introducing Dallas Houston, With The Comedic Stylings of T.T. Also Maybe With Patti LaBelle and Some Others You May Know, Sponsored by Champale. With Special Guest Star Gary Coleman."
You see, O really wants you to include in your entourage Mr. Gary Coleman. She's having him dropped off tomorrow to your island. She said your Voodoo priestess can reanimate him no problem. He is to be your pint size personal assistant. It will make for great TV, trust us.
If these changes are agreeable the extra money will be sent over, with a few other goodies. I hear you are having some problems with the other divas. O said she'd give you some files with some photos that will keep all those has-beens in line.
Let me know!
- BTW, can we send Charlie Rose over and reanimate him, too?
- Im at the top of the food chain, hussies!
- Mr. Gayle King, please tell your girlfriend I do not negotiate with her dickless puffstuffers. Tell the Big O to get back to me and that if she do not send me ALL the additional bread PLUS now an additional 100k for nuisance costs for having to waste my precious voice on the likes of you, FORGET IT. And just try to get any of that money back out of the Swiss account, suckah. Mr. Trump, my new benefactor, has shared my delightful product DT with some interesting freelance Kakakastanis or some shit like that I now am have some missile launchers that just may be strong enough to bust Oprah's bunker, if you get me, Mr. King. I now that's been your job for a while now, but these are guaranteed to fill that O Hole up with some added punch. And for the record, Cindi-Dallas and I do not "reanimate." We "resurrect with a vengeance." Now go. You are Dis-Missed.
Why, Ms. Darlene Love, I am so happy to inform you that my dear friend T.T. is on the way now to pick you up. Your application has been accepted and you will be on our show and tour. And I do want you with me here. Wear something nice. Don't bother to bring anything else. You won't need it - I mean we will give you all new so we all match.
Miss Baker, yes, we are pleased to accept your application. You look a little rough, though. Did you shrink? My neck hurts to see you down there in that video like a sad little beetle bug. But we have a place for you on the stage. But, Babydoll, you gotta give more than the best that you had or got. You gotta be giving me the best that I need and make enough fuss so if that stretchy material snaps back on my ass hard and I let out a Navajo war whoop no one is gonna hear me. Okay, Baby? I'll send someone by. Clean up first, please. My meltwater shower system don't cover dumpster juice.
- FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Harpo Productions Announces New Broadway Musical/Film/TV Extravaganza Starring Diana Ross and Barbara Streisand
Speaking directly from her Hawaiian home, Oprah Winfrey announced a new multimillion dollar musical production.
"We are pleased to announce a new concert series starring two incredible talents, my dear friends Diana Ross and Barbara Streisand. They will be touring the world, giving concerts at all the first class venues."
Winfrey explained the details of the production. The concert series will be filmed for her OWN network reality show: "A Class Act: Ross & Streisand" including all the fun and drama behind the scenes of this global tour.
"And the shows will be amazing" Winfrey stated. "I'm sparing no expense, in fact, the tickets will be priced below $20. I want to bring joy to the world via these amazing women."
Winfrey also announced her holding company has recently acquired Live Nation Entertainment, ClearChannel Communications and NBC Universal.
"I have a lot to do, I want to clear the cultural wasteland that is NBC reality program and the sad state of B and C list musical revues."
Tickets for the shows will be available shortly.
- Hey Dionne,
You best gather your friends together, baby. O is none too pleased. She told me to tell you three things:
1) Better check who owns that bank in Switzerland. Yup, u got it baby. Harpo Holdings LTD.
2) Any, and I mean ANY performance space, bingo hall, school gym...hell, anything that hold more then 10 people between NYC and East Bumfuck, Alaska has been rented out. For the next four years. By HARPO.
3) Tell Mr. Trump the new execs at NBC are reviewing his show's numbers and it ain't looking good. Maybe he can become your accountant?
I hope you got a lot of ice for poor Nippy. By the time your sorry ass side show gets to a stage she'll be WWAAAYYYY past her freshness date.
You messed with the Queen. She is not pleased.
- Smell your fingers, Mr. King. You don't scare me. And if you are such an ignorant cunt that you call that Jew toucan "Barbara" you don't even convince me you are working with a full deck of Old Maid cards.
AND if you want to hijack my Power and my Glory by starting up some bullshit about other topics, I shall unleash Nippy's new choppers on you, bitch. She brought something back with her and it speaks Sumerian.
- Midnight trains and Reese's pieces, Miss Warwick. Midnight trains and Reese's pieces.
- [quote] She brought something back with her and it speaks Sumerian.
Nicely played, bitches. Nicely played!
- *holds up middle finger*
- Please stop.
- R223 Nene, is that you?
- All good things - and bad - come to an end, but a request has been made to "Please stop."
As the OP, I decided when starting the thread I'd have my own fun until I heard those words, and as soon as I heard them I would show that one person expressing them some R E S P E C T by closing out my own - and Miss Warwick's - participation. I knew how broad and nasty things could and would get (and halleluia for it), and really meant it not only as a satire on the deeply offensive and hypocritical tendencies in the business, but also as an homage. The homage part comes in this withdrawal. To the person who asked to "please stop": Okay, Baby. If it's under your skin, I'm stopping. So get the message that I am sending to you.
Now don't mind me. I'm just one person on the thread, blabbing. Throw me all the shade you want for grandstanding here - God knows on every other thread the vitriol never stops running for people talking like I am now. I understand. But I loved playing on this thread and just this once thought I'd say this much.
Of course Miss Warwick eventually was bitten by Nippy and contracted something Unjustified and Ancient that required an intervention exorcism from Archbishop Bettye LaVette. The DT did turrrrible things to drinkers - Mr. Trump was devastated. The Taj show after many upsets came off, but Nippy escaped like King Kong at the opening and rampaged through the streets of Atlantic City. Cindi and T.T. ran off together. You get the picture.
But Miss Warwick, like the fabled ebony-tinged prehistoric insect that will survive radioactive fallout, global warming, asteroid impacts, the Second Coming, and the hideous fact of Rihanna and Chris Brown singing together - what is wrong with that woman? - of course will survive and endure.
God knows why.
- Beautifully played, Leopold. I threw many comments in there of my own (I created Cindi and sent Anita Baker) and was JUST about to send Luther Vandross too…..
But yes, all good things must come to an end…..
- Thanks for the blessing of Cindi. I hope you didn't mind my co-opting her. And I loved Anita Baker.
- Miss Dionne, please ignore that hating hussy at r223.
- Loved the creativity, all the way through.
And remember DW's words of wisdom:
The music has magic,
You know you can catch it;
If you let the songs take control….SOLID GOLD!
- Go see Dionne Warwick live in concert. She really does kick ass on stage.
I've seen her many times.
- Wonderful thread, OP. I was the imposteur Auntie Nonnie as well as Galdys and Marilyn .. couldn't help myself - it was too much fun! Of course, it was hard trying keep up with your hilarious posts.
One Less Bell to Answer
- Leopold, and Miss Warwick,
THANK YOU for such a fun thread. It was a highlight of my day for several weeks.
I think I'm be going through withdrawal in the next few days, missing Miss Warwick's antics.
- Like the true entertainer that you are, you went out leaving them wanting more.
- I read somewhere in one of these trashy mags, that Miss Warwick is not coping well at all after Whitney death.
To quote her when asked. she says "I'm not OK at all, I'm not coping well"
- This thread deserves a reward. It is, indeed, possibly the singular greatest DL thread of all time, and that is saying something. And yes, it is nice that you let it go before it jumped the shark. Or the iceberg, so to speak.
- R235, speechless but for thanks.
- Hm. R235, if you love me so much send me cash American in small bills to:
Miss Dionne Warwick
c/o Senhora Lupella Tatu-Gordura
141 San Jose Fevela
20070-013 Rio de Janeiro-RJ
And for fuck's sake put a label on the box that says, "Lupella, you open this I am going to kick your sorry ass so hard you'll be chewing your piles!"
Cause after my current projects I will need me some rest and some of that tasty Cha Cha Smoke I so love. Now quit bothering me, Baby. You KNOW I'm too busy for you. When I say I'm done I'm fucking done.
But, really, send the bread.
- What's this on my finger, somebody? Phew.
- Happy Birthday, Miss Warwick.
- Miss Dionne, we miss you?
Where you at, hussy?
- Don't you remember, R240? Miss Dionne and Rafalca took a tour of the Caribbean after Romney's heartwarming loss. Rafalca got stranded in Dominica, though, and where Miss Dionne ended up is anyone's guess...
- I missed that chapter R241! Last I know Miss Warwick and her wiping maid were in Brazil.
- Gurl... Miss Dionne is busy making coin in her new gig, mistress of ceremonies for the dearly departed. She and the power lesbian funeral director have teamed up to corner the home-going market.
Miss Dionne was pissed about the lost payday that would have been Hillary Clinton. She is still hopeful that Bush Sr. will bring her in the mega-bucks to start 2013 off right!
- So many of Dionne's songs fit the funeral market.....of course!
"I'll Never Love This Way Again"
"Walk on By (The Casket)"
"I Say A Little Prayer"
- Why isn't Ms. Warwick in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame?
- R245 They'd have to nail all the shit down in the Hall before she was inducted. Things have a tendency to vanish when Miss Dionne suddenly appears....
- r245 She should be
- I must agree. But I stuck it to them in my own inimitable way this year, as I show here. And don't I look great? Sexxxxxxxxy.
But as for you, R246 from a year ago, do you not think I have in my possession a claw hammer for such contingencies?
- R245 because the rock & roll hall of fame has no credibility if you look at who's in and who's not, some of it is quite perplexing.
At least Dionne got the Living Legend Award from Soul Train this year.
- r245 Dionne might have to die before she is inducted. They try to keep the blacks to a minimum. It's horribly racist.
donna summers, for example, should have been inducted before she died so she could enjoy it.
- DAYUM, Mizz Dionne, did you have to slam the door in that reporter's face when she kindly asked you about your bankruptcy?
With your current financial troubles, you simply can't afford such diva behavior!
- lol r251 my dad used t listen to Anita Baker.
- You lost me when you very publicly rushed to the side of murderer O. J. Simpson after he murdered two people. The hood sticks together?
- Please. My support of OJ was just a job. I picked up Nicole's stash from him the "day after" at quite a bargain, and you think I was gonna turn on him then, when he was low? For Jesus' sake, the man had just lost the mother of his children. The fact that he did it doesn't detract from that!
Some people are so unforgiving.
Don't worry. I shall be inducted. I see it in the stars. But, R251, I can afford my dignity no matter what the going rate is. How would you like a reporter trying to push her way into your hired limo at the back of your sad-looking rental shack garage? Thank GOD I had my good baseball cap on. That woman was a bitch! She didn't even offer me a joint to smooth out the negotiations for an interview. Shit. She was lucky Damont couldn't get that thing turned around fast enough to run her honky ass down like I tolded him to.
Now leave me along. It's Christmas and I am busy trimming my tree and bikini line, 'cause I got me a shindig planned.
- Baby, you bumped me. How sweet.
But you're going to have to do it harder if you want me to feel it. The Hip-Hop Hopi Dopi I've been sampling has left me a little numb. Just between my baseball cap and my toenails. Nowhere crucial.
But if you send me ten dollars (General Delivery, Los Angeles River, CA 90061 - they know which bridge I'm under) I know I will feel that. Fifty and you'll hear me feel it from Oxnard.
This thread brings back so many good memories. Of me. Nippy says "Aarggh" to all of you.
- To R250...I know how posters here like sling how racist everything is around here, but TR&RHOF should not be in that catagory. Many, many early blues, rock & roll, Motown, Philly soul, crossover acts have been inducted. While there have been oversights, they are not based on race.
Also, it's Donna SUMMER...singular.
- Ms. Warwick, would you ever consider Chaturbate as a means to supplement your income? I bet you would do big busine$$!
- Miss Warwick, what are your opinions about actor Matt Damon and his body? Is he related to Damont?
- R258, baby, how dare. I do not subscribe to the easy acquisition of erotic thrillages available in today's new world of sexual promiscuity and virtual titillationalism.
The traditional ways still are best. A girl goes out with a boy, gets a pack of Kool non-filters, a tall boy, a couple burgers, puts out, gets knocked up, has a baby, never sees the guy again and turns 15.
Don't be trying your new-fangled ways with me. And as for me doing big business, I got me a great gig going at the Panorama City Home for the Blind. Those old veterans are very grateful, and never figure out that it's a beef tongue, a couple water balloons and an old coin purse all vaselined up with the zipper pulled off it.
Like I'm gonna put on makeup for a video camera.
And, R259, Matt Damon axually is a second cousin of my Damont. My dear chauffeur and enforcer's full name is Damont Damont.
Mister Movie Matt got a body bleach job as a baby when his mother passed out at the laundromat and he got mixed up with a pile of diapers. That's why is his real name is Laundrymatt Damont, but he dropped the "t" for numberology reasons on the ad-vice of ol' Cleo.
Glad to explain that. He tries to keep it quiet because he doesn't want my luster to outshine him. Of fucking course.
- Oh, Miss Warwick, Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities of our age, thank you for your response regarding Laundrymatt Damont. What do you think of Laundrymatt Damont's body? I worship you!
- Of course you do, baby. Everyone does. Or should.
I do not speak about the bodies of male stars. I do not want to give the impression that I am available for free.
But between you and me (and don't stand so close, please. Observe the velvet rope, in spirit if not in fact), I heard that that poor white boy has had to have helium injections because his tissues simply do not have the sinew to hold that thing up at his ad-vancing age, and it got all bruised from him hitting it with his heels when he walked. And I heard that the doctors kept him under for two extra days and told that foreign wife of his he was "in distress." I don't know what was going on but I heard a stream of smiling faces was coming out of that clinic all day and night and the next thing you know the place was shut down and the doctor and his gas man had retired to a big villa in Tuscany.
It is called "Casa di Roba Dolce." Mean some shit like "House of Sweet Stuff," whatever the fuck that means.
Now leave me out of your weird fixilations. I can tell the floor gets sticky around you when you start talking about Old Mr. Laundrymatt. And I'm missing a shoe on one foot because those are some big rats in the L.A. River.
- Dear Ms. Warwick,
We are attempting to contact you again after our October 6, 2007 notification regarding this outstanding balance. Our records show a past due amount of $3,019,000 in federal income taxes.
- You better get your selves 2-gether at that IRS, Miss R263.
I have me here a letter waiving any responsibility for shit like taxes for Mr. Dick Cheney. In which he commends me for my spy work helping set things up for that attack on Iraq that made him so much money.
Because I was the original Weapon of Mass Dee-Struction they were aiming at.
So please quit bovering me with those tax notices. If anything you owe me. You know what those missiles do to sequins? I had to run all the way to fucking Jordan on a broken heel, too.
- Needless to sashay that was me at R264. The trauma got me shaking.
- The trauma had you shaking?
Darling, that's withdrawal. But I understand your apprehension. Being a delinquent taxpayer isn't easy. I remember the days when financial trouble had me shaking and shimmying about. Ah, to be a peasant.
- Yes, Anna Mae. We all know your brave story of pulling your snatch off Ike's big cock and wobbling across the street to the IHOP for some hotcakes. The biggest act of courage in your pathetic life was crossing in the middle of the block and not at the corner.
You forget, Anna Mae. I knew you when. Shall I remind you that for 20 years you spelled it "Boo-Dist" and you just sit in the lotus to air that old funky snatch out.
So glad you just got married, baby. Always nice to be able to take your geriatric nurse off the payroll. How are those bad feet of yours? Is he taking that scythe to those old corns of yours?
And you don't need to play Queen of Shee-bah with me, baby. Like I said, I knew you when you thought Proud Mary was about Little Richard. I am finer than fine. This place under the bridge in LA is quite elegant. I am Beverly Hills-Adjacent-Adjacent-Adjacent, bitch.
Those big wheels keep on rolling, Anna Mae. You watch out that Nippy doesn't pay you a trip and tie you to one of them.
- Miss Warwick, I'm so glad you're back.
Please keep Nippy safe from Ebola, I'd hate to think of your devoted helper dissolving into a pool of sticky black goo
- [quote] Like I said, I knew you when you thought Proud Mary was about Little Richard.
Shade, bitch, shade!
- Miss Warwick, I was delighted to see your surprise walk-on this morning on Wendy Williams, and even more so when you told Wendy to stand up out of her purple chair while her guests were standing. How are you two getting on these days?
- Miss Warwick, I thinks you knows too much about "Laundrymatt Damont". Whatchu doin' sticking your wide nose in some white boys business and caring so much what he be up to? People gonna start saying that be beneath a grand diva like you. You should stick to your own folk and not get uppity like them Jeffersons once they left All in the Family. You almost be a traitor to your kind!
- I'm SO glad you caught that, R270. Bitch thought I was gonna STAND there while her fat ass parked itself on the purple tuffet.
They told me it was a "drive by" to the Wendy shit and I misunderstood.
And then I had to correct her about how it was ME who not only hosted and received my Eternal Soul Train Legend of the Millennium Century and Assorted Eons, but I actually cre-A-ted the fucking awards show while Mr. Cornelius was lying on the floor banging some chippy.
And Wendy has the worst craft services of any show. She eats all the good stuff. Looks like she and Re are trading Hindenburg tits like the Gorgons passed that eye around.
ANYshit, R271, where did you "gets" that dialect? I've been on a boat stopping at a Mississippi slough in Mississippi where I found a little band of sisters who didn't know the Civil War had happened and whose families had been hiding on that sand bar living off buffalo fish and turtle eggs for 157 years expecting the master to come with a whip, and THEY spoke better English than you. And I don't care about that big-lipped, big-and-high-assed "white boy." I was just explaining the connections. Because, baby, we is ALL connected. And if you don't shut your chitlin hole you are going to be connected to my size 13 extra-wide Michael Jordan Dee-Luxe Special Addition "Walk On By" basketball shoe. Up your ass. And it got brown toes so you can just do your worst when it's up there.
R268, thank you for your devoted care. I wouldn't want to have to replace dear Nippy (didn't Cissy look like the shit on the Aretha Today segment. You talk about shade - Cissy was throwing a pine forest. Maybe her prunes were to kicking in.) and if Nippy starts leaking it kinda burns down like the spit-gunk in that Alien movie - to China. BUT there is no need to worry. You see, Nippy actually started that whole Ebola thing when I sent her back to Africa for some of those good yams and she ate a few sick bats before laying low for a week in Liberia. Thank God I am immune - from most things.
Enough of this shit. I got me a new connection and he's bringing me a supply down the LA cement river in a panel truck. Just like in the movies!
- Miss Warwick, if I may be so bold as to ask, why do you find it necessary to put quotation marks around "white boy" when referring to Mr. Matt? He may be a Yankee and have questionable, distasteful lib-rul politics, but he is a member of our race, albeit one who we may be reluctant to claim. I do declare, to claim otherwise would be mendacity. Pure mendacity! You best be moving along now on to San Jose if you know the way. Never know how folks around here may react to people loitering alone in the evening.
- R273 A Yankee! I went to my senior prom with a Yankee!
- R273, perhaps you do need to consult my Gospel-True-And-Spit-In-The-Devil's-Eye testimonification at R260 where I explained that the person you call "Matt Damon" may have parlayed his bleachy biz to a Caucasian movie career, but underneath he is (im)pure Damont. Of the Sow Wallow, Alabama, Damonts.
And let's just say that he got the butt, he got the lips, but he didn't get the…. Well, let's just say the two out of three IS bad.
Now can we please get back to my triumph putting that bitch Wendy Whatever into her vertical place? Ree may have gotten herself onto Today by pushing her sad little covers of other fat girl songs, but I was glorified without shilling nothing.
I must go now and see a man about a horse pill. Pomona closed here in LA and there's some good stuff coming down the LA River towards this diva.
And someone tell Miss Anna Mae Bullock that being called the Swiss Miss Cocoa is NOT to be taken as a compliment among those Nazi-Neutrals up there in those Alpo Mountains of hers. At least I never sold a song called "Dancing Privates."
- I love Miss W's posts.
Dionne, do you spend in the public library posting replies to us or do you actually own a laptop coputer that has a wi-fi connection under the bridge you call home these days?
Can you dish about why you were replaced as hostess of Solid Gold by Marilyn McCoo? How did you win back the hostess slot only to lose it (again!) to Marilyn?
Any dirt to dish about Marilyn and her longtime man Bill Davis, Jr? They certainly seem to have it together!
- Of course you love me, baby. I am every white man's dream of sultry ebony lusciousness, every black man's dream of sassy street sense with a killer body and a smart mind to go with my smart mouth, every white woman's hope for a knowing, caring sister always there to share her wisdom, and every black woman's dream of being a famous diva known the wide world over but loved for who she is at heart. That and you're probably drunk.
I'm also sure I'm something important to Asians but they're not much of a market here and I can't understand a word they quack at me when I'm being loved en masse over there. So grateful for any name talent to show up over there. I once sold out a stadium in Seoul for three nights with a cardboard cut-out on the stage an an old 45 record player blaring out the numbers over a loudspeaker and a roady waving two flashlights around. The record stuck one night and 147 local newspapers printed raves, calling me "An Obsidian Yoko Ono-She-Didn't!" and naming me the Queen of Conceptual Jazzpop. Even now when they play "Then Came You" at a disco it takes four-and-a-half hours for the song to finish. During the X craze once the whole dance floor died of dehydration and just lay there with the mirror ball twirling. They called me all frantic in Rio. I calmly said, "Petrol. Match. al-Qaeda attack." No one suspected.
I do love Changsha in China, though. They got the BEST Hunan Hash-Puppies there. Real hashish glaze from a hot oven. I don't know what the meat is but it's tasty. You eat it right off these little paws.
Anyshit, R276, I had too many gigs back in the day and I generously allowed McCooCoo to step in for an 18% cut. She jumped at it like a starving punkinseed at the glint of a hook. She actually appeared more times than you suspect. About half the time she just wore a mask of me and no one knew. Well, she had to wear a couple extra girdles and pop some falsies in.
No, I do not have any fucking "dish" about dear Marilyn and dear Billy. Do I look like a common gossip. They are wonderful people. So devoted to each other. And to Jesus. Such a drive to perform. So good to their fans. Oh, and did you know they're also brother and sister? Shh now.
As for my being a real "with it" 20th Century girl, I have my own computer, yes, of course. Well, it's mine now. I shop with a brick and these L.A. cars have all kinds of inventory. I just pop the plug thing into this surveillance camera thing here under the bridge using one of those little adapter things. I also hung both cups of my bra over the lens - I caught it zooming when I was taking a ladytinkle. Big Brother has got to pay to play just like everyone else. Yes, I am going boob commando in the meantime. I poked a possum's eye out as it staggered by me just now.
Shit, those horse pills were cut with fucking speed, obviously. Now I think I'll go sweep a few miles of this L.A. River cement bottom and work the shit through my system. You wouldn't believe how much the rat crap piles up between the rains. And don't be telling me I go on and on and on and on and on and on and on. Or I'll pay off the DJ to play that special version of "Then Came You" at your Walmart.
If you see Nippy tell her I need a broom. (Don't forget to say "klaatu barack obama cameltoe" first or she'll fry you.) She can borrow one from Mariah. The ex Mrs. Cannon has got plenty and her ass is so fat again she can't get them off the ground. And she sure as hell don't know any other use for them. Well, she has been know to try one...
- Miss Warwick, I promises you, I will try to improve my language. We all IS connected. Thank you, Miss Warwick. Bless you, Miss Warwick, bless you!
- All is forgaven, R271/R278. Forgived. Whatever. Anyway, you KNOW how impotent correct English are to our people. And by that I mean our American people, all of us and you and me twogether. Maybe third grade will help you. I know I hope it helps me, if I ever gets around to it, as we say in East Orange.
- Miss Warwick, "foots" or "feets", which is correct?
- I am not a fetishist, R280, so I leave that to those who care.
Personally, I say, "tootsies" and "hooves," unless they are hurting, like they almost always do. In that case I call them "these fucking feet ow ow ow get me my TONIC PIPE I got a fucking corn on my bunion is this the gout - Shit!!!!"
- Miss Warwick, am I reading you correctly: are you claiming that Mr. Matt is a quadroon, octoroon or, heavens to Betsy, even a mulatto? My eyes do not support such, such...falsities. You better have backing for your outrageous claims, madam (and I use that term in its non-French sense). I, for one, will swear upon my family Bible that that man is as lily white as a magnolia on the cusp of dawn on a spring day (although the question of his true sex is, I acknowledge, a more questionable matter). Present your evidence, Miss Warwick! I demand no less!
- You must be pure loonaroon, R273/R282, because Laundrymatt's heritage is as plain as the hood over your face. You think just because his poontang is pink that he's not a son of a bleach? My own was a delicate shade of carnation for many years, until it want kind of bituminous. I suppose you also deny such obvious things as James Franco being Mongoloidal and Ben Affect having some Gibraltar rock monkey in his tree.
You white people always complicate things. Look at my community. We are African and we are American. And to us you all are just North of African Americans. Like the dab of a corner of some little valley your people crawled out of makes a difference.
Now enough about white boys. The only white I care about comes in powder form and looks nice in a line on a table top.
Oh - anyone know the symptomatics for rabies? Fucking rats.
- I don't think enough people outside the rats in the L.A. River appreciate you, Miss Warwick, and your taste. I sense snide sneers as they type responses to your posts. How do you respond to them?
I also have to disagree with you about "Laundrymatt". He's white. Period. He's a Scandinavian boy through and through. What makes you think otherwise? I do, however, love "son of a bleach" and "James Franco being Mongoloidal and Ben Affect having some Gibraltar rock monkey in his tree." Those have the ring of truth. What say you about Brad Pitt? Does he have a touch of the "monkey in his tree"?
- Dear one. You just go ahead and believe what you want. Maybe you are overthinking it, baby. Your commitment strikes this diva as rather intense. Sort of reminds me of me when I was trying to get Mr. Trump to hire me and I kept dancing on that desk singing "I'm Your Puppet." I finally just kicked him in that fat head with my stiletto toe (steel, as always), pulled out the contract I had ready, put the pen in his hand and pushed it into a signature, and clicked a quick photo of him lapping at my pearl for insurance. Was it nice? Was it honest? Is it true? Do I give a fuck? Did it do the trick? All I care about is the one fat juicy yes in that list, baby.
As for these fools here, you don't think I actually read what anyone has to say, do you? Lupita fills me in and she is under strict instructions to add sugar to it all. A lot of "your worshipfulness" and such. Because I know they would think to write it if they weren't such screwed up little wannabes. Lusting for the power, beauty and immense talent that Jesus gave me. As my due.
Kisses to you. And what are a few more rats and who gives a shit how many legs they got? I am on a roll and a gig is acomin'.
- We have no racism at all in DataLounge.
- Of course not, R286.
Just like we have no one too clueless to know what they're reading and too ready to play moral superiority without getting their heads on straight. It's such a relief, ain't it, to not have those problems here? It's the only reason I condescend to work off my speed dosages here - I simply could not abide mingling my precious award-winning lyrics with the noise of fools who don't have the sense to see what's right in front of them. Or to perceive where the joke stops. I am shuddering with relief.
Or maybe it's that rat bite.
As for me, my priorities are always straight, like the Guatemalan baby hair in my wigs. And whatever color I have on my head at any given time makes no difference to the color that matters most to me.
There's a color this star needs more of. Sleeping on this old couch is getting into my marrow, and someone keeps spitting off that bridge up there. At least I am hoping it is spit.
Lupita, go check on that. And call Damont and tell him I want his cousin's birth certificate. And find out where Nippy is. I don't want this ebola thing to get traced back to her recent trip.
And now I am going to sing myself to sleep. Perfection.
- Miss Warwick, I wants (want) to tells you I has started taking lessons. I am so proud of myself and only have you to thank. Thank youl, Miss Warwick. I is (am) about to cry. I swear. I swear! I will be back here writing English as well as you. You has given me confidence! Bless you!
- Thank God I'm asleep because someone is raving up on the street and I can't understand a word that it being said.
- Miss Warwick, I accuse you! As you are a learned, not Michael Learned of "Waltons" fame, negress, I expect you to recognize and acknowledge the differences among the races. Mister Matt is not, as you claim, one of your kind. You haven't any evidence for that. Mr. Pitt, the Youngest, either. I defer to your judgment on Mr. Franco, who I admit looks questionable, as well as Mr. Affleck who could give some of my lawn jockeys some competition if they were in a sandy environment. Explain yourself, madam!
- Miss Warwick, what say you about Stephen Collins?
- Miss Warwick, when can we, the buying public, expect your haircare line Creme Brulee?
I have the Home Shopping Network already on speed dial.
- Hey Dionne! I saw you there on Wendy Williams the other day, announcing she would be the host for this year's Soul Train Awards!
Would it have killed you to dress up more? Your I'm-in-debt-so-I'm-wearing-thrift-items-found-at-the-homeless-shelter ensemble really did not flatter you, boo. I have tons of extra clothes and jewelry you can borrow next time, either for a tv appearance or your upcoming funeral.
- I am not here to "accuse" people of being this or that. As anyone who knows me knows, I tend to categorize people into two groups only. Short con or long con. And those I sub-group into "worth the fucking bother" and "just knock them on the head and grab what I can get ASAP."
Stephen Collins? I only know his brother, Tom. He's sweet. But I will say it must be fucking hard to find a bunch of willing midgets and avoid all the bullshit and lawsuits. From my experience midgets work cheap and are glad to get what they can get. Just ask the one in the monkey suit after Michael's Bubbles died young and no one wanted to tell him. And that was all the way back in Encino. The family just was glad Michael never looked too close at the face, for some reason. That poor midget suffered.
Patti, I am going to wait to ree-spond. You have a lot of nerve, though. As if you're urine hose is a fashion accessory.
- Patti is not having it.
- Re told me she pulled away from Patti that time because she thought she was trying to grab a Kit Kat out of Re's pocket. You KNOW Patti has the sugar diabetes and Re was just trying to be a sister. Patti thinks that just because she didn't lose that beat-up case that she can keep the violence going. Like every time she "sings."
And just for the fucking record, that youtubal thing is a complete fake. Yes, yes, yes, we all said those things. But my voice was speeded up to make me sound like a shitting contralto. At this point everyone knows when they try to play me scales on the piano when I'm warming up the pianist's left hand goes off into space down there looking for it. I am proud, though. I don't need to fucking screech. I'm glad that what they didn't rip out of me just fell out and I have been eStrogen free for 48 years this coming spring.
I must say, though, that showing Chaka Kong as the equal of us true pinnacles of soulsistering fineness is an affront. And abback, too.
That rat bite is looking a little angry and that full moon over L.A. tonight is making me itch and feel like I need a wax job on my back.
- Dionne I don't know what's in worse shape-your lungs, your voice, your hair, your wardrobe or your bank account. You can't even adequately perform your elevator tunes anymore without sounding like a sickly old man. I have conquered my previous health issues with discipline and Jesus-something your psychic friends scam network and drugged up ass knows nothing about.
- Diondre, dear, you were right about me.
Who am I kidding? The only thing Swiss about me is that roadkill I call a lacefront wig.
Anyway, doll, I can smuggle you a care package of that good shit along with the finest Swiss chocolate (white of course). I'm going to need to be paid in full (in Euros) first though. I'm sure you understand. I'm telling you, Dana, my mantra is meditation and a little Mary Jane are all a girl needs to get by.
- Anna Mae, I shall accept most generously your kind offer of dübies. IF they are that yummy Matterhorn Muesli Mau-Mau Maxie Mix I tried back in the day. And I believe you meant you would send my package duty free. You know you owe me. I stood up for you when you made all those claims about Ika pounding you in a bad way. You know you always told me he only pounded you in a good way, and that it was you who would wait until he was asleep and you'd go at him with drumsticks (drum and turkey both). We all knew those weren't smallpox scars on his poor ugly face. And send it express, baby. I got a need.
And, baby, are you saying that's not your real hair? What a fucking relief. When people said you were carrying possum orphan babies on your head I always dee-nied it.
And, baby, please send that white chocolate to Patti Labullshit. She can use it.
Patti, Jesus wouldn't know your face if you offered him a ten spot to upgrade to a table in the Purgatory Lounge "away from the kitchen." MY elevator music? At least they allow me on elevators. The weight limit has never affected me personally the way it has you. And as for conquering your "previous health issue," dear one, one does not conquer old age, senility and frog throat. Even Jesus has His limits.
How are those feet, anyway? Last I heard they both turned black and those toes were popping off. Poor dear. I have kindly requested that Anna Mae send you some special medical product the Swiss Blood Sugar Institute has been developing for cases such as yours. You be sure to take triple doses because we all are hoping the best for you. We'd hate to see you have to hobble out on a couple of stumps and sell pencils out on the street.
- Miss Warwick is one of the best, if not the best pop singers of our time, still loved and respected, fans all over the world paying almost everything to see and hear her live. Show some respect here for a true legend. Thank you.
- Thank you, dear one at R300. Truer words never were spoken in the history of the universe. And I am humbled by my right to pride. I am, indeed, a legend. Like the Yeti.
Sometimes I think people here - and not just the peons but the alleged competitors for my crown - forget my legacy. And I did it all in a white man's world, not working in the "special" niches where divas of color had to establish themselves until whitey took a notice. Uh-uh. I was in the office sitting on the couch sipping a Scotch with the barest whiff of maryfog on my breath, getting Re-spect while another person was just begging it from her man. Yes. I was getting it from The Man.
And I am still on top. Of something.
Excuse me now. I am bringing tears to my eyes. And the doctor said the acid will take the last of the lashes off unless I dab dab dab. Is this rag clean?
- Dionne I have a cooking line among my other businesses and am living quite well. You want to talk about selling pencils on the street? That's where you're going to be if you don't settle your bankruptcy. From the looks of you the other day on Wendy, you're already dressed for the occasion. Why don't you go back to hiding out in Brazil? We know you're trying to evade the IRS boo. I could always sing all your songs better than you could ever dream of btw.
- R300 if you love Miss Warwick y'all betta send cash
- Patti, why do you think that just because you "sing" and shout in a manner that has caused confused dolphins to beach themselves en masse and triggered massive declines in bat populations (those delicate ears) you are vocalizing something anyone needs to pay attention to?
I have explained repeatedly about how I have settled my accounts with the Federal Government. I am an Ambasadrix of Love and Art to Brasil - I do not "hide out" there. Plus those poison dart thingies are better than botox. Not that I need them.
And it's a good thing you don't try to hide out anywhere, since your fat ass is visible from space.
Have some more fudge, Patti. If you do lose that leg you can brag about dropping another 100 pounds of ugly fat.
Cooking line my butt. I saw that "Over the Rainbow Macaroni and Cheese" shit you were peddling. Honey, just because bits of your face glitter and clown war paint fall into the pot it doesn't mean you don't clean it out. Not you. Uh-uh. You just give it a name to explain the whacky hues.
Now stop you're writing. I'm tired of having to pull out my history books to remind me who you are when your turn up. I am busy busy. With gig planning and stuff. The only gig you ever see has a frog gulping on the other end of it.
- I would pay a LOT to see her live in concert, but I know she doesn't need money nor sing for money, she is mega rich, so I just wish it could happen.
- R255 should be bitch slapped into tomorrow for resurrecting this hoary old and terribly unfunny thread.
Let it die, cunt.
- Well, smell you R306.
Some of us enjoy the Dionne Warwick threads. How about you cram it with walnuts, ugly?
- R306 = Diane Ross
- What was Sacha Distel like in bed, Miss Warwick?
- Dionne, darling, you were passed over for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, again?! What a shame!
- Judge for yourself, R310. Thank GOD I had just had my lip waxed for it. Sweeeeeeet. I told them the tempo was too fast, but the French don't know shit about the bossa nova.
And of course I'm with you, R306. But it's sort of like summoning a fucking demon. Consider the consequences before it's done, and shut your asshole afterwards or something with barbs and determination may fly up it.
And now, you see, all these nice people here will troll-dar your pathetic ass so they can see the kind of precious shit you usually post, and how much of a know-nothing hypocrite you are. Don't blame me, baby. Blame yourself, you little pox you. Fester, fester.
- "Music Legend" and "Cultural Icon"? Someone has a very high opinion of herself. Do the world a favor, tape your mouth shut and shove some walnuts up your nostrils.
- I believe Miss Warwick has been inducted into the San Jose Sports Authority Hall of Fame in honor of her not only know the way to the city but also being the only person know to have walked there from the Los Angeles River when Arista Records refused to pay her plane fare there.
- Now with link in the correct place, much like Miss Warwick's place among icons, legends and cousins.
- Hi Dionne, it's Madonna. I always admired your work as an artiste but unlike Tina or Donna, I could never find something from you to inspire my own musique or performances. As an anti-aging expert, I offer you to follow my lead on a strict regimen to prevent yourself from looking like your current grim reaper state.
- Thank you, R313. We do all love a self-correcting fan.
Unfortunately the event, which I did attend in the regrettable manner to which you referred, although I did manage to hop an artichoke train outside Monterey, turned out to be a "Inducement" rather than a "Induction." They had about fifty pregnant girl basketball players there and they induced their babies all at once so they would be ready to play in time for the next season AND they expected us awardees to pay it as the price of our nasty chicken dinner and plastic trophy.
Well, I induced them them, all right. As I walked on by I just let with a heave-ho with my size 13-Triple-E's. Just like the midwives would do in East Orange. Pretty soon the place sounded like the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo with all those babies screeching.
But I do digress. From something.
Oh. The walnut joke. Two fucking walnut comments in just a few postages here. Synchronicity or Conspiracy? You be the judge, baby.
And besides. Everyone knows I keep a couple old-time Stag Beer bottlecaps up my nose to keep that whistling sound down when the breeze is up. Yes I do. And I've cut my head colds in half!
I am thinking of moving because there has been some stinkwater coming up here at my Hacienda Ripariana. Anyone got any good suggestions for a diva-worthy place for me to ree-side? Not too expensive. Those general-delivery residual checks are a little slow coming. And I do have my staff of four. Well, three. Nippy usually stays in a hole in the yard, when we are fixed.
I sometimes think I should be Saint D for the patience I grace you people with here. It's not like I don't have a life to live, with record deals and movies and QVC offers to see shit.
- R315 - "Madonut," is it? Moodhona? Mudonna? MeDoNot? I never can get it straight. I always think of you by your last name. Because Ciccone sounds like you - something that makes a girl spend the night scratching her cooter over.
Anyshit, I can't really follow your posting. LIke your lyrics, it really doesn't make much sensification. You see, being a diva of coloration, I am always young. Why, just the other day someone mistook me for a slightly mature Cicely Tyson. People often say I could easily get work as an apprentice Teamster except my hair would make people think I was undergoing chemo and maybe would miss work at the start.
But you, you poor deluded thing. I am sending you two pencils Patti forced me to buy off her the last time I saw her. They are a last-ditch but sure-fire one-application regimen for you to look - to yourself - as young as you say you feel. Just aim the two points in the direction of your eyesockets and drive them forward until the last thing you see is a little spark as the graphite hits your socket bone.
- Oh, dear! Miss Warwick, I have so many errors in my post, which is certainly not worthy of a talent like yours or an inductee of the San Jose Sports Authority Hall of Fame. My apologies.
- Baby at R318, calm down. You hurt my heart.
Or my gall bladder. Something up in there. Have I EVER done anything but shower my love and affection on anyone who worships my talent and pays the $50 extra "Gold Circle" ticket price to stand up close to the stage where the Bingo Indians won't drown me out?
You just keep on keeping on and leave the keeping up to me, baby.
My pancreas. That's what you hurt. Do NOT bring out the pity in me again, bitch. I mean baby.
- [quote] Pretty soon the place sounded like the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo with all those babies screeching.
We bought a zoo!
- Dionne, as an honorary woman of color, I am offended by your comments towards me. I too have faced discrimination and prejudice throughout my career, so I can sympathize with you. As a feminist, I don't appreciate you advocating that I engage in self-hurt, though sexual-hurt may be fun (see my sex book for details).
- Madonna, thinking that not wiping well as an act of artistic transgression (not laziness, no, of course not) makes you a honorary "woman of color" is deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeply offensivating. Forbear, dear.
But, please. If you had ever offered me as little as a hundred grand to my many charities of worth - I guarantee the money always went where it did (me) the most good - maybe I would be more patient. It's not like I never thought you had talents, of a kind. No one can keep Sean Penn for more than a couple nights, I hear, unless some kind of talent is involved. And since I hear those talents do always involve self-hurt, I regret you do not "see" the value of my beauty tip. Tip of a pencil, that is.
So you just keep hanging upside down on a sling like an old wrinkly bat or whatever you think makes you young-ish, and I'll just keep looking at those photos I got of your many boobs. Technically, baby, you've had more tits than a Cretan goddess by now. Do you keep the old ones for silent butlers or dog dishes? Or maybe you have graduated them up to bean-bag chairs.
Lupita, does this bite look angry to you? Shit, there's still a tooth in it. Fucking rats.
I AM STILL WAITING FOR ADVICE ON A NEW PLACE TO STAY IN L.A. Hint Hint.
- You old ass lookin' nasty bitch! You should implant flashlights inside those huge nostrils to help people see at night and make use of them for a change. You never had the beautiful island flavor I bring to the music industry.
- "when I put on my makeup...I say a little prayer for you." and I really do because you look like shit.
I'm looking as good as I did 35 years ago!
Why don't you try singing my songs? that's right-your voice was never big enough for it, even before cigarettes ruined it completely.
- ^^ Y'all must be itchin' for a beat down
Don't throw shade on Miss Warwick
- [quote] We bought a zoo!
A zoo was acquired through an, open competitive bidding process.
- Rihanna, dear. It's not like, when people were tsking about your being beat up by Miss Brown (so many times), anyone really wondered why it happened. You are just so fucking punchworthy. And since your nose already is all squashed and spread out, it's not like your looks are going to be affected.
We've all seen your PR work to show off being so great with your fans. It must be nice to have such a modest fan base that you can know each of them by name. And your idea of "island flavor" is how you steal the ketchup packs at your favorite Long Island City Burger King. I'm not saying you're trashy. I don't have to. I mean, Barbados? Really? You're bragging about the culture you picked up living on that turtle turd of an old slave dungeon?
Miss (You haven't changed your sex yet, have you? People are wondering? Two words, Girlilla - Estro Gen.) Kong. Your celebrity is so far back in the alphabet even TMZ didn't bother to poke you for this: (Thank you, Damont, for giving me this. Remind me to pay you your salary some time.):
[quote]Khan was featured in a 2013 episode of Celebrity Ghost Stories where she told the story of a 'shadow man' that followed her on tour for years until she met a guardian angel who admonished her to change her life or die.
Honey, in case you didn't know it, "change your ways" meant lay off the bourbon ice cream sodas. And that "shadow man" was a process server. (I should know.)
I am miss D, and all you are is D-luted and D-luded. And do something about that hair and makeup. Don't you get tired of people asking if you have excaped from a nuthouse production of Lion King?
Now, If you'll excuse me, I have to catch a bus and see if anyone over on Santa Monica has left something good in the Veterans Village Donation Bin. Saturday is pick-up day and there's usually something good there on Friday afternoons. I LOVE shopping Rodeo Drive. My outfit on Wendy Williams received a lot of notice, and it didn't cost me nothing but the bus fare.
- Dionne, baby, if you were so instrumental in creating the Soul Train Awards, where are your royalty coins? You shouldn't be a broke bitch, unless you got coinTTTTT for it and foolishly spent it all on cigarettes.
The only thing legendary about you is your embarrassing financial woes. You make Toni Braxton seem rich. Of course your Wendy Williams outfit got attention-because we thought you were a hobo who got on tv. Keep it cute.
- Fuck an old thot! Your dumb ass couldn't balance a checkbook or even marry rich to make up for it.
You wanna talk PR? I got receipts-explain this horrible pic with Pat Nixon:
- Chaka, go sit on Rihanna. She does look like a tampon and she's just about your size.
Rihanna, go breathe in Chaka's face with that "island flavor" breath of yours. I've heard it stinks of some kind of unidentified jerk meat. Very Caribbean.
I am rich in what matters. And what you and everyone else don't know is what I have stashed away and where it is stashed. I got no worries. But thank you for your concern, ladies. But, really, you give me too much attention. Shouldn't you be trying to fill concert or free clinic dates?
And, Rihanna, you think it's a bad thing to be seen at the White House? Oh, that's right. Your special appearances are in crime photos.
I do remember that little visit with Pat Nixon. Late in 1971. I was so young then. Practically a baby. Unfortunately I was feeling a little under the weather - her husband had the border patrol spraying poison on the crops around that time and I got a little extry in the Calexico Crabgrass I was using at the time. Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course (My med-sin.) And I turned and saw Mrs. Nixon's dress and pow - grand mal seizure time. I heard they had to replace the rug. Too fucking bad. What was a Republican cloth-coat type doing wearing a psychedelic hippy dress anyway? My vision didn't return until Christmas.
That photo was cropped. Here's the full one, from the Dionne Warwick Residential Library archives. You should stop by there some time. Nice gift shop. It's in a nicer part of East Orange. The brother by me was someone they kept around in a closet or something - they called him out when they had a black guest because, as Mrs. Nixon said, "We want you to feel comfortable with your own breed." I think the white guy was the First Lady's AA sponsor.
By the way, President Nixon himself walked me out. He said he felt bad about my "voodoo" experience. He kept asking me if I saw the Devil while I was writhing on the floor. And then he tried to stick his finger where it had no business going. "I just want a little something special to sniff to help me stay awake when I'm talking to Henry." He called me Nancy Wilson and I remembered Pat's remark about breed so I told him to go ahead. Shit, I knew he'd never get the D-lish pheromones of my honey pot off that finger - ever. I know he's laying there in a bronze box somewhere with that old finger glowing in the dark.
- Miss Warwick, I am curious as to whether you and Mr. clive Davis ever indulged in a bit of jungle love(oh dee odee oh)before he modified his sexual orientation to butt pirate? I think you and the Hebrew mastermind could have made some bee-yootiful music in the sack. Do tell m'lady.
- R331, please. Mr. Davis was with his wife Janet at the time we worked together and he was strictly my Arista Mista and nothing more. That woman carried brass knuckles in her purse "just in case" and my delicate jaw was not about to test her follow-through. Oh, I did do a little glass-table dance for Clive a couple times when he lost a golf ball under it. He kept muttering "hole in one" and I had to do CPR on him after I did one of my Chinese splits. Our little secret. And it kept my contract going a few extra months.
Nice man. Very talented. Looks ridiculous in panty hose. But don't tell him I said so.
BTW, I am still trying to figure out what really happened with Cissy and Re at the Today show. CIssy has gone to ground just like that fucking North Korean dwarf. I think Re has her being held in one of her Detroit "extra pantry" houses. I am getting worried. My cousin owes me for room and board for keeping Nippy out of trouble - mostly.
Sweet Love. I'm in love. I feel no shame. I'm in love. Sweet Love.
How are you doing?
- Anita. How nice.
We all had forgotten all about you. Last we heard you were in love with those anti-depressants. And it was not a monogamous relationship. Glug glug.
- I hope you choke on a reefer for stealing my career.
- [quote]Could one of you get over here and fix me some lunch, 'cause I'm hungry, damn it. Shit.
Go take some cooking classes and make your own lunch bitch.
- I heard Anita's been caught up in clam rapture.
- Maxine! How nice to hear from you. Borrow your missus' phone or did you have to sneak it into the pantry to post that?
Anyshit, I see you are just as lovely as ever. Too bad real talent takes other qualities than opening the legs like an old TV antenna. Although I hear you could get UHF when you thought there was a two-night gig at Cactus Jack's Senator Club in Carson City, or some such thing they paid you in quarters for.
R336 is so very late to the party. I trust she is too ADHD to read the fucking thread and find out Nippy is dead but not gone. I don't need the shit.
And, yes, R337. 'Nita is so deep with the bivalves it takes low tide and a digger to find her under the sand.
You know, sometimes I think people do not appreciate my D-vine brilliance. No one works harder at this shithole than myselves. I should be getting a whole butt load of worship, instead of the mean crap. And the toke-weed presents that are the mark of TRUE appreciation. Make my own lunch. What a asshole. It's not like I ain't already Re-deuced to smoking rat tails while I wait for news on my new show, although with what the rodents drag their asses through here on the river you can get quite a buzz off the bigger ones.
I wonder if Oprah ever noticed that back window lost its lock at her Montecito place. I could have Damont pick up a few of those hams hanging in there and she'd never notice. (I hear she bought that place way back and kept telling Gayle "thee correct pronouniationing is 'Montee-Cheeto" and then her stomach would growl like a lion cage.)
- Hey gurl, it's Nene! Anita Pointer here.
Lissen, we need a third Sister and we've been having the young girls fill in since June died, but you should come join us on stage!
You can do all the deep voice parts for sure and Ruthie and I can bring on the harmony!
- Anita (as in "Anita New Pair of Dentures," but shhh), baby doll, how NICE to hear from you. Of COURSE I'd allow you girls to sing back-up back up for me. You usually do your "thing" behind a scrim anyway, don't you? Because I've got Marilyn McCoo and Mary Wilson lined up to do primary back up, and all those dancers and the orchestra and the chorus.
And I hope you're okay with $17 per and all the craft table left-overs you can fit into your plastic bags. I've been having my dressing room suite and adjacent get-away bus refurbished and you wouldn't believe how expensive gold has gotten to be.
That is, of course, if you all are able to pass the routine examinations and tests. I mean, additional to the felonies I already know about. An A+ act like me can't be too careful.
- Miss Warwick, thanks to your advice up thread my English lessons have really started to pay off. My job chances have improved so much. I can even spell "A+" as well as you! I best be heading back to my studies now.
- R341, MUST you sing that one song? Every record does have a B side.
If I took every bit of criticism to heart like that, do you think I would have been able to lift my head off the curb and kept going? And just look at me - perfect Englishification and all!
- Still waitiing on my money, you chemo-ridden cretin.
- In real life, I think this is the DLer known as Miss Warwick:
- R344 OMG that made my evening! I love that dude.
- That young man is very good, R344, but I think you are simply flailing about trying to create discord where it is not needed. Why in the world would you think that a black boy imitating a sad white girl would also be capable of the transcendence of this iconess of American culture.
No man EVER was successful imitating me. They always come across as too feminine. Um, wait a minute there...
I myself, in all my glorious authenticity, spiritual wisdom and vocal brilliance, shall continue to supply all the discord people such as you seem to require. I am D-pendable at that. And NOT to be accused of being someone other than my D-vine self.
Honestly. Don't some of you people have a life? Tsk.
That's Maasai for "Up your ample ass." Don't forget the clicks, baby.
- Miss Warwick, why do you object to femininity in men? Aren't some of your most ardent supporters and imitators feminine men? Aren't some of the biggest stars in this firmament feminine men?
- Lady D! It's me, M. McCoo! I am so glad you made it north to LA. I gots a new gig, I provide "matchmaking" to the stars! That's right, I fix celebrities up on dates. I got a possibility for you...Kelsey Grammer needs a new gurlfriend. He's loaded, PLUS on a lot of meds for his depression...
- I miss Nippy so much...she gave the best all night cocaine parties
- Marilyn, perhaps - PERHAPS - I shall condescend to accept a matchmaking experience. Do these "matches" last more than one night?
But get me a brother. I wouldn't want to catch anything from Mr. Grammer, plus I think it would be too much like a little pink bell clapper slapping around in a big iron bell. And I have GOT to get a place to stay. Del Norte and the cement bed is okay for those Mexican people used to living in mud huts, but I need a shag carpet under these toes. Orange.
R347, I ADORE feminine men, baby. My hair, nails, teeth, beautiful skin tone and couture stage wardrobe with all those little beads and shit are all in place thanks to feminine men.
I just made notation that when they try to "do" me they make the real me look like Sasquatch. My femininity is the urban kind.
Shit, girl. Do NOT try to make me look bad to the gays. That's all I need. Those people are FIERCE. Do I look like a fucking Chik-fil-A?
- Up up and away in my booooty-ful balloooooon.......
- Here's what I wanna know....
When's the bitch gon get her hair done? Di, baby, you been sporting that Samuel L. Jackson/Django Unchained coiffure for five fucking years now. I mean, shit, even the decrepit octogenarian Cissy Houston looks younger and more presentable on television! Get it together!
Look, I know you Drunkard girls weren't raised properly and lack the elegance of Motown royalty like Diane and myself, but for damn sakes, if you wanna prance around in your Ted Williams attire on national television, then AT LEAST hire one of those cheap hood chicks in Newark to fix up those damn gray naps! It's disgraceful for a black woman in this day and age not to grease her scalp!
Yes, yes, you can't afford those pricy Hollywood stylists, let alone a hood beautician, but maybe its 'bout time you do like Howard Hughes and seclude yourself from the public. Lord knows it would help those who know you from feeling pity and revulsion. (Then again, who'm I foolin': Bucky Di was never a fashion icon, see video below. Guuuuurl, talk about homely!)
- Gladys, that is NOT what friends are for.
I KNOW once in a while your Mormon Manager Committee gets lazy and you run off and find someone to borrow a computer from and start posting your crazy shit, but, really, it does not serve a sister past her golden years and heading into the pine-box stretch to embarrass herself the way you do. Remember the last time, when you were trying to get that Lady Diaper business going and were using that "Glady Knight and the Poops" slogan? Sad. Just so sad. I cried.
So how are things in Atlanta? (How original, dear, and you've never been able to get out of there, either, have you? It's like you belong.) I hear those chicken-'n'-waffle places are doing great. THREE of them? Such a mogul you are. But with all those kids and step-kids from all those marriages I guess you get by easy on the employment side.
Anyshit, I just wanted to say hi-hi and invite your to shut your greasy waffle hole over my coif. SOME of us do not re-quire the services of a warehouse of wigs because we burned our follicles all off in a grease fire trying out used napalm for the fryer. And I do think it sends a bad message that so many of them use monkey fur, Gladys. Not cool.
My patented "creme brulee platinum chic" style is perfect for my get-up-and-go lifestyle, equally suitable for crossing the border, going to a discotheque, purse grabbing or appearing on the Mike Douglas Show. And it is all mine. And it is not attached with snaps. (Snap.) Coretta (bowing head) kept her look, and so shall I. Our fans and followers need to find us in a crowd, and be uplifted by our traditions. SO fuck off, dear.
Did you ever get those piles taken care of? I know you switched to those long jackets because people would see your caboose and think you were hauling a load of ping pong balls in your stretchy pants. It must be hell to be old. But you might as well be where you're going, baby.
I mean. Mormon. What the fuck is wrong with you? You know the first thing that's going to happen when you die and go to the Mormon Planet waiting for you someone names Smith is going to be calling for you to clean the house and get supper on. And those white people are not going to spend eternity with your chicken and waffles. Go back to Jesus, Gladys. He can forgive you.
And then I won't have to.
- [quote] My patented "creme brulee platinum chic" style is perfect for my get-up-and-go lifestyle, equally suitable for crossing the border, going to a discotheque, purse grabbing or appearing on the Mike Douglas Show.
- Miss Warwick,
I know that money is a little tight for you these days. Have you considered coming out with your own line of hair care products centered around your signature hair style?
Since Mike Douglas is no longer with us, perhaps you could even get Micheal Douglas to endorse it.
Maybe you could even persuade his wife Catherine Zeta Jones to dye her hair creme brulee platinum as a marketing ploy. It become a big sensation.
Lots of big money to be made in hair care.
- Since it was my idea first and you just copied if off my supersonic and mojofied brainwaves, R355, don't think I'm giving you any credit for your - my - wonderful idea.
I am considering "Dionnaise - Putting the She Back in Sheen."
I also have me a idea about applying a household item everybody has - a dope pipe - into a special and expensive little gold-painted torch thing to add a little sizzle to the do. After all, it is a major part of my signature look. But I shall have to make sure people don't mix it with the Dionnaise and start a conflagration. These hills are dry here in L.A.
And I also am planning a conditioning product made out of a special organic ingredient. Dippity Doo-Bee.
Mike is dead? Shit. I guess I will have to sink to doing Merv Griffin now. Johnny won't have me anymore. Said that he always had to change out the sofa cushions after I was on. Hell, a girl gets excited to be on Tonight.
But I am starting to tire out of this current little blog thing - and with my new business plans I'm thinking of heading to Hong Kong to round up some production people. So if you want anything out of me you'd better bring it up soon, because my cell don't get trans-Pacific reception.
- Miss Warwick, I think Laos might be the best place to go. A new burgeoning arts scene and some really green land, if you get my drift.
- Miss Warwick,
I was just trying to put a hundred down and buy a car, but all the stars that never were who are parking cars and pumping gas tell me that will barely fill the gas tank.
- I'd like a case of Dionnaise, please.
- Shit. Never mind trans-Pac ree-ception. Where I've spent the last few days you can't get nothing. I hope that ebola hasn't turned up here or any other whacko shit like that - I don't want to miss the Apocalypse or anything while I'm waiting for Damont to work out my trip to Hong Kong.
I've been down in the sewers here - you know there are sewers under this river here and all through LA? - and it's another world. All these people I thought were dead and gone are just hiding out. And some of it's pretty - they took their stashes down there and it's really pretty in some of the nicer areas of the sewer.
Ike Turner is there. and Flo Ballard. I shit when I saw they were an item (Lucky it's a sewer, baby.) Wait till I tell Anna Mae. Shirley Hemphill is there and running a very chic waterside cafe, and she has really lost the weight. Still with those crazy eyes.
Teresa Graves has got a little singing club (I didn't know she could sing. And I still don't.) and I spotted Syreeta Wright waiting to go on. ALL the Temptations are down there - what do you call a group of 10 singers sashaying to the beat side to side? All in matching polyester. Glorious. And Howard Rollins is living with Gene Anthony Ray and they run some kind of shop.
I heard there's a Latin section but I didn't go there yet. I thought I could here that Selena girl or whoever, and I didn't want to get in the way of any Mexican cross-fire.
I would suggest that Re make the move, since people have been thinking she was dead or dying for SO long, but the way in is through this round doorway with a heavy metal door that's off the hinges. I'd hate to see her get stuck like Pooh in the honey tree. Pity the poor people underneath when her last basket of turkey legs gets through that system. She'd clear out the whole neighborhood.
They call it the LA Underground Light Railway but all I saw was people walking. And you can't smoke except in designated areas. Fuck that shit, I thought. I lit up and my j went up like a exploding cigar. So I'm back on the surface for a toke or two.
Not that any of you people care. I have got to get my PR team moving.
Heading back down. Reverend Ike's church is running a fish fry tonight and they needed someone to sing the blessing. Amen and Halleluia. Although I am a little leery of what the fish will be. Fuck, with enough spicy coating I'll eat anything that swims or floats.
- This look infected to you? It sure itches.
- Eeew, yes it DOES look infected! Put something on that, Ms. Warwicke!
- Well, I was wearing flats today anyway.
The day of my Big Release!
I haven't released anything this big since three days after that Mexican buffet in Bakersfield.
- Miss Warwick hair looked great when it was straight and long in the 70s. It didn't look like a wig. Was it bought or grown (by you), Miss Warick?
- [quote] Miss Warwick hair
- I beg your pardon, R365. I grew it.
I grew it on a nice little pair of Honduran girl twins whose mother owed me a favor. It was expensive but worth if - the famous "foie gras" hair that was popularated back at that time for a while. Until Child Services, the FBI and INS got their asses involved. The whole things was we girls wanted fat, shiny hair. So the little tykes were kept in comfortable little crates that ree-stricted their movements and the chance of damaging the lockses. And they were fed ice-cream diets to add lustre. Once the necessary length was achieved someone would take wire cutters and ree-lease the donors. Had to be careful because sometimes they would grow through the chicken wire. Had to get them young and start them small. They were only good for one harvest. For some reason after that the quality went way down and they tended to die before the 18-inch standard minimum was reached.
Anyshit, baby, that was a nice wig. And by now you should know that no black lady would consider going outside without a hair-cover over her own layer of nap and fuzz. Except now I don't give a shit, so I have Lupella use a White-Out brush on my hair - luckily the crack pipe flares tend to keep it short so I don't have to go to an expensive hairdresser any more. And voila - my new signature look. Takes about 10 minutes to dry, as I have her blow on it until the passes out.
Thank you for asking, baby. Now go out and buy 100 copies of my album for giftal bestowments. I need the scratch. Bad. Go. Now. Hurry.
Shit - these tangent fans mixing up my priorities. Such assho….
Oh, baby. Are you still hear? Bye now.
As I was saying. les.
- [quote] Miss Warwick hair
[quote] Apostrophe. S.
Don't make me get Miss Warwick manservant to kick your ass.
- [quote] Don't make me get Miss Warwick manservant to kick your ass.
Is that Laundrymatt Damont of the Sow Wallow, Alabama, Damonts?
- Damont (properly Damont Damont) is not my "manservant."
He is my chauffeur (when I have a car or access to one that can be hotwired - pretty much that is the Yugo nowadaisies), my confidante, my enforcer/bodyguard, and the Keeper of Nippy, my Undead Diva Slave (I mean slave in a good way, a sisterly way.)
Lupella is my Brasilian maid - from Brasil (yeah, it's the right way) - who is now so fat that I can't roll her up the cement slope to the street level here in L.A. about my riparian compound. I don't know what she's eating to put on weight and it fucking scares me.
Cindi Birdthong is my wiping maid and Damont's fuckhole/true love.
Laundrymatt Damont aka Mister Movie Star is Damont's kin. Look it up.
And Cissy Houston is my dear cousin and traitress for "singing" with Ree and showing off her dementia for the world to make Ree look better.
I have sold 16 units since yesterday. I'm hoping it's the start of something bigger. Or at least less fucking small.
- Miss Warwick, how come your new budget CD (featuring ALMOST all-new recordings) hasn't been hyped like Hateretha's? Are you no longer working with Mr. Davis?
- I am conducting a stealth campaign in case the IRS is still paying attention and hasn't accepted that death certificate and human skull submitted to prove I was dead and didn't owe anything more on those few years (1958-2011) in which I did not remember to file my taxes because of personal trauma and work-related travel.
Mr. Davis is out of my picture. Traitor. Old white man. Like I'm gonna shake my sons' asses in front of him like Ree did to keep him awake long enough for her sad little effort to get pressed.
I am perfectly happy with my son's new label (Bright Music) and working with producers of the caliber Swizz Beatz, Jack Splash, Corporal Wilson, and some other fool. Oh, right. My son. Anyshit, a diva's gotta duet what a diva's gotta duet. But Gladys' breath - shit. Like she got a piece of chicken caught under her plate in 1990 and hasn't gotten around to a toothbrush since then.
- Dionne, it's Bey. You're an icon and a legend but why are you dressing in oversized men's clothes lately? Look at your appearance on Fox NYC the other day! If you're too broke to afford something decent, my mother Tina can lend you anything from her House of Dereon line.
- [quote] Laundrymatt Damont aka Mister Movie Star is Damont's kin. Look it up.
I did, and I found no evidence of that. How is Damont Damont related to Laundrymatt Damont? Where's the evidence for that, their Bourne legacy if you will?
- [quote] How is Damont Damont related to Laundrymatt Damont? Where's the evidence for that, their Bourne legacy if you will?
Receipts is not Miss Warwick style.
- I sense foolery and fuckery is at hand.
- Miz Warwick, are you pissed that Hateretha didn't do any of your songs on her new "Divas" album?
If she had done one, which would you recommend for her...let's call it "limited range"?
- I am back. So sweet to be back on top. standing in my five-inch-heel Adidas on top of the wanna-be divas who would snatch my crown. Hear that, Rihanna? Although few people have been able to turn masochism and a munchkin voice into a career. Of sorts.
Beyondsay, my timeless classic wardrobe is nothing for you to snipe at. At least I don't consider my skin color a changeable accessory. And no thanks on borrowing any your ho-wear. I don't want anyone thinking I got lost on my way back from hooking on the Strip. What's funny is that when people think Jay-Z/J-Zee is your pimp…. they're right. Right?
R373 is apparently incapable of reading the many references and explanations of this secret connection of Damon(t) to my Damont. Like on this thread. Someone axed if this was "Umpy." I don't know but it sounds like maybe it is.
R376, baby, Aretha wanted to do a boxed extended disk cover of my entire oeuvre, with music videos, a movie of "the making of the albums," and a long world tour.
I said, "Bitch, you stay away from that because you know I don't swing that way. And you're too fat to swing on anything but the anchor chain of the Queen Mary."
And then they explained what an oeuvre was. I refused anyway.
She begged. Clive begged. Yum! Brands begged - they own KFC, Taco Bell, WingStreet and Pizza Hut, and when Ree goes off her feed they have to start laying off employees. Tough shit. Let her find her own hits, I said.
Plus I had my own surprise recordings coming up - a surprise I had been talking about for two years.
BUT, baby doll, IF I see-lected one of my many, many, many signature classic hits for Ree, I would let her do "N Kosi Sikelel I: Afrika / So Bashiya Bahlala Ekhaya." From my immortal album Aquarela Do Brasil in 1994. Because I want to hear Ree sound like she's having a stroke when she tries to pronounce those fancy foreign words in it.
Or maybe just "Walk on By." Because any exercise would do her good and maybe she'd take the hint. She's so fat again the flowers in her yard die from lack of light where she sits and eats her breakfast ice cream.
I thought maybe someone would like to read the attached fabulous review of my - what is it? - oueverr thing?
- Huh. Old bitch don't know how to be a diva.
- Sorry, bitch at R378. Needing shock treatments, going to prison and all that certainly IS beyond me, Miss Fruit Loop, if that's what being a diva is.
But that clown voice in your head keeps telling you that's what you should believe, right? Or you'll start cutting yourself again?
But I do love that padded bedroom of yours, baby. Goes with all that anti-gay hate you spill out of your kooky mouth.
- Hey girlfriend,
Lynda and I are planning a Return To Return To Love tour, and we're looking for a third (Diane won't return our calls and Mary demanded more than a third of the proceeds - can you imagine?).
Anyway, we immediately thought of you. Wouldn't you be excited to be singing all those classic songs with us? If Ree can do a bunch of other people's songs, we figure so can you.
Ready to make the big bucks with us?
- Dionne, I'm a modern feminist who can sing and dance her ass off. Jay is just so supportive of everything I do, not that you know what it's like to keep a man for a long time. I'm also wondering, are your mannish taste in clothes, butch haircut and much lower singing/speaking voice really just not-so-subtle hints of telling the world you gonna change genders soon? You don't look or sound like a woman anymore.
- Scherrie, I am available for a nominal fee, as my reality show is on hiatus for the moment due to Ebola concerns .
- Miss Warwick, how come you never told us about this?
(From a review of last night's "black-ish":
[quote]-Here's hoping Dionne Warwick is in on that joke that ended the episode as Andre and Charlie tried to see if there was a famous black person neither of them knew, trying to disprove Josh's latent racist belief that all black people know each other somehow. After working down an extensive list in which they did indeed know everyone, Andre said: "Dionne Warwick?" Charlie: "Beautiful woman. Generous lover."
- Scherrie, what a round-about way of axing for an autographed picture. Of course I shall have my staff forward you one - one of the ones where the felt marker didn't smear, even. Just forward the standard $2.75 with return postage, baby. I loved your little joke, too. In fact, I still laugh at how you called yourself the Supremes at that time. Wasn't Turkey Supreme what they named the dish all the leftovers went into four days after Thanksgiving when you couldn't face the shit no more? Yes, baby, you just keep on smiling. Maybe you can do stand up. That is, if you axually still can stand up. Is Freda still alive? If so, tell her I'll pay her that fifty back real soon. I knew she could always hock that band of gold if she needed the cash - since she never shut up about the fucking thing.
Beyond-Shit at R381, if you can sing and dance your ass off how come it's still so big? And as for my voice, my lower range was specially developed with the help of some Tiebetan monkey men in orange who taught me the throat thing. And I'll have you know when I appear in Frisco the bay fills up with whales wondering what the fuck is going on. BIG tourist draw. They owe me.
Yes, Marilyn, you go help out Scherrie. If your religious shit can take the break and Billy doesn't go after your great granddaughter's babysitter while you're gone. But you could always get work as a stand-in for Cicely Tyson. You're like her twin now and she takes so many pee breaks in her show they are thinking of just setting her in a tub on stage to keep the thing under five hours.
FUCK that shit, R383. You saw that dried-up old janitor-looking toothless asshole who said that line. Shit. I can find better fucks at the zoo.
Gotta go. I hear someone in Tampa is thinking about buying my new album and I have to make a few calls to seal the deal.
Turkey Supreme. Yeah. I love this new Watts Wonder Blend - it's vintage material from the 60s - lightly smoked and just enough broken glass to get the smoke into the capillaries.
- Will Nippy be making appearances to promote her new "live" CD (oh, the irony...)
- RACIST! RACIST! RACIST! CALL THE POLICE! RACIST!
- I am heading back to Ferguson - someone has to eat the pastries on the private jet so the Rev. Sharpton stays on his diet. We are expecting the Grand Jury announcement and I plan to do a "Do You Know the Way to Peaceful Coexistence" concert in the middle of West Florissant Avenue. I just loved the special fog machines the police provided for the festivities last month, and think a little blurry-smoke is appropriate both for my image and my…. image.
I also plan a special 0.1K "Don't Drive By. Walk On By" march to unite the community. Behind my new album. I am working hard to reach 100 units, babies. Make that "Walk On & Buy."
And WHY that terrible R386 would dare such trash here I do not know. I am all about the peace and love. In fact, I have done SO much to bring back the peace pipe that I've been made an honorary Onandoogie. So fuck you, R386. Unless you were speaking ironically. In which case, fuck you, R386, for confusing me.
Gotta go. Al thinks we should fly in tonight just in case. Does St. Louis still have an airport? Last time we landed on a highway. Thank God no one's cars work in that area.
- And of course I was I at R387. My unmistakable voice, working to reach up to middle C soon.
- Miz Warwitch,
You got any comment on Aretha's latest legal woes? She's gunna sue over that juicy new bio!
- I already have gone on record on that little - what are they called? - thread-thing about poor, poor Re being offended, outraged, disgusted, defamed, insulted, maligned, libeled, assassinated, ruined, eviscerated, affronted, peeved, put-out and panty-shitting-fucked-in-the-ass-madder-than-hell upset over the nerve, THE NERVE,
of someone telling just a little bit of the truth about her.
Now, what I could tell about my dear sister diva would fill ten best sellers. But then I would lose those monthly hush-money payments I get dee-livered from that Queen of Soul-Food.
Because I not only know where the bodies are buried. I know where the teeth marks on the bones came from.
But thank you for axing.
- Dionne, I saw your raspy, no-voice-left ass on The 4th hour of the Today Show (because the first, second and third hours won't have you) in that performance with Ruben Studdard (he carried you). At least your clothes were an upgrade from hobo chic to track chic (the irony given you have no lung capacity left due to your cancer stick love). You should stop singing in public since you can't do much with your voice anymore.
- Happy Thanksgaving Miss Warwick!
Are you going to Diana's house this year, or Re's?? Is your sister-cousin puttin' on a spread with the good china?
- Sorry for the in-cog-neat-o, but I took me a pill I found on the floor at K-Mart and it turned out to be some kind of dog worming pill and I have been out of commish for the last coupla. Fuck. But I am cleaned out now, and down two sweat shirt sizes. And worm free.
Needless to say, dear fans, I did not go to Diane's and I'd be damned if I go to Re's in Dee-troit for anything but the two-week memorial festivities for her long-anticipated dee-mise. I did hear that last weekend they had a carpenter in her place to widen the doorways again. Tsk. It's so sad when tying off your stomach and all doesn't work in the long run, because it just stretches back. And forth. She so big now her necks and chins are creeping up her face like she's wearing a turtleneck of Re-fat. Horrible. But they're trying some kind of therapy to force it back down, but then her shoulders look like she's wearing football gear. I mean more than fucking usual.
I should go back to the K-Mart pet aisle - I was looking for "pate" for Damont's Christmas present - where I found that pill and see if I pick up one for Re's St. Nick stocking. Looks like a muu-muu sewed up at the bottom, that thing.