Miss Dionne Warwick Here with the Romney Enter-Raj
So I was trying to keep my blunt going sitting there in the stink after Miss Ann finished dropping what smelt like a coffee can of dog crap down the flusher, and all of a sudden I hear that bitch galloping up the aisle and banging on the pilot door screaming "STOP IT!! STOP IT!!"
So i tongued my dooby out and casually slipped out of the commode. They're all yelling about the smoke and that they is all going to die and go to Mormon Heaven but they are NOT READY YET JOSEPH. Shit, it was just my Amazon Blend hanging in the air. By the time they landed the thing in Denver Miss Ann was so wobbly - pardon my fumes, bitch, but I put up with yours - she declared she needed to find some horse to feel better. Which I thought was a little extreme. A Quaalude and tallboy would have done it.
When Mr. Trump called me and asked if I wanted an eight week gig, I said Hell Yes before getting the details. Turns out this Republican deal needed some shade to show how they are Reaching Out to the Half Percent of UnWhites who are not in the Forty-Seven (What the fuck does that mean?), and only a diva of my magmatude would do.
But shit. These fucking lunatic Romney robots were stomping my last nerve in 15 minutes. Still a job's a job. With Damont laid up with some fungus and Cindi missing in action trying to locate Nippy, I am on my own.
The things I could tell. And why I am stuck with this bitch Miss Ann I do not know. All I do is stand there when she whines at the cameras, and every time I start to sing she turns around and yells "STOP IT!! JUST STOP IT!!!" And her husband, Mittsy, keeps telling me he's seen Africa on a map and it looks very nice, especially the yellow countries. WTF!
I may need to do some damage here. Think?
Miss D, thanks for all you're doing for democracy - I didn't know you were such an involved citizen!
Please keep all of us here at DL up-to-date with your missives from the campaign trail.
Miss Warwick, would you kindly fuck up. Dusty Springfield was a much more interesting singer.
SILENCE, Crème Brûlée Negress!
Could you please injectify some of your extreme fabulousity into that stiff, white Ann? Start with a new weave for her, maybe something in a nice honey brown creme brulee? And her outfits look like somethin out of the Dress Barn reject pile. Could you get your voodoo priestess/massage therapist to join the group? She could help out with all the situations, there.
Miss Warwick, I can't believe you were behind that smoke-filled airplane ride.
And while I am a fan, I have to say I am not feeling this new gig of yours. And neither are most of the UnWhites.
Go and tell THAT!
I used a healthy portion of Dusty Springfield's fist for a tampon stand-in on tour one bloody week in the 70s. Until I realized she liked it. Son of a preacher man my ass. I got me three Anointed Bishops of the Ascended Savior AND their deacons. Plus Dusty is dead, and I am incessant.
SO - when he called, Mr. Trump told me that the Romney people kept hearing that Mitt was coming across as soulless. So they wanted someone to bring a little soul in. Enter me. The color thing was a bonus. But if Mitt don't quit calling me Whoopi and telling me I can help Paul with the Catholic vote I'm going to Dustyfist his ass.
And you wouldn't believe how much these people just keep talking about Michelle's butt. How big it is. "Voluptuous" and "ethnic but not necessarily in a bad way" he keeps saying. And then Miss Ann starts saying that her big butt is better because it's pushed out all those boys and Michelle has only gotten big from two girls and how do those Obamalamas (she never gets it right) think they can start a dynasty and populate the galactic heaven with just two girls.
And did you know those five boys with the big teeth and dead eyes they keep parading for the crowds and putting on camera are just the "show boys"? They have about 23 others who look more like what you'd expect from 150 years of Utah inbreeding among the elect.
And I promise I shall give Miss Ann some advice on her wardrobe. Polyester and tiaras do not go together.
Gotta go. I'm now helping Mitt get ready for some important visit from some woman named Dee Bates. Never heard of her. But she better not think she'd gonna cut into this gig. I just might make it work for me. Starting with them getting me an assistant. Don't Sarah Palin have an extra daughter who ain't knocked up yet?
Tell that hi-yella heffa she can kiss my black ass.
From the moment Dionne wakes up, before Miss Ann shellacks on the make-up...
Is this Damont, again? Doesn't Di ever answer the damn phone?!
Whatever - tell the witch I'm willing to give her third billing on "Marilyn McCoo and Others Sing the Hits of Mr. Burt Bacharach". I ... I mean we, could easily sell out the Borgata. Hell, I've got contacts in Laughlin dying to book us. Get her to call me, ASAP.
Is this all in pigeon english? I can't head or tail out of this thread. Seems like some bush clicks and pieces of words from another unknown language.
There was a crazy guy some years back that used to post like this while high on some undefined chemicals.
Any chance you can slip one of the hot sons the special "make em gay" pill? I know you keep some handy in case of emergencies. I'd pay good cash to get one of those boys playing for team homo. I'll wire the money to your Cayman account. Just send up a smoke signal (of the wacky weed kind) when the deed is done!
[quote]Gotta go. I'm now helping Mitt get ready for some important visit from some woman named Dee Bates. Never heard of her.
Dionne, I need Nippy brought 'round back into the story. You my good friend, if not already, have a writing career.
This isn't a bad place to try things out. We know from past experience what you can do. So impressed.
Is Ann a hussy, Miss Di? D'you got her number?
Being the cultural icon and musical legend that you are, I know you wouldn't stay gone for long.
So glad you have resurfaced and are helping Mitt and Ann. They certainly need your help. And who better to help that a cultural icon like you!? Just think of what a mess Nippy's funeral would have been if you hadn't been there supervising things. How is Nippy doing by the way?
Mitt will especially need your help with Dee Bates. That woman can be a bitch! Please help Mitt all you can. Maybe you could make him some of your special brownies to eat just before he and Dee Bates meet up for the first time. Add some of your special spices to those brownies and I'm sure Mitt and Dee will get along fabulously.
This older Colored woman is a bit long in the tooth for domestic help, Mitt, why is she hanging around her? WHY?
Dionne, listen do NOT trust that little Palin one. She is the devious devil child who has been instructing my white niece Paris on the lessons of Tweet Revenge.
It took some time and I had to promise him a months supply of my Jenny Craig Yogurt Dream Bars but I finally got Jermasty to spill the beans on that little mess before I could shut it the hell down.
So no Palins. See if Mr. Trump can smuggle Rosie O'Donnell's daughter out of that Utah camp. She is used to the Mormon crazy and the special needs of inflated egos. No offense.
Now that bitch is sitting here somewhere in New Carolina or somefuckwhere, and crying, and telling me about her MS.
Shit. NOW she's lording her college degree over me? I have a Doctorate in Music Education from the fucking University of Hartford, for fuck's sake. (It do be true.) Speed saves those it doesn't kill - those teststs about killed me.
Thank Jesus they almost all turned out negative. But the quizzes were though too.
Anyshit, that Miss Ann is wearing me down, way down. So I lit up a Kool Nonfilter laced with my favorite hashmash and gave it to her and told her it was my inhaler and maybe she'd like to try it to ease her lungs, since she was sounding a little hoarse from all that screaming she's been doing. And then I shoved her into the buffet line at that fundraiser and the last I saw she was bobbing for ice cubes in the Hi-C-&-Seven-Up punch (gimme diabetes urine over that shit) waving a mess of chicken thighs in each fist like she was an ostrich trying to fly. Please let it be true they didn't get all the cell phones when they strip searched the guests.
Cindi called and said she has a line on Nippy (or Nippy-Kong, as we are calling her since her escape). All I know is that some serious claw marks have been showing up at Donna Summers' grave in Nashville. We think whatever is in Nippy will only feed on other divas, and at this point the dead ones taste more fresh than the living ones. I mean, can you imagine getting a mouthful of Re at this sad point? So bitter.
My feet hurt. I was on them for ten, maybe fifteen minutes today and I am not used to such hours. This political guruviness I am doing is not paying me nearly enough for such work.
And, Damont, if you get a free hand from itching your purple ass and can call Ms. McCoo back, tell her I am in the midstest of saving the Freeon World under the covers and cannot play third fiddle to her flat ass down in some state Mitt is gonna win anyfuck.
Nippy-Kong is genius. I am waiting, and revisiting EVERYTHING.
This is hilarious. I want this to be a T.V. series.
I don't know who the author of the Miss Warwick posts is, but Webmaster, PLEASE give him/her a complimentary membership!
So they dragged me to early "Church" with them this morning. Like in the middle of the night. Eight am I think they called it. I do not expecially like the "special double-decker vista-view seat" they arrange for me on top of the limo - it smells like dog - and in the rain I have to be careful with a tendency to melt a bit on the edges.
What kind of fucking church doesn't even have a cross in it? And every picture of Jesus has blue eyes. Looks like a grungy Paul Newman wrapped in a bathhouse sheet on one of his wife's out-of-town weekends. (Bastard once told me to walk on by.)
First you go into a locker room and they tell you to take off your clothes except "The Garment." My thing-thong and find-'em-and-push-'em-up corraler were all the "garment" I had on, from the night before when some bitch named Andrea Mitchell tried to drink me under the table in the hotel bar. Strip poker. Well, I had less to lose than she did and I took her unders with me as a booby as she lay splayed out under the table. Where I kicked her.
Miss Ann screamed and put a choir robe on me. I tried to sing a few bars of "Let Me Up Out the River Lord I'm Drowning in Your Love" to get my breathing going and she screamed "STOP IT!!!" Echoed all through the plastic and formica of that temple.
Then they led me into some room with a big jacuzzi in it standing on a bull. These rich whites. No taste. Mitt said, "Whoopi, you are being baptized and sealed." I said Oh No I already was christened in the Christway Baptist Emmanuel Blessing Lamb's Blood Cathedral. But my hair could use a little de-greasing. So they pushed me down in the water. Smelled like Clorox. And when we left the room I saw them hosing it out and some Mexican women scrubbing it down like it was a borrow coffin.
Then they took me to what I guess is the church. All these robed things and no real music, no rocking, no swaying, and no tongues. Just some hoo-ha from some Bible you never heard of that sounded all made up, like a bunch of kids playing a joke on Good Book names. I about pissed. Cumenihah. Liahona. Moronihah. It sounded like the roll call in a Detroit City school. Here!
And then they talked about tithing. Ten percent. And more. And Mitt started crying. He said, "It's the best part, Whoopi. That and a year's worth of flour and Jell-O boxes down in the root cellar of your east wing." I smiled, but he was looking past me. "John Hunstman really danders my feathers," he said. I turned and this nice looking family was there, and two white girls were giving Mitt the finger.
And then they took me to "THE CELESTIAL ROOM." Where Jebus Himself is going to walk when He comes back, before he heads back to Missouri where his big shindig is going to be. It looked like an accountant's office, except for the little pillows with hearts on them all over the place. And everything was covered in plastic. "We're not sure how soon He'll get here," Miss Ann said. She looked bad. Two pairs of sunglasses is not a good look for her, and there was some chicken skin in her hair.
Non-hackers should sleep in.
So I headed for the ladies, lit up, took two hits, a fire alarm went off (What the fuck do these people have against smoke?), and we all rushed to the limos, and me to my double-decker box en suite.
Now I'm waiting for Paul Ryan to get here for a confab. I do not like the way he looks at me. Those buggy eyes look like they are going to fall out and he licks his lips like a gecko. Fast and dry.
Baby, I am in. Ca-Ching! Mitt took my advice and went around 2day telling the world everything is fine. If there is one thing I have learnt you NEVER admit a thing. That will get you a felony over a misdemeanor every time, no matter what they say about plea bargaining. And now Miss Ann is all smiles again and baking white girl cookies. She looked at me and said, "I am with my own hands baking white chocolate cookies with white flour and white sugar because that's my Lord and Master's favorite and some day we will shove them down Harry Reid's and Putin's Communist throats until their red eyes pop like bad-girl pimples. And they're really good with milk." I said, "Uhhhhh-HUHH." Bitch ain't got no ear for nuance.
But Paul Ryan pulled me aside and said he wanted to come by tomorrow for a confession session. He said he had a thing for Pagan Babies, and just knew I had some sins to tell him about. Crazy fuck is gonna have my fists up either nose hole so far I'll be able to pull those googly eyes closed from the inside if he thinks he can touch me, without making a donation first.
And it all is going down in my diary for my upcoming bio which will be made into a movie AND a TV special AND a websital game:
I'm calling it: D.W. - I
Cindi found Nippy. I got them both jobs. Mitt asked - excuse me, these fucking Mormons got me talking funny - axed if they were good with taking poles. I told him Cindi could shimmy all the way up an then take as much as the crowd could stand without fainting. Nippy may need a little work with flexibility. He just looked at me and then laughed. He said, "I just never could get my arms around that statistical jargon, because I'm just not good with numbers that don't have someone else's dollar signs in front of them."
And I said, "Uhhhhh-HUHH."
I had to disconnect all the fire alarms to keep them from going off every time I lit up a J, and I went ahead and cut the cameras while I was at it. They may like to walk around in Magic Sacks all night but if my skins don't get some air I am going to crinkle. And no one is seeing my diva beave unless they paying for the privilege.
So glad you found a new gig, Miss Warwick.
Please keep us updated.
This gig is the best thing since I was flying first class on the AIDS wave. Limos. Private jets. Hotel suites (A few too many Marriotts but Miss Ann says the Hiltons are demonseed). Big-ass houses. And I mean lots of big-ass mansions, baby. I could eat chili three times a day and never have to flush a toilet after destroying it - just keep moving like the queen of England on procession through her doomains. Miss Ann - she is one cold mess, that bitch - says it is at the point that being outside makes her feel hemmed in, because it's just not big enough for their greatness, and she can't wait until they get their own Romney Galaxy when they die so they don't have to share it with no one else and she'll be able to breathe without getting any eastern-urban second-hand breath in her sanctified lungs. But until then they'll settle for getting America in November. Tonight I am slipping into her room and doing a cat-in-the-cradle-on-the baby breath steal on her - she'll be tasting my eastern-urban burrito-and-Champale-and-chew-the-roach-don't-waste-it breath for a week.
I do go on. I know it. But I am eyesolated here. They fired the gardener because he got a little tan and they thought he looked "Mediterranean, or worse." They use color chips. I'm here because Mitt loves his Whoopi. But, I mean, seriously. Does my chic and stylish cool greatness look like someone who possibly could have put Ted Danson's dick in my mouth without biting it off?
I shall overcome Paul Ryan later today. I KNOW he is gonna make a move. And I KNOW he's got some little Xmas bell clapper hanging there in front of a droopy change purse that looks like a Barbie hacky sack. I'd be better off working that nose and chin as a front-and-back insertion special than deal with his deal. Ugh. At least that way I could make that face disappear for a good cause.
Heard from Janet Jackson, who took a moment out from kin stalking and niece slapping to warn me about taking on a Palin for an assistant. Even when Cindi and Nippy get here (delayed - can't find a titanium crate in fucking Nashville. Gotta get to UPS in Memphis.) I will need some staph workers, though. I am going to be a power throughout this ee-lection, and before it's over I just may be singing the Scar Strangled Banner for my own inauguralation. For something.
Yeah, I go one. It's my wake-me-up prescription working. SO fucking what? A diva of ageless talent who is managing to rest her voice and still make money makes no excuses.
Bump. And by Bump, I mean that FedEx just called with a delivery for Miss Warwick which was delayed because it appeared to be filled with a suspicious white powder....
Yes, that was me at R26, as if you didn't know that by my rayon tremolo and Christian demeanor. And I mean Christian. Not that loco-weed Ladder Day shit.
A little quickie because we are on a plane later and I will be In-Cog-Neato for a day.
Mitt told Paul Ryan he had to postpone getting to me because Mitt needed to talk and Vice stuff could wait. Mitt came into my suite and said Miss Ann is "taken" with me and thinks the medicine I have given her is working but she can't remember much about it. She calls me her political dark horse. (bitch)
And he says, "Whoopi, since you are a Nubian and I know of royal blood (I have been wearing my Bloods t-shirt because they keep saying we are safer in Red States and I ain't taking any chances putting on Crips blue. I didn't know the Parties were so civilized about organizing, like the brothers.), and also a daughter of Rachel, you can help us a lot." He said since I am a Goldbergs and they are all Christ-and-Baby-Killing Shyster Hebes, a very important constituency, and he needs their vote, would I work closer with him?" Hell Yes Baby!!!!!
And he asked if I would consider a cabinet position. I said with all due respect do I look like a fucking knick-knack? And he said he was sorry, he didn't know Yiddish, but then maybe a West Wing job would do until he gets the White House converted and the new Celestial Room and Armageddon Bunker is ready. And I get a staph and can hire anyone I want, so I will be auditioning among the lesser lights to see who I can use and put in their places. That way I can see everything, cuz of the security checks. (Guess I slipped in because no one fingerprinted my ass.)
This new work is so exciting I could whiz and I can't wait to see how it all turns out. I am a Go-Go-Diva riding a white horse into the White House. And I promise by the time it's over there will be a better chance of Miss Dionne Warwick hiking her feet up on the Lincoln Bed posts for some ruffles and flourishes than any of these shifty-eyed, no-soul, clueless, milk-sucking pigamists getting there.
Di, you are seriously wack. You been taking some nose candy with your lithium? Get that jumpsuit on, gurl ... we've got a Solid Gold reunion to do at Bally's in 20 minutes! If you don't know the words, just mouth "apples and oranges" like you've been doing for the last 20 years.
Miz Dionne Deelight!
This is Bernice from the Number 1 Online Pharmacy Shoppee and Wig Emporium. We have your special order of horse tranquilizers, Caribbean Splendour Blend Herbal Mix, eco-size Vicodin pills and your freshly assembled wiglets (in the five "blushing blonde" shades). As requested, we delivered to the Romney compound in La Jolla. But some crazy white woman in a ball gown and a gold crown (I shit you not)! refused delivery. Her exact words were: "Stop it. STOP IT" and she slammed the door in our delivery man's face. Where do we send this material now? You know this is all COD ma'am...
Cindi, have that new boy Trigger come take a memo for me, will you, precious one? And PLEASE quit feeding Nippy those Jalapeno peppers. You KNOW she has trouble digesting them nowadays. You KNOW it's all just a mulch and mealy-bug process in there now, doncha? That's why we have that little rake. Thank you, baby. Just give her a chair leg or something to gnaw on. Yeah, one of them phony French Provincials. Yes, I know it's fake. Everything here is fakey Frenchy with a mountain goat overlay. Nothing pawn-worthy. These Romneys must think they are living in France and You-Know-Who is Marie Miss Ann Toinette.
Anyshit, Trigger, I am so glad your daddy ass-igned you to me. I'm so glad I got one of the better ones, and not one of the Uh-Oh Romneys. No, I sit on YOUR lap, baby. It's not like with your mama.
So write this down and use the paw of one of those mastiffs out there patrolling the perimeter as my signature. It's close enough to my trademark diva brand for now. So HOMEY here in Utah, baby. I LOVE the gold-tipped barb wire on that electric fence. And to think you and your brothers Crag, Buns, Mutt, Jeeze, Tagg, Tragg, Tigger, Tor, Trailmix, and Tartar Control Romney all grew up here and have extensive experience in the Mormon missionary position. Oh yes.
Cindi, open a window, will ya? And go do someone.
So, Trigger, write this down:
Dear Miss McCoon. No, Trigger, strike that. I am better than that now. Write, Dear Nobody.
Now that I have elevated to Special Assistant Counselor to the Future President and Galactic Lord for Show Business, Loosening Up, Getting Down, Jewry, and Urban Relations, I no longer have time or incineration to squeeze my talents into a jump suit for some tawdry palaver beneath my dignities.
As a matter of fact I am now sitting here wearing a new Power Bar Suit specially hand made for me by a group of seven hundred Ladder Day Ladies this morning morning out of assorted Mars Bar wrappers. And I am sporting a bouffant wig of an almost realistic slightly burned meringue color and similar texture. It looks a little like someone served a Soft Serve ice cream special on my head. I love it. My new boss is trying to play up my non-ethnic qualities, and we are Super Gluing most of my nostrils closed with that in mind. As you know, those nostrils have just been for show to 30 years anyway. Coke stoke and I think I lost some chips from Vegas in there one summer.
So fuck off, Marilyn. And if it is the Bally's in Wichita Falls tell the bartender Luis I will pay him back that twenty soon so quit sending the threatening emails. Sign it love and get that dog print on it, and make sure he's done a little poopy dance with it before you do the imprint.
Now I'm going to set this here recliner to Maximum Vibrate, Trigger, and just see what comes up. You ever taste a star, baby? Now don't worry if it goes a little to the left. That will be our secret.
Berniece, I am mortified by your experience. I am axually in Utah at the Center of It All. We left Miss Ann down in La Jolla with some Romney look-alike blow-up dolls so she could "unwind" for a couple days after her big week and first exposure to my special blend. My idea. I am The Counselor Advisor now.
So please find yourself a couple low riders, slap a "Mitt's the Shit" bumper sticker on them, and have those papis drive the delivery on over here. It's not far, I think. I'd send Damont but he is still having some fungal trouble and I don't want any risk of mutating with my mushrooms. The wigs? Burn them. I am having a Republican Lady of Less Color Makeover and we are going with something more sub-dude.
Thank you, baby. And charge it to the Karl Rove Stupor-PAC. He'll get a cut. Kisses from the Beehive White House.
I spoke to my nephew Antonio who loaded up his special white Caddy with your order. It turns out the wiglets were kept by that crazy Ann lady, she thinks they be little lap dogs. So, we'll just add those charges to the Rove billing address. I'm throwing in a few extra gifts for you, and if you can find some work for Antonio out there in Utah, maybe? He's handsome and all, and ready, willin and able. Able to do what needs to be done, if your staff needs some color to balance out the white bread. We thank you for your business! Antonio should arrive by early tomorrow!
Bernice, I am astonished to have the time to stoop to respond to you, but I am now what we are calling a populista here in the Romney compound. And I do appreciate your sending your nephew with the delivery so I can look him up and down and maybe a little in and out to see if we have a use for him.
He got his shots? Cause I'm a carrier for several little things. And what's his shoe size? You know, in case I need to pick up a some Kiwi to do a little buffing for him, baby.
He have any choco and nilla experience with stick-clicking? Cause I got a Trigger here who I think could be broken in. I know the Enquirer would be soooooooooo please to give him his big break getting broken into.
Thank you. Now, no wires on Antonio, understand? Cuz I got SS protection here. (Secret Service. Mitt calls them "the Latter Day SS")
Miss Dee, you should see about getting Sherman Hemsley and Nippy-Kong together for a mutual zombie-bearding arrangement.
A. Nonymous (I've heard of you.), Cissy has charged me with replication/reproduction outreach for Nippy, it is true. Or it would be if she knew I had Nippy under my power and in my presence. Maybe.
But anyway, I have already turned down requests from the handlers of James Brown, Tupac (No, he was not crematoried like they said. They just emptied the car ashtray for show.) and Mel Gibson (He's been dead since 2007. What other explanation for his behavior could there be?) for a fix-em-up. She is too delicate until we get rid of her Sumerian visitor. Then maybe we'll see. Except I think we'll be needing someone better than some closety old screamer. Nippy may go to Elvis. I'll keep you unformed.
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Once I got that Barcalounger going Trigger jumped up and ran towards the door faster than Diddy leaving a club when a cork pops thinking his comeuppance has arrived at last. And what the fuck does he do? He runs smack into Nippy.
She takes one look at him, thumps her chest once, picks him up and takes off. Out the mansion before I could get my toenails disentangled and get myself on my feet. I yelled for Cindi - she was down in the cuzzi getting the road dirt sprayed. I could hear those boys squealing "There goes the last of Carson City!" - and all those Romney boys and she come running. Torque, Flick, Flake, Flog, Tramadol, Joseph Smith Romney XXIV - all of them.
Nippy managed to stifle the mastiffs by shoving her feet in their no-nos and running off with them like they were her fuzzy slippers. They said Trigger was crying and screaming like a Catlicker when Brigham Young returns from his planet to destroy the Vatican (We're not supposed to hear about those parts of the Moron-i books but they were beside themselves). She tore a hole through the fence and disappeared into the wilderness. They couldn't understand why the electric fence wasn't working. Well, how the fuck was I to know it was on the same circuit as the one I used for my Mr. V. Ebony Lady Relaxing Wand? I am TENSE around here.
Luckily Mitt was out for his weekly Koch-sucking chore, and Miss Ann as I said earlier is "in retreat" getting her bobble head screwed back on. But I better pull in the troops and get this thing under control.
I shutter to think what Nippy is capable of with her demon paws on the scion of the Republican future. Click.
I have called in the troupes. We shall see which of the Diva Patrol actually show up - first time I sent up the Whack Signal - but we need all the help we can get. This place - Utah - is not equipped for a full-out Nippy-Kong running wild with the Romney heir in her clutches. They have held sixteen baptisms, five sealings, four roll-through-the-sheets-and-feel-the-boobs sessions, and a Jell-O brunch to address the problem. And when they tried to baptize Nippy by proxy the water turned black and bubbled up and the woman lost all the skin on her nose. Fucking idiots. How they made it all the way out here to the middle of West Donkey Ass Nowhere without commencing to eating each other as a relief from lizard gizzards is beyond me. I can believe Old Brigham saw the lake and thought he was standing in San Francisco. But they just sit there with their disgusting wobbly gelatin crap with nasty things floating in it like victims of The Blob and saying, "Our Help comes from Above."
Word is that Nippy-Kong is heading for Salt Lake Shitty and I suspect she'd got the Temple in her sights. Lately she's had a thing about climbing up on the things and waving her bony arms like she expects to take off. If she does that I hate to think where Trigger is gonna be stuck to keep a hold on him. That girl always was a little free spirited, but since she died she has absolutely no limits.
Come on Chaka, Diane, Patti and the rest. (I know Re doesn't get up until Friday nowadays.) This is a job for the League of Strong Divas of Color! Mitt is going to cut off my expense account if he gets wind of this little setback in my plans.
And I am running low on gangaweed. In a state where coffee is a prescription drug you KNOW it is hard to find a deal man. The stuff sent from LA didn't last long - I am killing Cindi when my bare hands have got a free moment.
And FUCK Andy Williams. He died owing me for two grams of blow I slipped him for the RFK funeral so he could hit the high notes in the Battle Hymn. Should have been me.
Hee Hee, Funny!
Oh Jesus Savior get my ass out of this one and take the rest of me with it.
Nippy made it through the Black Out barricades that surround Salt Lake Shitty. She overturned cars, growled and hooted, and every time she was one of those 50 pound bags of flour those people have laying in their cars and on their porches she snorted it down. And then she growled some more. And all the time poor little Trigger was pissing himself and moaning like Viola Davis not hearing her name called.
All through town she hopped. And she went right up to that temple and started climbing, dangling Trigger like he was a chicken wing she got distracted from. They called out the Utah Hair Force and as she got to the top and started swaggering and proceeding to begin what sounded like a demonic version of How Will I Know they started shooting. All these people dressed in robes came running outside - The Tabernacle Whoozits I guess - and started singing against her noise. "Keep the Voice of Satan Drowned Out" they shouted. "It is the Obamanation of Desolation!"
All of a sudden Cindi showed up on the roof and Damont was with her. She had some of my good stuff with her - I had my narc-sighting-binoculars with me - and they lured Nippy down off that shitty old roof and headed inside. I punched out some old broad and grabbed her Chrysler keys and drove on up the steps and when they all came out I picked them up and took off.
I had my wig down over my eyes so maybe Mitt's people won't recognize me. As I headed east I noticed no Trigger - good. Cindi said he looked pretty much used up and the crotch of his Dockers was all burned out.
So we are sitting here in some mausoleum and only Nippy has had anything to eat all afternoon. After dark we're heading back - I think I can get Nips under control with more Good Stuff - thank you St. Crack I found a local connection.
And where the shit are my diva sisters who were supposed to help with this shitting shit mess? Still getting their hairs done and attached, I guess. As usual, Miss D is the one who saved the day.
And then, and THEN, Cindi says, Miss Warwick, lookee there. Miss Houston's tummy looks kinda funny, and I can see it starting to swell a bit.
Nippy is pregnant. With Trigger Romney's devil spawn.
Bump for Preggo Nippy Kong!
The League of Strong Divas of Color
A long cold night in some Mormon cemetery. I guess I should be glad we found a crypt because those people had all kinds of searchers out looking for us. I could see searchlights and hear voices. Damont, still scratching his ass, had jacked a radio and I heard on a local show (they're still keeping things quiet on the big scene) that a bunch of Romney boys were in the posse - Tapir, Tax, Tort, Moot and Moroni Jr. among em.
And then just after dawn I heard a sound like one of them hippo stampedes at the water hole when a crocogator snaps up. And then a knock at the vault door, and it's Patti LaBelle. I said, What the fuck you getting here so late and how you find me? And she said, Dee, you bitch. You don't know we all got a built-in diva-nation ability? We all can FEEL our competition within a five thousand mile radius. And I said, Then I guess I don't have none because that sound like bullshit. And she said, Mmmmmmmm hm. Bitch.
And I said where are the rest of the League of Strong Women of Color, because I got me a seven alarm orphanage fire in the cripple wing going here and you can't even pee a match out without your diabetes flaming it like a torch. And she said, Re woke up Friday and got us a stretch diva limo bus, and Chaka, Janet, Mariah, me, and the rest are here now. Nippy is like a sister to us, and we all want a piece of that action, you selfish ho. But the stretch is so long it can't turn, and we had to park it on the innerstate and I came for you. Gimme Nippy.
Shit. I told Damont to grab her and watch those claws. Cat scratch fever ain't nothing compared to a LaBelle Never-Heal Talon Tear. I think it's because she has never washed her hands after taking one of her monumentals, and that nasty has got all up under her six inch fake nails like a septic incubator. And he grabbed her and I whacked her on that bumpy old crown of hers, and we dumped her in one of the boxes that Nippy had finished clearing out with one of her pregger cravings.
And we took off. I knew that Re would be back asleep - she's only up for three hours on Friday nowadays. Janet would be on the phone trying to get a hit on her Mama going. Mariah would be "practicing" and driving all the dogs in the region out of their skulls with those bat-sonar "notes" of hers. And Chaka... Well, I don't ever remember what the fuck a Chaka is any more.
We got back into our borrows LeBaron and took off east. I called HQ and they said they needed me right away in Denver because Mitt is still fucking up his meeting with that Dee Bates woman this coming week and he kept slipping on the N word. They needed my wisdom for a "work around." So I figured INTO THE ASS OF THE LION WE GO since no one figured out it was me behind the Tigger fee ass go. And no one is gonna know I am carrying the Blessed Bundle of an Unholy Union with me until I figure out an angle.
I may need to cancel that one-night gig I have two weeks from now in West Bayonet South Carolina Alzheimers Podiatry Care Nursing Luncheon. I'll just tell them to fuggetaboutit. Some things are more important than my extraordinary sharing of my timeless craft and essential hitstream of golden moments. I mean, this smells like MILLIONS, baby.
And speaking of baby, when a Mormon powersperm hits a Sumerian-tainted zombie superstar's hoo hoo, I wander how long the gesticulation will be. You know, until that things emerges and tears Nippy a new one on the way out?
I received this telegram from The East Wing of the Romney HQ. WTF??
D. STOP. MITT SAYS HE NEEDS HIS WHOOPI IN DENVER IMMED. STOP. DO YOU KNOW THE WAY? STOP. HANDS FULL HERE WITH MOTHERLY CHORES. STOP. TRIGGER MAY BE TAINTED BY UNCLEAN WOMAN AND NOT A VIRGIN. STOP. MITT CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT TO CALL YOU PEOPLE SO YOU DON'T GET ALL UPPITY. STOP. I SHALL RIDE RAFALCA TO DENVER FROM LA ONCE TRIGGER. STOP. GO. GO NOW. STOP. ARE YOU SINGING? STOP. PLEASE. STOP. FIRST LADY IN WAITING ANN ROMNEY OF MICHIGAN MASSACHUSETTS AND UTAH FULL STOP. JUST STOP. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP.
Who the fuck sends a fucking telegram nowadays except with the money to get a brother-in-law out on bail? But we are still on the way east. Just stopped at Grand Junction to get some chicken and to get Nippy some chickens. That girl needs her an X or Schism real bad. Either one. And her babything is moving. Growing fast. We need a plan.
My sister divas are on the chase, but we lost those bitches in the mountains cause their stretch limo bus couldn't take the switch-backs. I stood on the hood of our Chrysler, pulled my "Dionne in Siberia *SOUL ON THE STEPPES* Tour sweatpants down and flashed them all and especially Re some Respect Moon. I heard them all scream like those yetis I heard on that tour.
I'm getting nervous about this Dee Bates. If Mitt is shitting his special holy panties over her, I mean, what if this Bates bitch like country music or something fucked up like that and my gig gets screwed like Little Trigger's virgin butt?
Hunkering with Mitt for his meeting with Dee Bates and I had to tell him and his dead-eyed pod people I had the green apple scoots on top of passing a stone just to keep getting out to get a smoke and a toke. Shit. That man is so wooden you get splinters from a hand shake.
But they got their sons Tiber, Trim, Rig, Buzzer and Trap here, so Miss Ann is feeling better. I axed her with all these sons don't they have any daughters and I got the impression they put them in a box and sell them on the front porch like puppies if they come out that way. "We seal them promptly, because there is a premium on Mitt's line," she told me, beaming. I don't know what she's got going through her veins but when she dies I don't think the undertaker is going to have to do any replacing to keep her from going off. She's pre-balmed.
Mitt is sweating, though. He keeps yelling for "zingers." "I want to zing his black ass back to Kenyanesia!" I keep hearing. So I suggested he say, "Yo mama," a few time to get in good with the 33 brothers nationwide who will be watching, and tell him, "We Mormons dunk Oreos like you in milk for our afternoon snack." I do believe that should position Mr. Mitt just where I want to see him.
And Nippy is strapped down and mostly comatose - just growling in her sleep - but when that morning sickness comes I expect to see her head turn around and the bed lifting off the ground. The room is a little hard to keep warm, now that I think of it. I heard Trigger is recovering and now has no recollection of "What Happened." No one suspects Nippy is carrying the first Mixed Breed Romney Demon Seed Diva Baby - and I'm keeping it that way for a while.
I do miss singing, though. I just might saunter back to SLC and do a few special numbers with that Tabernacle bunch. One of those robes would just about cover these varicose trellis things I got from my nerves. My legs look like they're made out of mocha blue cheese.
He keeps turning to me - the sweat beading on his brow but for some reason never dripping or going anywhere, just little globbies catching the lights - and saying, "Whoopi, is it nigra or negro, and will a national audience of welfare cheats understand that I'm trying to make them take responsibility for destroying America, not that I hate them?"
And I keep saying, "Mr. Mitt, it has an "er" on the end. And don't worry, honey. They'll know preeeeeeeecisely where you're coming from."
And where your heart is.
And the Great Diva D. is getting paid for this shit!
Nippy is stretching out like a termite queen.
My sides are aching badly now from laughing so hard reading this thread! LOVE Miss Warwick!!!
Miss Ann brought in some sandwiches tonight "because you people are working so hard for this country preparing for Our Mormon Jesus' Promise Made Manifest." She said Rafalca only made it to Santa Monica and she brought the horse and her to Denver on one of her private jets (They got His and Hers for each day of the week.) "But I rode Rafalca the whole way, going up and down the aisle." That bitch needs a stiff two-shot of Dos Equus.
And her "sandwiches" had THE THINNEST slice of American cheese I have ever seen, on Wonder Bread, with Miracle Whip. That cheese looked like a square of public school toilet paper a kid peed on. And the Whip was like a john's diabetic oopsie pulling a rubber off. But I had the munchies, because I had just had me a Rocky Mountain High Stogie in the unisex in Mitt's Secret Dee Bates Location, and I kept shoveling those pathetic white girl sammiches down me.
And then Mitt farted.
I mean, it was like someone had taken a big balloon poodle and opened the end and pinched everything but a little slit, and pulled it open a little, and a shrieky, whiny squeak started coming out and just kept going. And going. And going.
He tried to talk over it. He talked about how much he liked plains because flat was his favorite shape. And how the sky was blue because he bought all the other colors and sent them to the Caymans but the Jews jewed the blue from him and now they taunt him with it on their Jew flag and God he loves Israel because that's what the Tea Party wants but those Jews kill babies and that's why they are not allowed in Utah and you float in the Dead Sea even on a full stomach and it's not really dead just lifeless which is something he knows a lot about and you know Hitler may not be dead not really because he lives in the hearts of a lot of good people good Germans good Christians good Americans he just got carried away with some of the details and SOME PEOPLE just can't let a few mistakes go and he thinks maybe he's living with Elvis and Dick Cheney who IS really dead in a bunker in the basement of one of the Romney homes.....
And then it hit me. There was no vent fan in the toitoi and my devilweed special mix must have gotten into the air. And apparently Mitt Romney axually breathes. And this is what it is like when Mitt Romney is HIGH, baby.
So I flipped over the reecorder on my little phone (They confibuscated my other one but I keep an emergency phone for Damont and Associates on a ledge up in my Secret Place. Things stick there and don't shake out.) and started making posterity's reward going.
Miss Ann by that time was feeling the spirit of the weed and started talking about childbearing and how by the 15th one came out she asked the doctor to push it in and out a little because she was close to glory. And after that she just kept getting preggers because dropping those babies was the closest she ever got to what she called "The Myth of Womanly Satisfaction." She said she prayed for triplets and a breech birth.
I finally stood up and in my quietest little whisper said, "Have you ever wondered if you can make a Jell-O salad in a swimming pool?"
Silence. And then all together - Mitt and Miss Ann and the boys Torpor, Bain, TicTac, Jefferson Davis and Teak and all the counsels and experts and makeup and hair people - they all shouted YESS and took off. Mitt was barking orders, still farting, "Bain - carrots, lots of them! Staff Person Number 26 - orange! The Jell-O shall be orange! Miss Ann - put something nice on and fix your face. Your nose is shiny!" He was very presidential. But, honey, I smoked with Bill Clinton and snorted with George W and did smack with Reagan and downed monkey glands in gin with JFK, and they all MAINTAINED. Mitt was a little like Herman Munster just after the lightning treatment.
They're all hung over and there's a trail of orange Jell-O from the hideout to the Brown Palace Hotel where we ended up spending the night. Mitt has the glitter shits and keeps yelling that he has seen the Devil. Another non-hacker. Miss Ann, who already had been pot fumed on the plane way back, is a little cooler with her experience. She just keeps saying she knows she'll feel better if she can just get a horse between her legs.
I convinced them all they had food poisoning and it was a Democat conspiracy to fuck up Dee Bate's visit tonight. Mitt said, "Whoopi, is there a mole?" I started feeling my face thinking another noma had popped out. He said, "Do you think it's Trigger, and that's why he's crying all the time? Should I have him Mormon Massacred?" I said, no, I'm sure it was the Mexicans who picked their carrots for the Jell-O.
So big night tonight and we gonna see if Miss Diva D's hard work is gonna fruit up the Dee Bates meeting.
And I keep wondering if those other fool ass divas' stretch bus ever made it through the mountains and they're on Nippy's ass trail still. Retha looked at her the way she looks at an Easter ham in our narrow escapade in Salt Lake. They all think they gonna make money off my little Nippy. Little do they know Nippy's gonna be a mama again, and I just know it's gonna be something more interesting than that little grizzle-mouthed Bobbi Kristina.
At least Mariah hopped the bus to get her fat ass back to work. That pink-haired ghetto rat Niggy Massage or whatever better watch it. Mimi is going to smack her upside the head either side with those lead torpedoes she calls a bosom and Niggy will end up with a head that looks like a piece of chocolate lasagna. But it was all staged. Know how I know? Simple. No blood.
Miss Warwick, have you met Dee Bates yet?
No but I'm getting the sense she's a woman in trouble because they are all sitting around nervous saying they wished she would "start" and saying it's like she's never gonna start. Who the baby daddy is I do not know, but by the way Mitt is pacing I think I think he has a guilty conscious.
No wonder Miss Ann is sitting in a corner with her "My Pretty Pony" all done up in the same colors as she is (I never knew there was so many shades of magenta but I do know they all make her butt look big) and combing its tail like she's picking nits out of a nappy head.
You KNOW I'll keep you posted. If I don't find something better to do after this pow-wow. I'm hoping to shift over to the Obama party for a while because I KNOW they'll have chicken.
Miss Ann is crying for joy. All those Romney boys - they even let the bus of uglies out of Utah for the great night - are crying for joy. The Mormon Squad and the rest of Our Team are crying for joy. Mitt said he batted that ball right through the hoop for the touchdown. And Miss Dee Bates never even showed up. I guess that's why they so happy. Because it was just that Communist Black Muslim Foreigner Obamalama, they keep saying, and that's the kind they just take out to the cornfield and bye bye.
I am this close to invitin Nippy to their party.
But of course it's more important for me to get my poor feet in some nice bucket of hot water, chomp on some of the snagged chicken and mac n cheese from the Democats' party, light up an amnesia stick, and put this long-ass day behind me. I might even do some scales. Scrape em off my elbows, I mean - this mountain air is dry, baby, and tomorrow we blow this Vegas-without-the-Fun, LA-without-the-Sea Denver and head for - somefuckwhere else.
Election? Shit. I am not worried one bitch.
I was walking up to the Quickee Shopee for some smokes and the sisters and brothers were out on the streets on their knees pounding the pavement with their fists, hollering and wailing like they had just seen the Lincoln Funeral Train pass.
Mitt is so full of himself this morning he's like a narcicciccisssissiccistic cannibal. He'd eat himself if he could just so he could kiss the shit he made of himself. Pride goeth before a foul. Fool. Fall. Something. And the wings at the Obama After Party were Diva-Licious.
But maybe I am sending this out to the gasmoshphere and no one is listening. Maybe everybody has moved on and I am wasting my time working and slaving (You think me with the Romneys could be called anything else? That stupit fuck is now calling me his Whoopi Cushion because my backside has less bone projecting since I started eating regular) and my fans are just sitting there letting their teardrops fall on their old 45s of my earlier triumphs.
Shit. Now is now, like this sweatshirt I am wearing says. Always a good look for Miss Warwick. If Re and Miss Gladys Knight would remember Now Is Now, maybe they wouldn't keep slipping in those disco beats in their acts like they just discovered 1974. Hope springs eternal (Nippy ate that shirt. Damn.) and my salad days are still on at this all-you-can-eat banquet of life. Fuck the funeral train.
I represent a consortium of royal princes from the Middle East, and we would be pleased to offer you, Nippy and the rest of your party deluxe five-star accommodations in a luxury penthouse, in perpetuity. All we want is to build a theme park based on your music catalogue, and have Nippy and her soon-to-be-born child as our signature entertainment attraction, second only to your infrequent performances (schedule TBD). Think of this like the deal Celine got in Vegas, but bigger. You, of course, would control everything, as long as our corporation would be legal guardians of Nippy and the Houston-Romney baby. If you agree, a private jet will meet you at your current location.
Can I come?
M. McCoo, stuck in Reno
Dear Mr. Esq,
I have found me a secure connection here at the back of the Bob&Weave FroNoGo Hair Salon where I am having my split ends glued back together. FIrstest:
Do not presume to speak to me by my first name, which is reserved for family, peer-divas and my medication contacts. "Miss Warwick" to you.
Secondmost: Never mention that Canadian yodeler ever again in any communicatation to me or I shall have Damont have his cousin Deville cut you.
Thirdest: I am informed by my legal counsel, Lupella Tatu-Gordura, who is mailing me some bigger shoes from Rio because I got the swells from all this standing around, that technically no one can be the "guardian" of Nippy because she is undead, and the baby, no matter how and where it emerges, will be considered "half-undead." (Well, what she said was, "Missy D ju hreallee got ju in some beef sheet thees time grab dat money and get down here to Rio cuz I ain't beeeen paid in seex months!") Therefore it is a matter of property rights.
Fore: Infrequent performances my bleeding ass.
Fifth of Jack: Mideast Princes? Listen, I am not covering my gorgeous face and legs and smacking my head on the mat five times a day towards some rock in the desert just for bucks. There's gotta be real estate included.
One More: I am committed to my present gig because I am saving America the Bootyfull from a pack of the filthiest, slimiest honkey scum I've seen since entertaining at Dicky Nixon's Convention Party in 1968. That Agnew had the WORST breath from all those bj's it took to get the VP job and Nixon kept stuffing dollar bills down my top and jabbing my lady parts saying, "Is this where I get my change?" Thank God I had smoked me some hash-acid and they all had duck heads. BUT since I have infiltrated the bowels of the enemy and am working hard to save this great country of ours, the soonest I would be able to take you up on your offer for a meeting is November 7.
Unless you sweeten the deal.
Get back to me. Call the number I'm at and ask for Miss Leon. He'll get in touch with Damont. And in the meantime I will be working at clearing an opening to my airways to be concert-ready. I have been working on some new numbers infused by my recent speriences with The Romneys.
I have spoken to my clients, and given the response from Miss Dionne, consider yourself hired. We will require you to locate and bring along any and all surviving Solid Gold dancers, Danny Terrio, Erin Moran, Chaka Khan, and the Pointer Sisters (I think there are two still around)? The plane will depart from New York JFK tomorrow at noon.
We have decided to create a whole new experience. Bobbi Kristin Brown and Bobby Brown have already signed on, and will meet you in Dubai.
Lisa Marie Presley will fill the spot vacated by Warwick, and the show will go on!
I have called Bibi (an old fan from my "Dead Sea/Red Sea Tour Brought to You by Massengill and Tampax" in 1976 and he is gonna have the Jewsraeli Air Force shoot down any planes heading into Do-Bye. And with Bobby Brown on board - a human explosive with meth in his very tiss-ssues) you can expect no survivors. You got that, McCooCoo? You owe me, Bitch.
And YOU, Mr. Esq, if you don't know how to negotiate I suggest you get your hemorrhoid-stalactite ass over to your Princes and tell them that they don't want to fuck with me. I am the cockroach of showbiz and I got Nippy-Kong under my power. You want to mess with me? Nippy's got something in her that I can see through her skin has wings. You want a visit from Bobbi Kristina's half-brother and then have me tell Mitt you are abusing his grandbaby?
So you make me a counter offer or get the fuck out of my little end of the world here, baby. You playing hijack without understanding what this little thread is all about, baby?
But I really do appreciate your offer. I'm just a little tied up here.
Very well Miss Dionne, you are a very shrewd negotiator. We are prepared to provide you with the top 10 floors in a luxury downtown skyscraper, all expenses and maintenance paid, plus an additional 40 million USD payment to be the permanent hostess of "Solid Gold Word Dubai" a new theme park/music performance arena. You will live in the park and have concerts nightly. We are prepared to also provide you with a percentage of the receipts. But Nippy must come as well. And Ms. McCoo. And the dancers. We are willing to wait until after the US elections, provided you can also bring Chaka Khan. We do not need Erin Moran at this time.
With a little luck and some jumper cables, Bonnie and Nippy can back me as the "Solid Cold Dancers". Just a few jolts from Chaka's tour bus battery and they can reanimate to crown me the new living queen of 70s funk-pop-soul. I will then invite Dionne onstage so that I can dedicate my feauture solo to her. I'm thinking "You Don't Have to Be a Star (To Be in My Show)" would be very apropos.
Following my climactic number, a wind machine will blow Di offstage while stage wires pull me to the ceiling to symbolize the ascension of my career. Di will then cover usherette duties while I fly over the audience singing an extended acapella of "Up, Up, and Away".
FYI - We will need some dry ice for Bonnie - gotta keep her fresh. I think Nippy is still gestating, so we should be good for the Bahrain and Abu Dhabi dates. I'm catching my connection through Newark as we speak.
Baby, you are trying.
My last nerve.
God save me from amateurs.
If you think McCoo has the pizzazz, you take her. You got me and my show and my people in my good time or you got that 20% of a non-existent dimension to nowhere. And you better have handicap access because those Soiled Gold Dancers are sitting senile in their rotochairs scootching in their nasty messes.
So don't be bothering me about deadlines and Dubai. I got me a country to save. And there ain't much shine in your shade, honey. Now I got to go. Miss Ann needs a back rub, and I got my rubber gloves and poison ivy salve all set. See how it's done, child?
I been thinking, girlfiend. You have always been one of my favorite tertiary left-over talents of the distant past, and I mean that as a high compliment because most "talents" I would just as soon cut across the middle just to snag a smoke out of their purses. And you do, for some reason, seem to have what I've heard is called "energy." And, like me, you always played well to broad audiences because people said we didn't look "that" black. Assholes.
So while I am tending to my flock here in the Romney campus, I was wondering if you would consider moving on over to the Wisconsin end of the Republican ticket and take over "helping" Paul Ryan and his mess of radical woman-hating hypocritical nazi-pope-ass-licking Tea Party Bagger conservative looney tunes supporters. And you can keep anything you "find."
Mitt thinks I'm Whoopi and I can tell him you are - I don't know - Lena Horny or someone he might have heard of and that you could do for Ryan what I am doing for him. He loves the idea of getting black voters without axually coming into contact with any of us. And while Mr. Big Nose came after me at first, he's been staying away since I told him I had a bad case of cooter crawdads from a toilet seat I sat on in the Republican HQ in Birmingham. So he's extry pent-up for some exotic stuff. You seen his wife? Strictly a Guernsey milk cow. So he'll be motivated if you wear one of them gold lame pants suits with the wide belts like you did on that little TV show of yours. If the belt don't fit anymore you can wear it as a necklace.
What do you think, Baby? You want to work for - uh - with me on behalf of Jesus, Goodness and the 47 Percent? I'll send Damont to Newark if you made it there. And I promise on my Grammys he'll let you ride in the car and not in the trunk.
Lemme know. Pronto. Chop Chop. We gotta derail the Klan Train.
I'm not sure what kind of shit-show you're running, Di, but your driver (Dupree? Damone?) left me waiting like a fool at the Park n'Fly for over 2 hours. Then he has the nerve to pull up in some nasty Tercel smelling like a stoned soul picnic - catch my drift?
I have an image, girl. I have fans who expect glamor, beauty, and voice. I cannot be seen with some drug user looking like ghetto trash. I will assume this was all a minor mistake on your part.
I have directed Dumaine to the Four Seasons. Have the suite prepped asap - you know the dril: white roses, candles, and the good shit. Do NOT disappoint.
Marilyn, Baby. I'm sorry menopause has left you so mean, but I guess when those pussy teeth had to be pulled you started feeling like you needed to drop the Sweet Sue bullshit. Whatever.
"Damont.' You use the wrong name with him too often and he may use his Bowie to increase your pretty smile by three inches on either side. Just a suggestion.
Wherever is fine. You call for the orders yourself, dear, and get whatever. Within reason. The Republicans are paying, and you might as well see what First Class looks like finally.
Gotta go. Mitt's head is getting so big Miss Ann had to redo the sizes for their crown order. They think they got it in the bag now. But I've been working on another video - that man is like a suicidal robot when he's with his fellow richies. Asshole.
Sorry for the mixup, by the way, Coo-Coo. He was looking for someone thinner and kept missing you.
Oh, get with Ryan and get me some dirty dirt. I want to know what gets that little bump of his stiff. We need to TAKE THAT SHIT DOWN.
Miss Warwix, can you tell us about how it all went with Misty Bates? We been waiting to hear!
It appears that my employers attempts to lure your majestic presence with fabulous wealth and property and a custom-built arena to showcase your talents has all been for naught.
And it seems I can't even get our 4th choice, Miss McCoo either.
So, let me be frank. While we wait our your current endeavor with the Romney campaign, who can you secure for us in in the interim? You know the profile; a singer with a following, willing to move to Dubai, etc. Rest assured when you are available we'll have you. But we need someone now. With the Solid Gold Dancers. And Erin Moran.
A finder's fee plus your usual tour rider (liquor, flowers, food, pre-signed prescription pad) will also be sent under special delivery. Just get us someone, stat!
What about sendin Fatty Patti hellsbells over there to those princes? Or better yet? Sorry tan one of those Romney boys extra dark, give him a wig and tell Tussy it's Janet, LAtoya, or some other haz been?
Mr. Esq. When I found that the faat-ass dive stretch bus was following me back from Denver to the New Deseret Compound in Utah, I had Cindi hijack a Dunkin van and crash it a mile up from those bitches. They stopped, wiped out the stores, and when Re got back on the bus all the tired blew up. So go pick up whatever second-rate has-been fat-ass loser former entertainer you want from the bus. It's a mixed grill but you are welcome to them.
Mitt is still hopping. The are calling him Bishop-President-Elect here.
Fuck. I WONDERED what kind of whitebread voodoo they did to Mr. Obama for him not to whuppass Mitt, who after all is about as smart as a gnat fart.
I had just finished snorting a little line of my special blend of Caracas chow chow and ant poison - I've been DOWN and needed an elevation - and I was just standing in a hallway here at the Romneyplex watching blonde people bounce by with sillyass smiles smeared on their faces when I heard some talk coming from a room with the door cracked open. The two main fucks - Matt Rhoades the chief and Mitt - were laughing. And then I heard it.
They had a secret camera in my bathroom and snapped a pic when I was in the shower digging out a nasty from up there with a "what the fuck" look on my face. Somehow they got that picture on Obama's podium for the date with Dee Bates, and that's why he was looking down and stymied and flummoxed. Mitt said he KNEW one shot of his Whoopi would paralyze Obamalama because it is well knowed that those Enners are sex crazy and even a piece of my physique would get his juices off track. And they had it on special Mission Impossible paper that just went to dust after the show was over.
Fuckers. They have crossed a serious line here, a very serious line.
I charge GOOD MONEY for my secret cheesecake collection and NO ONE is gonna be snapping the Divaparts for fun and profit without paying. There is the smell of smoke and death in the air here - I am pissed! And what if Michelle finds out? I need me some White House gigs in that second term for my laygassy.
PLEASE someone help Damont and me. Miss Warwick was TAKEN the other night by a bunch of Romneys and Mr. Mitt stood there saying, "Whoopi, in my moment of triumph you have betrayed me and now you shall pay the ultimate price."
They were wearing hoods but his slipped and I knew it was him when I saw those snake eyes and that reverse-skunk hairdo of his. And then they dragged Miss Warwick out kicking and screaming (She drew some blood and did bite the ear off one of them).
They grabbed Nippy too. Miss Warwick had just given her a treatment so she was too out-of-it to peel the skin off them or breathe fire or do the other things that have been fucking my head up the last two weeks. They called her "Demonheathenwhoreofbabyland." She's so big now she looks like she's gonna give birth to Miss Aretha.
And WORSTEST OF ALL they took Miss Warwick's stash!!!!!!!!
And they all cackled about how they was winning this election and then things would be different forever and they said America don't know it but
IT'S LATTER THAN WE THINK.
WTF? SO we're trying to figure out where they took them and the stash. This mansion is like a maze of creepy and luckily Damont and me were being intimate in a little walk-in safe they got in all the Romney rooms when they showed up.
I fear for us all. And somehow I just know it all has to do with that bitch Dee Bates who President Obama somehow fucked up. As if that good joe would step out on Michelle. She'd kill him.
Cindi baby doll, I'd like to help ya, but with all due respect, I've got problems of my own. Paulie Lyin' Ryan has me tied up in his S&M dungeon. I have my phone held out the dryer vent to get a signal. That man has had me locked up and tied up since I arrived. LITERALLY. And worst of all he thinks I'm Star Jones and keeps asking for legal advice. Do I look like a former fattie divorced from gay man sister?
I am praying and singing and pray singing that someone can rescue me. Is Janet, Reetha, or Mariah? I am thisclose to calling Celine...
I saw this coming. The state of California says you owe $2.6 million in back taxes, going all the way back to 2003.
Did Nippy leave you enough in the will to pay it off? Or is Mitt going to fork it over in return for your services?
I don't see either happening. But I do see you wearing an orange jump suit and living in a 5x5 cell.
By the way, what did you spend the $2.6 million on? Some Maui Wowie? Humbold Gold?
Esteemed Overlord Cheney of the Black Star Axis for Global Conquest,
I grovel before you, as always. And I regret to bring before your munificence a small matter that requires your masterful judgment.
My pack-sons have captured an apparent traitor in our midst, the famous Whoopi, who has been serving as our Outreach Consultant to Catholics and Urban Scum as you suggested and Peon Trump arranged. (She looks even worse out of her convent garb than I imagined. Like a desiccated 1960s jungle music trollop named Deeon Something, my Beloved Queen-Wife says - She had a popular culture disk called "Alfie" when she was young, she said, and left to resume training the cavalry). Whoopi even is demanding we start referring to her as this Deeon person, who certainly must be dead of old age by now, begging your lordship's tolerance for my digression.
This Nubian Witch had a creature with her that appears to be gestating a litter of demonbrooden in her distended, rank abdomen. Whoopi called her Nippy, obviously the name of the familiar spirit possessing the putrid body.
My question, Your Mightyness, is do you think we should apply conversion remedies to try to reclaim the spirit of Whoopi-Deeon for our infernal cause, or just cut the tramp into koi food?
Thank you for your decision. Also, I hope the removal of your heart organ continues well. It is wonderful that you are doing so well without the troublesome organ.
As you may have heard, the election looks very good. The American people, being cattle, continue to follow the corn scattered down the road by our forces, as you predicted.
Love Live Halliburton. Blessed be Bain. Love to Lynn.
Your obedient and unworthy servant,
Mitt, Ruler Designate
This is Bobbi Christina here. My aunties Dionne and Marylin have gone missing. I'm a little worried because they are both supposed to be brides matrons in my upcoming wedding to my stepbrother. Normally I wouldn't give a rat's ass about these two, but it turns out that I can't get my hands on my trust unless they both sign off. Soo........anyone that can locate both gets a special envite to my deluxual fantastimic weddin.
let me know, ok???
Miss Dionne, have you fallen into a well? We're worried.
Jesus Mother Fucking Christ Savior of the Universe I Am FREE!
That dirty white devil had me chained up with Nippy in the dungeon of one of his castles on the East Coast with a dozen of his filthy little sons - Tarp, Trap, Tigger, Wad, Nit, Mutt, Tip, Trog, Tuba - a whole bunch of 'em. And even though I kept having my Lady Bazooka black bra strap down over my shoulder and release the black currants of desire that used to drive Hal David to distraction and straight Everclear, those demented lumps just kept pulling my top back up and never even tried to touch me with the fumbling hands in inept Morman desire not even once.
And then the storm started to hit. They forgot to give Nippy her elephant gun shot and when they all ran screaming out of the dungeon because water was getting in - shit, I have more murky liquid on the floor of every hotel bathroom I stay in than that, since I hate to sit on a commode seat someone else has used who I do not know, and so I stand on it to do my business - a lady must be careful - and I ordered Nippy to chew threw the chains and sweet Lord I am now released!
We are heading back to home base. I saw a pile of Mormots climbing into a helicopter and Miss Ann fitting a horse with water skis, and Mitt was standing on a balcony with his hands up and I swear to Jesus he had lightning coming out of his skinny manicured white boy fingernails.
They are sure he is going to win.
I must stop him.
I should have added that I must stop him because "when" he is elected Mitt said he is going to turn all of American television programming into nothing but Celebrity Apprentice and Lawrence Welk reruns and Mormon Tabernacle and Osmond songfests. And he said he was having Mr. Trump erase me from my episodes as punishment for my "diabolical
I would have to go back to touring live.
I would have to stand for up to seven minutes at a time.
Fuck that shit.
Now to find Cindi and Damont. And kick a new butthole into Patti LaBelle's fat pumpkin ass with my good heels just to get my energy back in gear.
But thank GOD it was not yet time for my monthly hair cleaning and I had just had my chin waxing done. In case the paps are out looking for me.
I am singing "We shall come over" or whatever it is as Nippy carries me back to Newark. I pray to Jebus it ain't too late.
Are Miss Dionne and Miss Cleo the same person? Didn't Miss Cleo come out as lesbian a few years ago? Does this mean Miss Dionne is also one of us?
I am attempting to save the United States of America and some bitch is asking if I am the same person as a bald Jamaican with a prison record and if I dip my toe in the honey pot?
There is no fucking justice.
Well, axually I have on occasion permitted a sister to embellish my lady bump with her worship. But only because I was passed out and the videos never proved it really was me. A lot of divas have herpes and corns on their toes like in the movie.
Anyone see where Mitt is today? All this wind and rain is seriously screwing my coif and my eyelids keep blowing up over my head. Fucking thyroid.
Miss Warwick, did you get blown away by Sandy? We do need you, you know.
WE NEED AN UPDATE, MISS DEE!
We are not worthy of your greatness. Or your generosity.
THANK YOU to both you and Nippy for stopping the evillord known as Willard "Mitt" Romney.
Now, please tell us exactly how you did it!!
That's what's friends are for.
Hello, fans and people not worthy of my attention, so I shall simply address you by the name of Patti.
I had to go underground when all the shit shitted, after Mitt had me trapped in the dungeon and I excaped thanks to another angry act of a vengeful God tramping out the vintage. (It was also a wine cellar, but all there was in it was bags of old baggy underwear with nasty shit and piss stains of various earthy tones like Chuck Berry's dining room.)
And so Nippy and me went to work. I was out of bread so I had her carry me on her back. She is a strong one, now that she has quit the habit, because without breathing she don't get the crank up her snout and without circulatitiveness if she tries to poke a needle the goody just sits there pooling under the lizard skin. So anyway we got me a big blonde wig and a box of Vi-Con-Agra and I proceeded to spread the drip, the gape-grapes and the Herpeas all over the Republican world. Because if there is one thing a racist cannot resist, it's a sister with a blonde wig. We moved from state to state - Akin, Mourdock, Mack, Brown - all of them. And since they can't get it up at all unless they pay for it and it feels dirty, Nippy and me - and Cindi and Damont met up with us - had plenty of dough to pick us up an Escalade.
My last stop on the Save Liberty Sexpress was one last trip to Romneyville. I sneaked in, got into his bedroom, and waited for him. He thought I was Miss Ann. He said, "You smell so exotic. DId you miss your on-the-hour douche? Because I kind of like it." I just grunted as I cold-cocked him, and did my thing on that rotten little Tragg Maker.
And so every one of those assholes was loaded with Dee Juice by the time of the last week of the campaign. They were itching and running to the toilet and coughing and seeping through their clothes and everything else to keep them looking like the Undead Souls that they are. There was no way those fools were going to get elected once those old white ladies got a whiff of the Unforgivable on them at those events. Because a touch of Dee does not wash off. It must be sandblasted and dusted with sulfa.
And I can promise none of those fuckers are going to run for anything in four years except the pooper.
Just as the happy news arrived last night, Nippy let out a howl and started to deliver. It was rough - like I hear that lesbian whore went through in the Twylight movie - but finally out comes a baby. A beautiful, pale-skinned, grinning blonde baby that looked just like Tragg Romney, its father. We all looked at it, tickled its chin, and then
I fed it to Nippy, who downed it in two chunks.
We got enough of those assholes in the world, and my old pussy is tired.
I am now heading back on the road. My career is going to take center ring again. And I am waiting by my flipphone for that inevitable call to sing at the Re-Inauguration. Fuck that. After what I've been through, it should be called the Dee-Inauguration.
God Bless America. And God Bless Me. You assholes owe me.
Whoopi bump for threadlist.
I am up in Houston trying to settle some old business with a former Power Dust supplier of mine, who also used to set me up for special one-on-one gigs for Latin military men (I showed them the way to San Jose, baby). The old fucker's bulldog-in-pearls-bug-eyed-senile wife had the nerve to have me shot at - twice - because she thought I was doing his swizzle stick. Shit, everyone knew it was the Chinese bitch he had going. So when I heard she had another contract out on me, I high-tailed it to Houston to put an end to the rumor the best way I knew how.
Did you know that my divine Dionne saliva is venomous? A miracle of modern living. So I just spit in the old fucker's mouth while he was sleeping (gaping open, his mouth looked like Re's panty vent, all gnarled on the edges and nothing but blackness in the middle). I figure another three, four days should do the trick. Easy to get in - that nasty WASP family sees a sister and they assume you're there to clean the catheter.
And while I'm here I'm singing at the Galveston Fish Hut during the lunch hour. The Cajun Gar Balls are pretty good there. Nippy's with me as my bodyguard. Low profile, so I'm keeping the sweatshirts turned inside out so my picture don't show.