Is it coming to a theater near you?
Where are you, Ms. Warwick? I got your number, hussy!
And I have pictures of you with your old nose, bitch, so let's not even go there.
I'll say a little prayer for her.
Oh, Dionne, we've missed you so.
And also, you owe me money, bitch. Don't think I didn't notice those third party phone calls from Brazil!
Oh, poor Madame Dee, she was going to sing at Barack' inauguration, but she couldn't turn enough trick in time to afford the bus ticket from Tijuana.
Shaddup Bee before I stuff that dead tabby on your head that you call a weave down your throat. Right after Jay pulls his dick outta there.
I am like the demon in the Axercist or the Candymaam. Speak my name and I appear. I am always ready to receive your love. So send me some love via my new Miss Dee Holy Indulgence and Lucky Lotto Number Web Site. Damont says we axcept Pay Pal.
Wait, is that like hooking? Because I'm no Rihanna Piranha or Mariah back in the 1980s taking money to chug some pudwater. This is about the INVENTORY, and you show your hot money love and I swear to Jebus you WILL receive the Wickwar Brand "Brazilian Hookah All Natural Bath Salts to soak your brains in. And we also take Discover.
Anyway, yes, baby, the tour is ON as always. But it is NOT a motherfucking comeback. It isn't even a motherfucking come-on-my-back. It is the premiere cycle of my FAREWELL. You'll recall, if you Axually ARE in the East St. Louis Dionne Warwick Fan Club of the Eastern Star, which I doubt because you use some big words there and I hear the president has to leave the door open for those meetings so the girls know how to get into the house, that the form-mall title is now back to:
"Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston and Introducing Dallas Houston. Presented by Champale."
We also are trying to axcept the sponsorship of Trojan Self-Lube XXXXXXXX-Size Mancovers. Because it aligns with my neetch.
Cindi (Dallas Houston) has been working with Nippy in the Cave of the Buceta Casado here in RIo, trying to get some coordination back in those leathery sinews. Nippy has not had a toke in months, but I personally think that has more to do with not breathing any more than with her will power. As you recall, the only thing poor Nippy ever said no to when her blood was still in liquid form was "Would you like a salad?"
Well, that's enough about me. Without you paying for it. And since I don't care about you, I have to go. Re has been calling me every five minutes leaving messages about some shit she heard I said that her head in that hat at the Inauguration made her head look like a cracked Mammy Cookie Jar wrapped up like a regift.
Yes, I was invited to sing. They pleaded for me to sing "From a Distance." I kept saying okay but why do you want me to sing some Hula-Jew has-been number. And they kept saying, No. We are telling you we don't care what you sing so long as it is "From a Distance." I decided Barry needed to call me but my battery went out - we only have electricity here on Wednesdays - and I never heard back.
Now send me something on my web site and you'll get the bath salts. Only, you know, don't sit in the water if you're the literal type. Your butt will pop out in purple mushrooms.
Best disco singer of the '70s, bar none.
Yes! I was so hoping Damont and Cindi would show up.
Girl, I'll get me a Dollar General money order and order some salts right away!!!!!
I don't think so R7. Did too much coke back then did we?
Dionne's nostrils can smell tomorrow!
One more thing. Tell me I'm wrong. Go ahead. Tell me.
And one more thing. Tell that larcenous bitch who wrote at R1 and R5 that my housekeeper here, Lupella, is going to pop a voudon cap in her ass if she don't cut out that shit. If a thread has my name on it it's gonna be as classy as I am.
And one more thing. Damont is looking for a girlfriend. He and Cindi broke up over the results of her medication (something she cooks herself but I'm not getting involved) where she lost weight and baby ain't got no back now. She looks like Diane Ross back in the day. You know, like a mocha gecko wearing a wig three sizes too big for her lizard head and nothing in the keester where the tail broke off. Anyway, Damont likes something he can grip and hang on to, and then use as a fouton when he's done. So if you got a bottom like that, post him a message on my Holy Indulgence web site in the "Staff Hookups" section.
And one more thing. Beyonce. It's nice to know she can sing at the Inauguration and give Jay-Z a blow job at the same time without missing a high note. Shit. The only time I ever had canned music played for a performance was when I was passed out in my dressing room and they had a roadie run around the stage with a mop turned mop-side-up with a scarf tied to it after blowing my ganj into the air vents. No one noticed the difference.
I'm still waiting for that money. I wanted some scallops for supper. I'm getting hungry, damn it.
Isn't she done yet stealing money from gay related charities?
Bitch, you took all our money to help people with AIDS and kept 95 percent for yourself as a "performance fee"
You Cunt Whore. We will not let people forget that. Not here to support your "lifestyle choices"
I think Re Re ate your dinner. And all of Peru.
R7, Ms. Warwick was never even close to being disco. Her music had no beat and no pulse. Therefore, it wasn't disco. Disco would have been an improvement over most of her sappy music. Awful.
R12 Do Not Denigrate the Great Miss Dionne Warwick!
'Cause, she'll cut ya!
Firstest. Fuck that old shit about me stealing from my own foundation. Don't you people understand that I AM A STAR of the brightest firmamental magmatude and that when I am driving around in a limo and sitting in first class hotel rooms and accepting donations that NO ONE is catching any STDs??? Because I swear to God when I have too much time on my hands someone WILL be catching something.
Secondlymost. Disco? DISCO? I transcend mere musical styles and make everything my fucking own. Disco. Soul. R&B. Gospel. Polka. Ranchera. Grand Opera. Country AND Western. When I wrap my lips around a lyric, inhale through my God's Gift to Breathing diva nostrils, and prepare to deliver myself to a song, you won't even be able to tell what style it was when I'm done with it.
Thirdest. I mean it. I am hungry. LUPELLA!
Lupella, here's a fifty. Get homegirl some scallops and save the change for when she wants her loose smokes at 2 am.
And one more thing. R15, I do not cut people.
I have other people cut people.
If it comes to need, I prefer using my natural venoms and bite the offender, and then just wait for the effects to kick in. That scratch I got from that Komodo dragon during my Indonesian tour left me with some potent choppers. Usually it takes about two weeks.
Dionne is lying yall. She has been in Jersey singing at funerals and getting free meals at repasts. I guess you can call that touring!
Your High-ness Lady Dionne,
Rumor has it Ms. Janet Jackson is gunna be a mrs. billionare. Two things: have you seen verificashun this is true, like bank statments? and two; gurl, when are you getting inserted into that sitch-u-action? We all know what a mess Janet is...
Miss Warwick still has an outstanding bill at our Wolfgang Puck All-American Grille. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to be answering our calls.
[quote] Miss Warwick still has an outstanding bill at our Wolfgang Puck All-American Grille. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to be answering our calls.
Try calling on Wednesday!
Damn R23 Miss Ross!
You left this comment on the YouTube video, didn't you?
[quote] Nice to know they let her out of the old folks home - and skip senior baseball practice - to perform a jackswing B-side from 1991 on TV...
Dear Queen Khan. Or is it Up-Chucka Khan? Those tapeworm-egg pills don't fool nobody. I heard several slipped out of your saggy ass at a gig and wriggled towards you back-up singers, because those worms couldn't take your shit no more. And another thing. Humming to yourself while sitting on your sister's front porch steps in Montgomery waiting for your nieces to get off the school bus so you can babysit them does not constitute an "Out of Town Gig" in anyone's mind but yours.
Damont, send that Mother Pucker up at Borgata three packs of bath salts with my compliments. And tell him that I was shitting meatballs for three days after that crap his hash house served me. And I had the veg risotto, so what the fuck is up with that?
R22, you cross that stick with another and I will genuflect. It's true. My Lord has shown me how to see most clearly through the smoke of His Love.
Damont called, Miss Warwick. He said that TV Guide Channel wants to run the Dionne Comeback Tour special.
As long as you don't mind sharing the screen with TV listings.
The sponsor is Pay2Day Payday Loans.
I have several wealthy white mens taking care of me, (as always) so I dont have to work if I dont want to. Proves my snatch is just as good as it was in '79!
Those tapeworms must have crawled off my background singers and got a hold of your head too. You had the nerve to go on big ass Good Morning America with your head looking like this. Gurl bye!
Mz. Dionne, I got a message here from Cissy. She say Ann Romney has been been looking for your sumthin fierce. She needs more of your special mood stabilizers. Name your price.
Hey Worka Nerve over at R28, don't diss Miss Dionne's precious Creme Brulee hair!
[quote] Proves my snatch is just as good as it was in '79!
Down a hallway.
O R28, Dionne looks like Samuel L. Jackson's older brother in that pic.
Chugga Korn, my famous "creme brulle" coif is a signature known through the world. And if I have decided to let my natural platinum replace my natural gold sometimes, it is nothing to you, with those three ringworm spots on the back of your head the size of salad plates under that burden of polyester yarn that is your hair do do.
R27. READ THE FUCKING MISSIVES I AM EXPENDING MY STAR ENERGY ON. It is NOT a comeback. It is fucking FAREWELL of the ongoing kind!!!!
R29, I provided you with the dossier when I assigned you my account as part of your work-release program. Read it and realize why Miss Ann is NOT getting any of my hash cracker dust, or the Saltz either. Unless she pays in krugerrands.
Sometimes I think I should have let that sheik take me to Abu Dooby and shower me with carbuncles like he promised. Only I was afraid he meant the medical definition rather than the gemstone one. He was sooooo kinky.
Thank you r32.
r30, having your hair laid like a gay sheep is not the tea.
R34 Yeah, well it's better than having five weaves sewn together and then microwaved, which is the shit that lays on your head. Either that or it's the nappiest possum I've ever seen.
I had NO idea Ms. Warwick was Mormon and knew the Romneys! How could I have missed that?
Dionne will hide all Mormon literature in her nostrils in the event of a nuclear holocaust, or if the Yellowstone Caldera blows its stack. That's how she met the Romneys.
I am not Mormon, fool. I infilitrativated the Romney camp to prevent that lunar-tick from being president. Barry owes my one presidency, but it was my doody as an American.
UNLIKE Miss Bullock aka Tina Turner who has announced she does not need her US passport any more. That phony bitch has been bullshitting her "Buddhist in the Alps" cover story for so long she doesn't remember that some of her diva sisters already know she's a big old lush who keeps falling down the slopes after her benders. And it takes a helicopter to carry her plump old carcass back up to her shallay.
NOW, if you people are so brain dead you can't read the bio material I have generously provided, I suggest you stop embarrassing yourselves before my greatness.
And enough of that one-hit nothing, Choco Kahncer. She's gotten more lines in this thread than she's been able to afford to snort from her "career."
Will there be a big TV special of one of the concerts on the ION channel?
I have another message, from one Lisa Menilli (I think maybe the sister from Milli Vanilli?) I couldn't make out what she was saying too much, but here's the jist:
-Combined show at the Palace
-Making jewelry from clay while getin' back surgery
-Call her on the special number
-Joey says hi!
I'm disappointed with the gay community for turning its back on Dionne. She was one of our greatest supporters and loved us. She even wrote and recorded her #1 single That's What Friends Are For for gay men dying of AIDS. It was for AIDS reserch people, wake up. Now she is treated like a joke. She wrote and recorded some of the greatest songs ever recorded like Dejavu, Do You Know The Way To San Jose, Heartbreaker, Walk On By, Downtown, Alfie, I Say A Little Prayer For You, I'd Never Fall In Love Again, and her best song I'll Never Love This Way Again. She also hosted Solid Gold-the best music show ever on television. Give her a break she sure deserves it, to quote Nell Carter.
Snort. Homegirl flew first class and ate caviar on those AIDS dollars.
Sorry, R40. War-witch did not write any of those fucking songs. Have you ever heard of fucking Burt Bacharach? The Bee Gees wrote Heartbreaker. Second of all, I am assuming that the Downtown you metioned is the 60's pop hit. That was actually recorded by Petula Clark, not War-witch. Third, no she never did shit for the fucking gay community. Fourth, Solid Gold was a steaming pile of lipsynching turds. Fifth, I met this nasty woman when I was working in a restaurant in my UCLA days, she is a hateful nasty piece of work. I cannot imagine her doing anything for anyone, much less the gay community.
Thank you, Darius. And all this time I assumed that gay men had turned their backs on me so I could look at their fine buttocks.
Now go away, unless you have something pertinent to say, other than how I owe for a gram for your testimony. I know I do, baby. I know I do.
R42, I have not only heard of fucking Burt Bacharach, I did it.
Now, I am sending someone named Damont to see you, and I want you to listen very carefully what he tells you. He will have a rather famous looking, but maybe a tiny bit scary, creature with him. If you do not listen to what Damont tells you, she will eat you.
What is with these newby, hysterical, one-track, nasty-headed, thread-hijacking, mean-spirited, high-and-mighty purveyors of oral methane here? It reminds me of that ill-fated gig in Riyadh where I announced I was on a Crusade for Jesus' Love and they tried to cut my head off with a falafel scoop. People who don't get should not have access to things with edges.
Miss Dionne, does Burt have a big old dingle dangle?
You may call me Miss Warwick, R45. Only people who pay me can call me Miss Dionne, and your URL is not in my database as a contributor.
But, no, Burt did not have a big old dingle dangle. It was severely damaged by something he caught from Angie Dick-inson, and while those bumps and that odd curve gave me a mighty thrill right in the sweet spot, he cried from the pain the whole time he was fucking me. I told him I'd say a little prayer for him and the rest is history.
I wanna be a Psychic Friend...
Bitch Please! Whoever said she wrote that piece of sugary tripe 'That's What Friends Are For' for AIDS research was fucked in the head. She did nothing for AIDS research. She never wrote a song in her life.
Must be a geriatric thing. I have never heard of Dionne Warwick....
Actually R48, urm, I mean, Miss Ross, CUNTess Dionne did write a song called "Two Ships Passing In The Night" on her Luther Vandross-produced "How Many Times Can We Say Goodbye" album back in the 80s. It was a mediocre effort on one of her lesser albums. You'd figure the combo of Vandross and CUNTess Dionne would be a slam dunk, but it was very disappointing.
Must be an American thing. I've never heard of Ms. Warwick.
Tito in Chicago
And no one outside your pathetically small existence has ever heard of you, or ever will, R49, and your miserable little life will pass without notice and your shit-pants end will come with no regard except to the flies. People who pride themselves on ignorance are nothing but maggot bait in waiting.
It's exactly what I told some bitch in Cincinnati once who tried to get in a toilet stall ahead of me, and claimed she never heard of me. And then I pushed her face into the water.
I wish you were a little closer to Rio, baby.
after having skimmed about 2% of it, I am convinced this has been the most whiskey foxtrot tango meth fueled nightmare of a coke thread I hope to ever experience.
excuse me while I put branding irons to my eyeballs so that they will automatically filter out anything that approaches this level of cray from ever entering my gaze again
And we need to hear self-serving confused prattle from a cunt who can't use capital letters or punctuation? Right, R53.
Why don't you let us help you with those branding irons? I have a hammer I could use.
The DL is infested with parasites like you lately.
I said I wanted hushpuppies with that order, not cornbread.
HUSHPUPPIES. AND THERE IS NO GARLIC IN THE SCALLOPS.
Now you fools can clean it out of the rattan.
Miss Warwick, your threads on DataLounge bring me such joy, certainly more joy than any of your lame ass music ever did.
So how much do-re-mi is Cissy getting for her "memoir." Nuff to keep both of you fat and happy for a lifetime?
And my thoughts go out to Damont. Now that Nippy and her guaranteed supply line have passed on, it must be harder than a mother fuck for Damont to scour up some herbal remedy for you, especially since nickel and dime bags went the way of the dodo.
If the munificence of the blessings my many talents have somehow reached down to the depths of your puny little life and lifted it up by the example of my tremendous success, R56, well, I really don't care. Unless you pay me to care. Hint hint - lucky lotto numbers web site.
But Cousin Cis would be stripping the last bits of jerky off Nippy's hollow bones if she could. But she can't. Because Nippy's with me and doing fine. Mostly.
And I'm not getting a red scent out of her deal. And she's doing her "I'm perfect and God made me perfect and praise him and Nippy was perfect and pleaded with me to give me all her money but I said no and Bobby was the DEVIL. Shit. Bobby was a nice little punky piece and Nippy kept slicing off pieces of him to devour until nothing was left but the man she really wanted.
Damont's fine. Now send me money.
Check your Western Union account, bish!
[quote]O [R28], Dionne looks like Samuel L. Jackson's older brother in that pic.
Gurl...I thought that WAS Miss Dionne in the Django movie, working the Creme Brulee hair!
You know she's played a slave before, that is her acting niche!
Damont, when you're out pick up some puppies for Nippy. She looks hungry, and you know how that makes me nervous. And I know how much money is coming in so don't try to pick up any "funder's fees."
Also, I noticed you are not wearing underpants any more. Now, any man in my employ has got to wear underpants and not strut down the Arpoador Beach with his garden hose nozzle dripping out the end of his Bermudas. It's not diva-worthy. And it's distracting. It takes me back to my double-dutch days. I do not need memories to clutter up my remembrances.
Go, fool. And when you're back keep cleaning up the rattan. I can still smell fish in the glider seat.
Look, Shithead at R59. I was getting ready for a Carson City Players theatrical production of "The Old Man and the Sea - Diva Style" and I was HEAVILY made up to look like a photo negative of Spencer Tracy. Unfortunately the show never came off. Papa's Ribs decided to expand its hours past seven and they needed the audience seating space back to store the snoots. I fucking suffer for Art.
You know, Art, my main-line supplier at the present. Good stuff, but pricey.
And Platinum blonde happens to be one of my natural hair colors. Racist. It's not my fault if the photographer got it wrong. He was out to get me, anyway. I heard that click and barely had time to wipe that diva-dot I had pulled out of my nose on my sleeve before the flash went off. That is not respect.
And for your information I do not look like Sam Jackson. Sam Jackson looks like me.
That bitch Dionne stole my career.
[quote] I fucking suffer for Art.
Lord knows you do, gurl.
A bitch also suffers for only the finest Colombian.
Sure, baby. Like your last record in 1970. Cissy always said that rather than "back up" they had to "front down" for you to cover that wobble and swoop.
And don't think I ever forgot how you said those things about Dee Dee. She was just borrowing parking meter money and you acted like she even wanted that cheap leopard purse the two bits were in. And you didn't send me any sympathy money when she died, and she was my sister. Bitch.
All I can say is SNAP. How's that kitchen lady gig you got down at the Rochester Head Start doing, anyway? Must be nice - I hear you're in your 27th year.
Oh, and I promise I will give you those shoes back when I'm done with them. I'm mostly in sneakers now anyway. Traction in case I have to make a run from the IRS again.
Dionne, bottom line, you need to stop letting those queens partake of your stash before they start beating your face and hair. I learnt the hard way when they fucked up my good hair that used to go all the way down to my ass (dont hate, thats how I got the white men, you know they like a black bitch with the good hair). Those queens already dizzy to begin with. But now I got the hookup with the Great Lipsyncher's remi supplier (who I shant name, I dont want bitches blowing up my phone), so its all good.
Greetings from Switzerland, ladies. Nami oho renge kyo!
Miss Khan, you may have found the company of some fine white gentleman, but know that it was ME that started that trend. And I only ride the finest European men. German engineering, baby.
Miss Warwick! You are truly an inspiration to me. You inspired me to quit while I was still on top, and not drag my dirty ass around the three bit club circuit. You reminded me that cocaine does terrible things to one's nostrils.
You remind me never to leave the house without my wig.
At least I can still sing, you frog-throated heifer. And everybody knows Dee Dee couldn't stand your ass, so don't you throw that shit at me.
PML @ R59. Miss Dionne missed her hair appointment. Or she needs to decrease her reefer allowance and stop buying that hair day from Dollar General.
[quote]Miss Khan, you may have found the company of some fine white gentleman, but know that it was ME that started that trend.
Think again bitch.
Tell me, Diane, how many homeless men live under the ratty hairdos you and Chaka have?
Chuggah at R65, it is reefer-eshing to hear from the girl I knew back in the day when she was picking my roaches up off the floor to carry home to that cellar she lived in. That was a nice sharing, little sister. But my look is my signature. Partly because I can barely read and wright. (See?) And you better be nicer about those fine men who cut your weave-train. Because, girlfriend, they are holding blades when they are shaving that chin of yours.
I smelled something funny and then noticed something Brown at R67. Woman, you are so obscure your reflection in the mirror says "Who dat?"
Yes, Anna Mae. You are so wise to have quit just when your ladyflaps started to hang lower as your skirts ran higher. But clothes do that with a fat ass. I kept waiting for the smell of cracklings when you'd go rubbing those naked thighs together all speeded out on the stage. I used to give Ike a hit of horse just to smack some sense into you. Yes, the whole world was grateful you quit when you did, finally.
But while I do love a trip to the wax works, I am more interested in thinking about my future. Rio is nice, but a return to indoor plumbing would be nice, too. Because after a steady diet of peccary empadas it smells like a hog shed in here. Which reminds me.
LUPELLA CLEAN THE CHAMBER POTS AND DRUM IN MY SUITE YOU LAZY PROSTITUTA!
Anyway, in addition to my farewell tour, I am considering - now shut up about it - a significant career augmentation. Maybe some advice on another realm of enterprise that would be worthy of DIONNE could help. Although I have me some ideas.
Shit. I mean literally.
Anna Mae, don't you have some "meditation" you need to go wrap your jaws around? You know, your hourly strudel dose.
Don't be trying to "augment" your career, MISS Warwick. We don't need another hero.....
Anna Mae, you think we don't remember you on Hollywood Squares and the Brady Bunch Hour. Don't play high-tone with me when all you have is horseshit brown to work with.
I liked What You Get Is What You See as much as anyone. I was just glad what we were getting wasn't sold by the pound.
I got another message from that Prince Al Ghurair Adar. He wants to know if you would like to discuss moving your base of operations to one of his palaces. Something about a theme park...
Dionne, you know the only reason you ever amounted to anything was because you had that wide-ass mouth of yours wrapped around Burt Bacharach's ding-dong. Did he fuck those big-ass nostrils of yours, too?
If not for that, *I* would've been the star, and you can bet your saggy ass I wouldn't have wrecked my voice with coke, herb, and cigarettes. And don't get me started on that Psychic Friends bullshit. I would've been bigger than both you and that reedy-voiced heifer Diana Ross put together.
You know Ashford & Simpson wrote "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" for me and Chuck Jackson, right? The record company was so deep up your ass, they didn't see what was being handed to 'em on a silver goddamn platter.
And I'm *still* fabulous at 73!
Ah, Dionne. You make me smile.
You enjoy taunting me and making fun of me. But I remember, my dear. I remember all about the money, that orange van. I know what the boys in the backing band saw.
You would be wise not to antagonize me. I may be 73 and retired, but the caged bird is fixin' to sing. Best you buy some birdseed and sit your tired, saggy ass down.
You know from deep within the places of love, we are all bound, each to another.
Your words are wounding, when we need to heal.
Join hands and souls, join me, let us rise up, up, up and overflow with the joy of our u-nit-TEA!
Oh shit, who invited Maya Fullofpoo?
And I thought that you would never love us this way again.
Bitches please. I was fucking white men since the 70s, when Ike was still beating your ass Ms. Alps, and when you were fucking your label President for tracks Diane.
Speaking of Nick Ashford, Dionne you need to tell Cissy to send me those checks for Im Every Woman. Nippy and Nick's checks come to me now that they have kicked the bucket. I dont want that homely Bobby Kristina smoking up my hard earned money. Valerie is keeping some of my checks too, we got into it at the BET Awards last year. I will find your ass to get in touch with her Dionne, so dont act like you dont see my number on the caller ID bitch. Since you ladies have the same trifling hair stylist I will be able to find her. I wanted to tell Valerie she looked a mess before she went on stage, but you gets no love from me if you owe me money honey!
Chaka, have a few dozen donuts and sit your fat ass down.
Anna Mae, let me put this in words you'll understand. You can imagine that you're banging a tambourine to it if that helps you concentrate long enough to get to the end of it without wandering off somewhere:
Glug glug glug glug glug burp.
Your secret has been out a loooonnnnng time. Your idea of drying out is reducing the amount of vermouth in your martinis.
Maya, we noticed Barry didn't axe you to yammer your free-association brain Jell-O this time around. I guess he heard that you're too cheap to buy the Depends with elastic in them and he wanted to avoid having everyone see the shit coming out of both ends of your body at the same time. Not his idea of a historic moment.
Maxine Brown, no matter how many times you try to remind us who you are we are all still going to say, "Who was that?" And we shall also say, "What's that smell?" Scalp needs to breathe every few years or the crust ends up looking like someone left a pie on your head.
Choco Con, I feel for you. I really do. Because we know that once those tape worms escape you'll be back to looking your old self. Your even older self.
Now shut the fuck up and focus. You have three options.
1. You can audition (again) to appear in my "Farewell Takes Forever - The Whitney Houston Farewell Tour Starring Dionne Warwick and Whitney Houston and Introducing Dallas Houston. Presented by Champale." Show me what you got. Not what you had.
2. OK. Here it is. After my experience with taking down the Romney assault on sanity (meaning all of you were safe), I have come to a decision. I was going to wait until my astrologers said it was a good time, but this is hush-hush so keep it under your panties.
I am running for the office of Mayor of New York City.
Bloomberg is a billionaire. We can all be billionaires too. So I am running on a campaign of divahood and thug support to take over Gotham. I am tired of Rio - there is not one good chiropodist in the country and my feet need attention. Also, I miss being in a place where constant worship and respect keeps my spirits up.
So you want in? I shall consider your possible rewards after you all become "made members" of my campaign and help eliminate a few problems. (Hint. I am sick of a certain fatass in Chicago who won't plug my tour. AND a certain funny-haired crazy rich white man who keeps saying crap about our president.)
Also, I am running with a fourth party. SO I need a name for it.
3. If you don't help one or the other, Nippy and Damont are swinging by to put the bite on you. Nippy strongly supports both my tour and candidacy and she will do whatever it takes for me to win. She is my Ice Blue Secret Weapon.
Yeah, the dead thing is seriously fucking up her mocha tones.
Enough of you.
LUPELLA!!!!!!!! I WANT SOMETHING PORK FOR SUPPER. SPENDING MY PRECIOUS SUNDAY TALKING TO THESE HAMMY SOWS HAS GIVEN ME A TASTE FOR IT!!!!!
[quote] I am running for the office of Mayor of New York City.
I've got to say it but it's hard for me
I want you to give me the HIV
AIDS left me heaving and almost dead
How can I love you if you're infested
I'm done with mourning so why won't you call
Or are you dead like Arsenio Hall?
And it don't matter what ever you do
As long as you are not a Jew
Out of my butt comes a powerful gas
Tell me when to I fart? Or should we just depart?
Why do you have to be a fart breaker?
When I was being what you want me to be...
...well. That was something.
As rare as the experience is, I am always gratified to find someone who is willing to sink lower than I find it in my capacity to go, and leave me feeling like a decent, discreet, humane person. How nice to find that I do, after all, have limits. Even if, in the process, it reveals that others, unfortunately, do not.
So thank you, R85. We shall, at least, be standing on your head in hell.
You ain't even LYIN', Miss D.
If you see Dionne walking down the street and she starts to cry each time you meet, walk on bye.
Hal, I knew that three-way with Burt was a mistake. The second, third and fourth times as well. And the fifth. By the sixth the pattern was clear. Obviously you two boys had more going for each other than for poor me. It was like being the cheese in a sandwich where the two slices of bread were just trying to get back to pre-sliced conditions.
But I forgive you, dear. Expecially since we must be communicating via a Ouija Board, since I attended your funeral in September of last year. How nice for the family to send the plane tickets I required for my attendance. I hope you don't mind the mix-up and my singing those Hamlisch songs. You see, they told me it was all for the funeral of a great American music maker, so naturally I assumed.....
One more thing. I do so hate to repeat myself for the un-inoculated. So please refer to my diary entries from That Unfortunate Period where it all started.
How it takes me back. Nippy Nippy Nippy. Tsk. No wonder I am one tired legend at the moment. An emotional Tilt-A-Whirl. Or Scrambler. More than a Ferris Wheel anyshit. Maybe an emotional Giant Sky Diver. That's It!
The thread at R91 gives me LIFE. This thread is fun, but THAT thread remains one of DL's finest.
May the Buddha grace my psychic friend Dionne with a revelation.
Let it be revealed to her that.....wait, who is that outside my door? Damont? Damont who?
Me and All I Done for Nippy and Didn't Get Enough Out of It So I'm Writing a Book to Go with My Farewell Tour because Cissy Has Turned into a Bitch (working title)
Whitney Houston was more to me than a niece, cousin, sister-woman, daughter of my aunt and cousin, Christian, Olympic-grade imbiber in the bounty of Morpheus (note to self - ask ghostwriter WTF that means), fellow Super Star of the Immensest Magamtude, and Beauty Acceptable to a Crossover Audience.
She was a vital track on the rails of my Gravy Train.
I knew from the start when she was shot into my arms on a sticky wooden bench in the Greyhound Terminal of the Newark Pennsylvania Station on the muggy afternoon of August 9, 1963 that this baby girl was something special.
Her mother, a no-good third-rate conniving singer of little consequence, Cissy Houston (real name Emily Drinkard, the phony) and also my beloved sister-cousin-aunt had been hanging out there looking for usable butts in the ashtrays and started to laboriate unexpectedly. I just happened to be arriving on a genuine train when I heard the screaming and ran to it, because I knew that sound, having heard it many times when I was forced to apply a skillet to the head it came out of for trying to steal my purse and whatnot.
I was barely more than a child myself at that time, despite my 33 years in show business which shows how precocious my talent was. I had just recorded some cuts at the Garden State Wax-Lax studio in Quackgrass, and was on Cloud Nine. But that noise dragged me back to earth and the embarrassment of having some people for relatives.
Huff. Puff. Screech. Oh Jesus Oh Jesus. You wouldn't have known it was the second kid out of that human valise with all that hoo-ha. I was tired, so I kicked her legs down off the bench and had me a sit. Apparently the little jostle did the trick, because that baby came shooting out like a cartoon banana out of its peel. Right onto my lap. What a fucking mess.
I noticed the baby's butt was aimed at me, but so was the baby's face. So pretty. Took after Daddy, Hot Johnny Houston. What a man. Not after her Zooness laying there splayed like a turkey wishbone. But that head turned the wrong way suggested something deep, something dark.
Cissy tried to shrug it off by yelling that all the Drinkards were born with a quadruple-jointed neck. But then that baby laughed and crrrrrrickkkkk it turned its head all the way around and appeared normal. I let it go. Well, both the notion AND the baby, being startled.
After while I got the baby cleaned up with some napkins I found in the can, hauled Cissy on to her feet, and got them both to the local bus to get them home. Cissy was still being dramatic and the bus driver threw us off when the placenta hit the floor like a sackful of pork liver, but we made it.
As I lugged Cissy up the stairs by one ankle and carried that baby in my arms, I said to it, "I can tell you are going to be my little money maker. Those eyes, that smile, that wailing little voice - all you need is to wait a few years for some boobs and legs, and I am going to make you a star in my own image. And I am naming you Whitney, like those rich East Side people. Because it works for both boys and girls and I forgot to check which one you are."
And my precious niece-cousin smiled and tried to pull the necklace off my neck. I knew we had bonded.
------Okay Mr. Agent Man. There. You want the dirt you pay for the dirt. I'm coming up to New York City this week to run for Mayor and get my Tour on, and I want some bread NOW. I know things no one does, and what I don't know I will make up like you've never seed.
I can't wait for the book Miss Warwick!
I know, I know. Please insert five dollars for the next three minutes....
Damont, when you get that chubby runt Anna-Tina safely stowed and shipped to the dock (Remember - Dock 27. We don't want another Syreeta Wright incident - POKE HOLES IN THE BOX.) we'll be ready to make our move in NYC. Is she making trouble? Don't kick her, if she is. It just gets her riled - Ike was missing his calves on both those chicken legs because of what she can do with that steel-and-diamond dust pedicure of hers.
If she insists on "making contact" with me, let her call. I'll put Cindi on pretending to be me. Becuz I am busy writing me a book, a tell-all-and-more, an ex-po-zay, a hot pile of pulp laced with that special Dee magic that will pull in some dough AND set me up for my tour and mayoral run.
The ghost writer is some fat bitch named Carrie Fisher. She keeps telling me she was a princess once and I keep telling her I don't give a fuck because I am an Americans and don't believe in that shit although I AM the Queen of Soul-Pop-Sixties-Style and Broad-Vibrato-Disco. And a universal legend. Then she just says, got any booze or coke? Shit. Well, at least she's better than that other asshole I had here - some ginormous piece of attitude called Alice Walker. Talk about a chip on your shoulder. I said, Honey, with the size of that chip you could put Frito-Lay out of business. She said, I am the only brand I recognize. So I pushed her out a window and had Nippy clean up the mess. Bitch. I kept the hair. I might have Lupella weave a rug for the bathroom.
GET BACK TO ME DAMONT AND LET ANNA CALL BECAUSE OTHERWISE SHE'LL ALARM THE CREW OF THE STEAMER WITH THAT MOUTH OF HERS.
[quote] The ghost writer is some fat bitch named Carrie Fisher. She keeps telling me she was a princess once and I keep telling her I don't give a fuck because I am an Americans and don't believe in that shit although I AM the Queen of Soul-Pop-Sixties-Style and Broad-Vibrato-Disco. And a universal legend. Then she just says, got any booze or coke? Shit. Well, at least she's better than that other asshole I had here - some ginormous piece of attitude called Alice Walker. Talk about a chip on your shoulder. I said, Honey, with the size of that chip you could put Frito-Lay out of business. She said, I am the only brand I recognize. So I pushed her out a window and had Nippy clean up the mess. Bitch. I kept the hair. I might have Lupella weave a rug for the bathroom.
laughing so hard I am sore
I remember when Rebbie tried to do this sad tour with the Jackson 5 and I don't think anyone even went. I bet Miss Dianne's (yes, not using last name) will get even fewer asses filling those seats.
bump for Miss D.
I always wanted to tongue-fuck the nostrils of her old nose.
(and besides, Miss Warwick would request renumeration for that sort of thing,)
Me and the Little Superstar Who Owed Me Everything (revised working title)
by Miss Warwick
I always was special. From the start. In fact, "Special" was my first nickname, bestowed on me as far back as I can rememberate. The doctors and nurses and Kindergarten teachers all kept telling Daddy Mancel and Mamalee from the very beginning how I was a "Special Case" and even that I should be in "Special Classes." Now, is the destiny or what?
I was a beautiful child, much better looking that my "troubled" sister Dee Dee or any of those Drinkards on Mamalee's side of the family. You could see more of the Egypt in me and more of the Congo in them, if you catch my drift. But it's all Africa so don't get shitty with me. It wasn't then like it is now, where everybody is beautiful and a model no matter how ugly they are so long as their legs are long and they're so skinny you can't tell a hip from a shinbone.
Not that my natural lean and athletic - Artemisal, I think it's called, after another goddess (That fucking Carrie Fissure is sticking a lot of icing on this corn bread) - physique was appreciated in East Orange where the men wanted pork on the table AND in the bed. Hell, even though I was special, our neighbors made fun of me growing up because they couldn't stack their carwash supplies on my butt while they were flagging down passing cars for a rinse job.
But everybody knew that those racist assholes who don't know nothing about class but what they get off a color chip eventually would take a look at me, get over my perfectly blended Mocha-Milnot complexion, and say, "Hey. That one can almost pass if we use some Max Factor De-Ethnicizer on her."
And I could sing. Lord. From the start. And Mamalee would come running into my bedroom that I shared with Dee Dee and whatever Drinkard Hubilairs were flopping with us (that was the name of the family group) when I would start singing and yell, Dionne, don't sing unless someone pays you! And no one here is paying you! It was so cute how she'd hold her hands over her ears as she screamed it.
Granddaddy was a preacher - the good kind that would lay his hands you on for healing, not for feeling, unlike Aretha's legendary touchy-feely-preacher pop - so we would all sing in church, too. But I was so good they'd have me stand outside when the choir started, so I could deliver the good news to the outside world, with the sound of the choir leaking through the window frames like a quiet back-up. My first solos!
--------I'm tired of this shit. When do I get to the good stuff? Carrie Fissure insists I go on about the family and I do not give one cheek off a dead rat's ass about those conniving heifers. Taking Nippy's money and not giving me my share, just because they're "responsible for the estate" and they're "the next of kin" and "legally and morally entitled."
This book is supposed to be about ME and how Nippy wouldn't be anything without me. Well, technically she isn't actually anything now, except a flesh-eating hoodoo zombiette come back from the dead. IF ONLY that girl hadn't been so stoned in the tub that she decided to go diving for pearls without her scuba gear like a little mermaid. (Man, that WAS some good shit when Damont got it out of the hotel room and back to me as my due.)
Anyway, I'm going to fire that lump-ass dope-hoover Carrie Fissure and get me another ghost writer. Scratch that. I'm going to SET fire to that lump-ass etc. No traces but a little greasy black slick on the tile and a sack of what will pass for kitty litter for the ocelot cage (I grow my own for my coats).
LUPELLA!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GET CARRIE AND ME A COUPLE OF EVERCLEAR TORCHTINIS AND BRING THE REALLY LONG GRILL LIGHTER THING!!!!!! MAKE SURE IT'S FULL!!!!!!!!
Miss Warwick, what do you say to critics who claim that Dusty Springfield sounds much better than you and does far better versions of the Bacharach catalogue?
My psychic abilities are saying "This Will Not End Well."
I keep seeing Midnight Trains to Georgia and Sweet Love.
I suggest you contact Gladys and Anita right away. They can help right the current situation.
Love to Nippy.
Well, Terry Gross at R103, like I told you on that little radio show of yours, "Fresh Hair," back in 1979 (speaking of which did you ever get that bald spot reupholstered, considering the name of your show?),
Dusty does not "sound better." She does not "sound" like anything. Because she's dead. If she sounds like anything it's the fffffffffffffffftttttttt of gas escaping from those well-pickled remains.
Maybe you DON'T want to ask what happened to bring this about, Terry. Maybe you don't want to ask about what happens to those who allow slander about my paramount, pinnacled and priss-teen position at the peak of popular people-pleasing power pop to occur before an audience of - what, Terry? - up to 94 people spread across the country in Boston, Georgetown, the Upper East Side and two blocks of Austin?
Maybe you need to bite that tongue before I have Nippy do it for you?
The superstar Dionna Warwick is to be addressed as "Miss Warwick" by commoners such as yourself in public.
Individuals wishing to call her "Miss Dionne," like Miss Cleo, will need to recompensate Miss Warwick for her friendship.
Cash, credit cards, PayPal and Western Union accepted. Sorry no checks.
Thank you, Darienn'n at R106. As the President of the Eastside and Hogland Miss Warwick Fan Joynt in Ottumwa, Iowa, I am gratified for your kindly brown-shirting the mob for me. Speaking in Damont's name remains the approved communication mode, owing to his prison tats and well-known profile from Big House Relationship web sites, and also from Hotfelon dot com.
Just in case any potential offenders lack the attention span for your thorough explanation, please allow me to break it down for the less-literate:
Miss Warwick shall answer to any name from a tongue that has a five dollar bill wrapped around it.
But, dear one, I fear that my efforts here lack the attention and interest to warrant further investment of my limited conscious-and-sober time. If I had an inkling any of my fan base were bovering to read, I would continue my scrapbooking/journaling effort here. But in the meantime, your support has been soiled gold, as we used to say when Danny would dance by in those white pants with a set of lube rings around the back of them, like a target just begging for an arrow.
So I canned that useless hoovering has-been Carrie Fissure (8 ounce cans, a whole shitload of them. Lupella's not speaking to me.) and hired me a new ghost writer. Some fat Limey broad named E. L. James.
Fifty Shades of Creme-Brulee (new working title)
by Miss Warwick
Chapter 2 "Defloration/Deforestation
He came back to me unexpectedly and brought a friend. Hal, he said. I still was aching with bruising pain from the last session, in which he used he stretched my vocal cords farther than I though possible with his incredibly wide half-octave melodies. My mouth and voice wasn't made for a bwana's talent like that.
"Now," he said, "I'm going to gag you on lyrics so thick people are going to think you're singing duets through your nostrils and that you really are too dizzy from the suffocation of our two-man pummeling of music that you really cannot read a map and know the way to San Fucking Jose.
And then they did it to me. Gave me another hit. Spread me wide on the cover of a score of magazines and driving Petula Clark out of men's car radios, their fat oil-encrusted fingers pinching and turning the knobs with evil force until they found me, trapped me in the clench of their fiendish taste for glorified bubble-gum and a sassy faux Latin beat.
I was used. USED. And just when I didn't think I could take any more in that dark, hot studio, they flipped me over and told me, "Now we're going to make you do a B side." I quivered with a combination of rage and excitement. Because I really needed to smoke-n-pee break.
Burt was like the Devil, and Hal was like his whip.
-----------What the shitting fuck is this crap? Who is this bitch? DAMONT, bring her to me!!!! NOW!!!!!!!
So she says in that phony English accent like she was an English bitch which she was but it still sounds phony when they talk because who talks like that. she says, "I'm a best-selling writer and have sold enough paper to fill houses all over the world." And I says, "So fucking what? So has Charmin and at least the shit isn't on it already when you buy the stuff."
Then she says, "I have liberated women all over the globe to embrace their desire to accept humiliation at the hands of a nasty man with a big cock and thus come to terms with their vaginas." And I says, "So fucking what? I have been screwing people all over the globe for decades by setting up a mannequin on stage, turning on a tape deck, and taking a nap backstage while the same old shit plays over and over. Ka-Ching, bitch. The only thing that makes this vagina ache is those little cracks it gets when I run out of my ladycream."
Then she says, "I am a masochist." And I says, "Then you're going to love this." And I punched her stupid teeth out.
Now I need another ghost writer. Plus that nutzy thing is now living in the street outside my place here in Rio watching my window and begging Lupella to give me a necklace she made out of her teeth because she's in love with me. Do I look like I spell my name with a O?
LUPELLA!!!!!!!! HEAT UP THAT DEEP FRYER WITH THE GREASE IN IT!!!!! NO, WE ARE NOT MAKING CHICKEN!!!!!!!
Listen here you two-bit hussy and low rent swindler. I jest forked over 3K for a private reading, fortune telling special at your whack ass web site, and those extra special lucky numbers got me a big, fat ZERO. Bigger than those caverns you call nostrils. I want a refund, NOW, with an extra 2K for pain and suffering. And some of that fried chicken too, bitch.
Dear Ms. Starkist "Tuna Surprise" Jones,
I am so sorry the future our excellent and professional prognostificationitorium services produced a future for you that is bleak and sad. Alls I can say is that one free look in your mirror and a quick scan of your banking records could have offered you a similur result: Your future is as flabby as that deflated sack of giblets and chitterlings you call a body.
If you will direct your pop-and-yet-squinty-eyed gaze (Is it thyroid, dear, or just your personality? It always looks like if you didn't hold those lids half shut like a demented Chinaman your eyeballs would fall into your soupy lap) to the terms of your service in the small print on page 201, paragraph 1,352, subparagraph 111(c)1-43, you will note that you signed off on accepting whatever I flunged at you like a finger-flicked booger and agreed that you could never say boo about it on pain of an immortal hoo-doo heebee-jeebee curse on those elephantine hooves of yours.
Since you have dared break the trust you signed to, you can expect both that my attorneys at Holland, Dozier, Flem and Holland will be in touch and that a crop of plantars warts are going to hit your feet like a plague of toadstools on a rotten hunk of swampwood.
And may I say, "Tough Shit."
And may I say that, for your information, that dinner of Scandinavian Plank-Fried Chicken you dines on the last time you were at a soiree at my L.A. bungalow axually was Norway Rat a la lighter fluid and a match.
Bone appateet, bitch. And love ya. By the way (or should I say Buy the Weigh?), have you found you another gay man to chase - obviously you need the exercise.
r6 to [R infinity] I hope you find love
Damont at R106, isn't it true that Miss Dionne (tell the bitch to use her psychic powers to predict if I'm gonna pay her for calling her that) was actually born Diane. Ya know, like Diane Ross? Why doesn't Miss Dionne do a duets album with Miss Ross and call it FOREVER DIANE?
Which one's bigger? Miss Dionne's nostrils or Miss Ross's ego?
Which one is stinkier? Miss Dionne's breath or Miss Ross's reputation?
Nippy 's dead a whole year. What happened to the tour? When will you be on Leno?
Sweetness, I know when my little postettes have lost their appeal, and so I have been quietly making my plans without sharing them for fucking free here. But thank you for your interest and if you really give a shit you will send me money at the Brasil address I have postated many times here. Got the hint?
But of course if and when I notice that people truly are interested in hearing about my fabulous life again - it's only a matter of time - I shall be back like a recurring infection.
But I do plan to go to Rome for the Papal Eelection. I hear those cardinals are in there for a week doing nothing but "white smoke." I love me some Tuscany Alba - primo cannabiso, baby.
And when those red shoes go on sale at the Ratzinger auction, I'm bidding. He looks like a size 8 - I can do that. Or maybe like Dorothy he's going to click his heels and go back home to - where is it? The Wolf's Lair or some shit?
And Nippy is only dead, not gone, so get over it. She's right here with me at the moment, trying to eat some of that buffalo fish I had Lupella fry up. Swallowing doesn't get her very far but she sure liked chomping on things. I plan to take her to see Cissy after reading excerpts of that nasty bio to her. Nippy will be wanting to chew the fat with her mama, if you know what I mean.
You are a fantastic writer and satirist, and can inhabit more than one persona. Most promising is what you can say through them.
You are a fucking riot too.
Deadly funny, irreverent, freakishly observant and disciplined enough to never let sympathy get in the way.
Sympathy has a place in your future work.
I guess you will return, but I hope that you know that that your audience can be bigger and less fickle than this. Perhaps it is.
You are better than this dump, Miss Warwick.
Here is a bleak house. You are made for much brighter things.
Sorry to break the wall, but I waited till you broke the thread. Too small to save....
Good luck, find a way to not get sued.
Compliments don't pay.
Thanks, R115. But I didn't get any cash with it.
Show the love, baby. Show the love. That eczema is back and they're keeping the cream behind the glass now, so I have to pay. Rio is changing since I got here, for some reason.
But fuck sympathy. The cloak of my divine humanity is solid gold. Call it impathy.
I met her once in the American Airlines club in SF. I thought she was an obvious lesbian. She was dressed in sweat pants and that baseball cap. She was reading a book about how to win at lotto. We talked about the theories in the book. She was nice, tough and masculine. We talked for a couple of hours in-between flights. Everyone, except me, left her alone - they must have recognized her. She was nice, didn't want to talk much about her music. I thanked her for what her song, "That's What Friends are For", which meant a lot to me, because I had lost a lover to aids and many friends, too. I have heard about the missing money from that foundation, it was a big scandal when it came out. I wish her well. I like her music and listen to her stuff all the time.
I remember you, R117. You had that orange scarf around your neck like a python, a combover and a dead front tooth. Reminded me of Della Reese without the color.
Yak yak yak. Couldn't get the snap on your bag open, bitch, no matter how long I tried. Oh, not to be harsh - always glad to know my talent has uplifted the low. But what have you done for me lately, for all I've done for you.
And by the way. I am NOT one of those women-women. I just dress for comfort and I do try to travel in-cog-neato. You know, to avoid yak yak yak.
And you could have bought me a drink, you know. Or two.
I'm so glad to be in Switzerland, away from the drama.
I never have to worry about money again! I have it all, darling - deutsche marks (or euros), dollars AND my American Express does quite nicely, thank you!
This thread has been hijacked by a boring troll - BYE.
Sweetheart, go to the top of the thread and observe the invocation of my magnificence before you leave your little goat raisin of petulance behind. You are the hijacker, you tedious, weepy and sad sot.
And you don't even know what you are reading here. Something more than reading glasses and Depends needs to be changed here for you to work it. You don't even know an homage - backhand-style - when it's offered.
By all means, start a thread about your brush-up with me in an airport. I accept all praise, so long as it's wrapped in a Ulysses Grant at a minimum. But don't presume just because you've escaped your nurse and are using the computer at the nurses' station.
And fuck you, too, Annie Mae. Mainly because I know you love it. But do you miss the fist, honestly, dear one? Do you?
I got a fist for you, bitch. Well, one finger.
GUESS WHICH ONE!!!
Damn it, Demente, you make me so mad! I have to meditate and center myself again.....
NAM MYOHO RENGE KOW...I mean KO.....
[quote] But don't presume just because you've escaped your nurse and are using the computer at the nurses' station.
Well, that bitch was just TOLD.
I am fixing to head on over to Europe with all this Catholic shit going on. Word on the street here in Rio is that some black pope is gonna come in. Like hell - I know that Ghana guinea and he is going nowhere without paying me back the value of the tokum smokum (as he called it in Latin) I gave him when I was touring through his pathetic shithole of a country.
And don't be saying that the Diva Dionne has no business messing with those Catlickers - if they have all those churches to John the Baptist and I was raised Baptist, shit, we might even be related.
So all I gotta do is find a tramp steamer wanting some entertainment for the crew and me and Cindi and Damont and Nippy will be heading back to the Old World for a bit. Fuck, any party that ends with enough smoke to come out a stove pipe has got to be fun. And Nippy looks enough in her current state like a lot of priests I have known that I might stick a cassock over her so those bones sticking out her leg don't show.
Wish me all the success I deserve - in His name. A-fucking-men.