I told you that this diva would head for Rome to sort some of this shit out, and me and my entourage have made it just in time.
I figured, hell, I'm between gigs and there's a pile of rich men assembling - even if they've got more red dresses than a whore's wedding party - and I am sick of all the mess in the news, taking attention away from me. Someone needs to sort it out, and since I have been called divine I figured what the fuck.
So Cindi, Damont, Nippy and me settled into a cabin - well, a life boat, okay? - on a trawler and then with Nippy's help convinced the crew to take a detour. Got it across to the Mediterrwhatever and up the Tiber until it scraped bottom.
As I said, people (I'm looking at you, Anna Mae) complained about my plans. They say I'm not Catholic. Well, I'm a Baptist and so was that head John, so it all comes to the same thing. Plus it seems to me the last bunch to leave this decision to is the bunch of Holy Marys who've been running things. I mean, what's next out of them? Some humpback Dago with callouses on his nose from how far it's been up the Ratz' ass?
Damont got him a Swiss Guard outfit and a red wig. Nippy is stored in some marble box in the Big Church till we need her. John Paul something is on the lid - and she's got something to chew on until it's time for her reveal. Cindi is my Holy Moley Assistant although I keep telling her a short black nighty is NOT standard cassock material. And I am in my Crimson Glory. I just added some fringe to one of my red sweatshirts and popped on a Cardinals baseball cap with the rim cut off. Although I have my trousseau ready for the Camp Out in the Sistine.
Since these assholes are so racist they don't even know how many Afro Cardinals there is, I am posing as Dionysius Cardinal Warwick of the Zulu Nation. Had trouble getting it all on my name tag. I skipped my weekly lip wax and the effect is perfect. No problems yet. They're all drunk with the big farewell party - and such fancy cups on that fancy table.
I'm singing later - I was going to do "Do You Know the Way to San Jose" but when I mentioned it they kept saying which one cuz there are twelve of them in Rome. WTF? So I fixed on "Say a Little Prayer" and "Heartbreaker" and I'll slip in a "Sacred" in front of it for context. I might just sit in Ratz' lap, if I think it will break his hollow hips.
Gotta go. Some old man in purple with yellow skin (bad combo) is feeling Cindi's hem with a nasty look in his eye.
Yeah. That's Bishop Ragazzostronzo. He's the one who though Cindi was a castrato choirboy. She kicked him in the pignolis before I could get there.
You never would know that at these curia functions they add bugle beads, sequins, feathers and little hosts made out of mother of pearl to their gowns. I saw Valentino in the background shaking out a train. Donatella's here, too, but they make her work from behind a screen, because she's only a woman, they say, and would defile the sanctuario. Shit, with all that work she's as much a natural woman as one of these Mary statues they've got up all over the place. And her tits DO look like marble at this point. Veiny, like gorgonzola, too.
Anyshit, back to the party. His Soon-To-Be-Less-Than-Holy was doing a waltz with his assistant, Bishop Dreamy, who was crying his little heart out. I think I'll slip a little fun powder into the punch, whatchasay?
Hooray! Miss Warwick is on the move again!
This is sooooooooo played.
D. Ross, the Boss
Diane, just because you are now picking up your wigs from "The Lion King's" dumpster and wearing those Wasp Women pants of yours to watch the great granddaughters do Suzuki violin doesn't mean you're the boss of anything but Mary Wilson's last nerve.
SOMEONE has to be the Ambassadress of Soul in today's sad and confused times, and Pope is just Pop with an e on its ass. I know more about the soul than these boylickers, and I know more about pop than your weaselly little face. So go, Bitch. And give my love to Flo Ballard's ghost tonight, which I hear just sits on that lonely bed post and laughs at you all the way to dawn.
If I get elected Pope in this gig, the first thing I'm gonna do is canonize Flo, as a Martyr to the Cause of Decent Music.
Are you volunteering to fill the thurible, Miss Warwick? Somehow, I imagine hilarity to ensue...
Baby, if I have my way a lot of old white men and a few yellow and gray ones too are going to be getting looser than they've been since their last sleepover at the seminary.
The incense pot (thurible my ass - ain't no one is going to get a chance to censor MY performance) is gonna be SMOKING with my own special blend, and you just wait until you see the color of the smoke coming out of their smoke-signal pope pipe once I get them.
By the way, I don't know how many nuns they have on their hands and knees cleaning this place, but it shines just like Re's forehead after an encore. Not like the Rome I saw when Burt sneaked me out behind Angie's bony back for that weekend in 1966. Talk about squalor. Doing my lady business in that hotel toilet after a plate of snails carbonara left it looking cleaner than when I sat down. Fuck, that man was cheap.
So I am stuck in my Cardinal Dionysus outfit but I still plan to see me some scenery and do some shopping. I gather that they're all used to the Holy Stogies running around like celebrities. But, damn, all this mumbo jumbo at their ceremonies. With all that hokum how would anyone even KNOW if someone started speaking in tongues like a proper Christian filled with the spirit does? The only spirit I've seen here is a bottle of Benedictine on every desk. All this Latin sure is Greek to me.
Damont says he's taught the Swiss Guards how to play craps and that he might bring me a nice boy with a big pike after he squeezes them for their winnings. Ordinarily the idea of strip craps sounds a little nasty to me, but when in Rome, baby - When in Rome.
Word is that they reallllllly want to give it all to another Eye-talian. Shit. I'm picking out my new Pope name already. So far I'm liking Mark VII, Pope Prince Michael II, or Chiffon I. In HIS name.
Back to the party. They were just in there playing Pin the Tail on Muhammad and I needed me a smoke.
Miss Warwick, shouldn't that be "censer" your performance?
Things just aren't the same when Miss Dionne is gone.
Do I look like Dr. Bill Cosby, Ed.D. and that I give a shit, R9? I am incensed you question my command of the dialogical constructs of the English langitude, all for a pun. Are we not above that sort of cheap humor here? I mean, really.
(Damont, change it to "censor" in my memoir draft and put a LOL after it in case the dumbshits reading it don't get the joke. And tell Cindi to draw me a bath. Don't use the Holy Water tap, though. Makes my skins burn.)
So good to have you back, Miss Warwick!
Enjoy Rome, and tell those Vatican bitches "Hi" from me.
Hmmm. So the old thing is stealing from the Johnny Carson playbook. A big send-off the night before full of celebrities, and then a quiet clip show with his intimates the last day. But then he switches to Nixon territory, and takes off in a copter to his hideout. Maybe we'll see a couple of V signs in between all the Xs. Anyshit, glad to see him out of here and for the real business to get going.
I did hear one of those naughty French cardinals say something about the Ratz fleeing the sinking ship.
BUT to more impotent things. I got a good look at that Ghana dude. He's hot hot hot. Smoking. But then he says in a naughty way he wants to hear my confession. Shit. I don't like those chatty ones with the fetishes. So I says in my best Zulu accent (to keep my cover), "You ain't the Pope of me." And I turn and walk. And I can feel his gaze on my shimmy as a recess. Get thee behind me, indeed.
OK. Time for a nap. I sent Damont down to check on Nippy. I know she isn't liking laying there in that sarcophagus, but she attracts too much attention. What with the gathering darkness and small sparks that surrounds her. Like I said, she's stashed in with some JPII guy. Chomp chomp.
Okay. So he's gone. And no sooner than the sound of the rotors drowned in the roar of the Roman traffic but these cardinals looked Different. Like you expect Kate Beckinsale to step out of a shadow with black leather hip boots and a silver stake in her hand. Standing and pulsating in little red clots of conspiracy and deal-making, all sinister smiles with little bumps under their bottom lips where you know the fangs are. A velvet shroud of malevolence spreading like a shadow out across the City and into the world, where so many have suffered from their misdeeds and absolute arrogance of power.
I'm loving the shit out of it.
I thought I'd be out of my element here, but it's just like backstage at the Grammys on a year with a dress code. Any time one of them comes up to me to hassle I just start talking jive and they think it's my native Zulu dialect. I'm being like that fool in "Being There" with most of them, and I'm slipping the others the tongue during the Kiss of Peace. Seems to be working my way so far.
At least I don't have to deal with any of my usual suspects. It's a whole different set of Diva Bitches here. I love a challenge. And I'm learning a lot about this here Casino Maximus with Sacred Buffet and Sweet Wine Chaser. Who ever would have thought Mancel and Lee's little Marie Dionne Warwick would one day be in the running to be a Pope?
Other than me, I mean.
I even found me a big-ass old jeweled hard hat that my old beehive hairdos would fit under perfectly. All the church ladies in my family should switch form polyester to metal.
Although I did hear the sound of brittle shit hitting the floor when I came parading out in it.
Yewra right lorra lorra laffs, ya old slag!
Thou shalt not steal, bitch, Miss Cilla Black. And since your entire career has been nothing but pilfering my music and falling down drunk caterwauling it, I just might send of the Vatican's flying monkeys out to chew your ass down to a 64. I heard your last performance outfit was an wrap-job installation by Christo, honey.
Sister-In-Christ Dionne, I just heard some papal bullshit you ain't gonna BELIEVE. That Ghanian playa is Reverend Bernice King about to bogart the number one spot on the Catholic Adult Contemporary Countdown right out from under your broad nose. Watch your ass girl, 'cause Bernice is with a weathered eye. She's the one kept Da Brat in prison whites and Ramen noodles. So I've heard, and Nippy may remember from one of Clarice Foster's party how Bernice loves to eat her some host.
Creflo would love to get her ass outta town, but you are the Staffordshire I got in THIS fight. Have a bless day girl.
Sister Taffi, I bless you for the info. I would shake one of these holy water shower heads your way, but I know you do not like water to come too close. After the baptism incident. You ask me, full immersion always is a risk when someone like Creflo in the dunking position.
I wondered where that good-for-nothing daughter of Satan's Evil Colon (I can get into this Catholic shit) was hiding. In plain sight, apparently. I thought that stubble on Turkeyson looked familiar. NOW I know why she/he was looking at my caboose. Bernice always wanted to swing. Except when it comes to swinging she's the type you expect to see doing it from a vine.
No, Nippy is in no position to remember anything at the moment. She was starting to wail down in that tomb - I guess she finished the leftovers and is feeling the hunger. I had Damont march around in his Swiss Guard outfit during siesta (which apparently last 12 hours here in Rome) telling the tourists that the place is haunted by the Holy Ghost.
We got MORE meetings this evening. All these cardinals do is drink and gossip. I've seen more frontrunners lose their position in the last 24 hours than at Santa Anita in a soaker.
Shit. There's Nippy again. I think I better go move her. I'll just declare a canonization and say I'm moving some Virgin Martyr to a fresh box for viewing. God, these people love looking at corpseseses. It's like a cross between a whorehouse and a morgue slab down there in Petes's Place.
I did make the mistake of wearing some red pumps yesterday. Apparently I gotta hold off on my Christian Louboutins until I get electified.
Shit. Yes, Cindi! I hear her! I'm coming!
Nippy's loose in the Vatican. Fuck! I had to get that bashed-up John Paul rock box put together again before some asshole here declared An Assumption. Hair triggers with these people now that Old Ratz flew the coop. Plus I didn't want anyone to see the bite marks on the little that was left.
I've got Damont laying bait all over - prosciutto a la coke - and maybe we can get this thing under control. I can just see Nippy turning up in the middle of one of their mass things and them closing the place down for a fucking exorcism.
I can't afford any delays here. I need to get myself popafied by March 15 so when my tickets go on sale for my gig at the Mega-Wampum Indian Casino (Up a Dakota's ass somewhere. Which I think is in Canada) I can guarantee a full house and add some nights to the one morning matinee they got scheduled.
My feet hurt. All this marble is bad for my corns. At least when I'm electored they've got that Cleopatra thing to carry me around. Let Re try to upstage THAT.
Miss Warwick, I never thought it possible that you knew the way [italic]from[/italic] San Jose, but here you are. I mean no disrespect by that.
If you take a smoke break, won't you confuse the Vaticanese that a new Pope has been elected? I suggest brownies and failing that, discretion.
Now that you're becoming the head sorceress in charge of the Whore of Babylon, are you finally gettin' those perpendicular-ass teeth fixed, deah?
Come, come ye saints and Pay Lay Ale for ladies ...
I ain't got time for this shit, Gladys. What so bad about being able to park a Pepsi can on my teeth while I'm lighting a Kool?
But listen, bitch. I declare your fat ass anathema and excommunicate you. I can do that as a cardinal. I don't know what it is, but I can do it, and I'm sure it means big trouble for you. So as you waddle over to the Mormon-asshole Saints Unified Choir you're slogging your time with, remember that I got a special demon aiming to pull your piddly soul through your asshole like an immortal tapeworm and carry it down to the Deep South.
I do love this Catholic Magic and Hoo-Doo. I even read they can change water into wine, baby. I'm figuring that one out as soon as we find Nippy.
DAMONT!!!!! Have you checked the catacombs?????
Would you like to get a witness Dee? Gladys will need one to sign them receivership papers on her greasy spoon, 'cause a word from Creflo about a discount at Checkers with your church program and it won't be nothing but memories in ALL four corners of that dining room come Sunday. And that'll be the last paper you ever see with your name followed by "chicken and waffles" on it unless you autograph a Lay's chip bag, Gladys, so save the overtime on those flapping gums for later.
Sorry 'bout Whitney getting loose Sisterfriend Warwick, but we sho are rootin' for you in the pageant on the 15th. On bended knee I await my glory (speaking of flapping gums, Creflo wants his husbandly prerogative and he did pay for these fillings).
Reverend Sister Taffi.
Just to let you know, in return for your fine work with that gap-toothed Midnight Train to Nowhere, I am using my new powers to elevate you to Reverend Mother Electress Deaconess Prioress Taffi Dollar, OSJ OSM.
These Catholics have even better titles than Bishop Jakes has come up with.
And if you keep if up I may name you a Monsignorette.
But one thing, sweet one. What the fuck is it with that low-slung Mississippi Delta talk? I thought you had gone boojie. I mean, we DO have our dignity, don't we, bitch? Well, to each. Since I am faking it in Latino or whatever they call it here (I was informed I told Cardinal Scola "Your balls were tender in vinegar," when I meant to say "Get the fuck moving in this buffet line."
Gotta run. I have a mass thing to go to - I think Nippy might be hiding in a Confessional there because they heard the priest in it shout "Holy Jesus What Did You Do to That Kitten??!!"
If you see Benny Hinn tell him his balls are going to be tender in vinegar by the time I'm done with him. He owes for that last pack of rocks and my guy has been breathing hard down my neck about it.
Oh, I did hit the papers today by excommunicating Roberto Benigni. On principle. Keeping myself in the PR loop for the locals.
So one of the little cute bishopy things told me about what these Catholics are doing at their mass. Body and Blood, the real thing, changed from the Wheat Thins and Muscatel.
Why didn't I know this shit? What the fuck is going on here! Don't you people get it???? DON'T YOU SEE WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!?!????
SOYLENT GREEN IS JESUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Miss Warwick, could you please tell us about the time you were backstage at the Soul Train Awards and you locked Diana Ross in the bathroom? Please.
I'm looking down at you from Switzerland, darling.
Be careful when you ask for a cardinal - it doesn't mean a red jay and you can't smoke it, girl.
[quote] Cilla Black
Miss Warwick, please do a good work for the infirm and send Damont or somebody to go kick Miss Ratzi Thing's ass. She just started a thread about some [italic]Golden Girls[/italic] bullshit and it's PISSING ME OFF. Just because I'm completely immobile from multiple stroke-outs doesn't mean I am NOT the one.
Anna Mae, didn't it bother you when you were standing there on stage in your Proud Mary mini without any panties and it looked like two flaps of old raw pig liver slapping against each other? We are all so glad you have plenty of time to do nothin up on that mountain. Don't slip, girlfriend. I've seen your recent pics and you are built to roll now. And my understanding is that her original name was "Cilia Blackhead" but someone thought if she was gonna steal my songs she should steal my race, too. Bitch.
Sister Mother Angie Jell-O, I will be sending Damont over to Castle Gandalf this week to settle some scores. I found out his crozier is hollow and he uses it like a bong with some of that good Munich Munchie Mix. For his "chronic woes of the spirit and Arthur Ritis." And there I was sitting there through that yap marathon of his wondering why he had that stupid lop-eyed grin on his face. I assumed it was because the demon possessing him stepped out to take a piss. So he's a fucking piker. That and his being a reactionary, cold-blooded, smug asshole.
Oh, sorry to hear you're still alive, Sis. It must kill you not to be able to sit in front of the camera with that toothless wet gob of yours asking for money. Well, I guess not if you're still alive. When you see the Devil, tell him I'll call him back later. Oh, and I have announced that Betty White is a saint and that people should go ahead and start grabbing her relics for church purposes. Never mind that she's still moving, I said. It's a Mystery.
Not that much to tell, R25. As you know I hosted all the early shows. Diana showed up and pretended that Don had called her to receive a "Better than Dionne Warwick Lifetime Achievement Award." This was about the time she was wearing those real heavy wigs - about six of them - all at once so you'd see her coming and think it was a herd of yaks. Anyway, that hair was loaded with moths, and they kept dropping their wing dust into her mouth and shit, which is a poison. Good, I say. But it made her even more loco than usual. So there she is, talking backward and wearing a green hula hoop for a headband (She called it her Tee-Aira.) and heaving herself to the stage, where Luther was trying to convince people he like women. So I pulled the Lady Glock I kept in my handbag and swung it up into her face. Well, it smacked her in the nose - that pug pickle she had it pared down to. It started spurting blood, and it was eating through the floor and stage curtain and everything, just like you'd expect. So I kicked her ass towards the stage can (I loved that place in Santa Monica.) and locked her in with a broomstick through the bolt. She was screaming and climbing the walls, but finally bled enough to shut up. I forgot about it and apparently she was left in there about two weeks. Even those sweet girls of hers didn't say nothing. And when they let her out she had lost so much weight she sent me a shitload of orchids as a thank you. God, that bitch never could sing. But she mastered the phrase, "Oh Barry It's Too Big" at a critical moment and that was that.
I have continued to exact my revenge, as the link shows.
[quote] God, that bitch never could sing. But she mastered the phrase, "Oh Barry It's Too Big" at a critical moment and that was that.
dying....tears...laughing rolling down my face OMFG this is the SHIT!
And of course I meant Berry. This fucking Latin is getting me cross-eyed. Or it could be the damned incense. At least it kills the bugs on the third world cardinals here.
Dee, you put the "card" in cardinal honey! That thighslapper about the glory days backstage . . . Shirley Caesar had only heard an incomplete version in which you went uncredited (slick girl, slick!), which I had the joy of her sharing with me over a glass of Mogen-David, and purportedly the inside kiki at the Grammy's that next year was that Diana had come down with that white girl's disease (always trying to "pass") from trying on an old dress of Bones Carpenter's at Santa Monica Salvation Army, and the zipper nicked her and drew blood when she BUSTED it. Shirley said Aretha's evil ass was skinny for a few weeks around that time & kept locking the lady's room door from the inside and shutting it on her way out before asking Diana things like, "When are you due?" and "How many calories in baby batter I wonder?" just to see if she would run over and jimmy the knob. You're the one who got everybody calling her "The Toss" aren't you, Dee?
Must run. Holla atcha after last ca-- vespers Your Eminemcy!
I smell smoke....
But it's not white smoke.......
And we have elected .....
Dionysis Warwick of the Zulu Nation, who has assumed the name Pope Cheeba I!
Let's not get ahead of ourselves, dear. I was just blowing some Vatican Va-Va-Voom up the old pipe to make sure my election would be recorded with sufficient lift. Unfortunately I only have 1/35th of my original breath capacity left and rely on hamster implants in there to get the wind going. Little wheels or something. I'm not medical in my thinking.
But, Mother Taffi, please do know that my memory sometimes is embellished by the fabulosity of my divine prerogatives. My psychic counselor called it "Sigh-Kosis" or shit like that. It just means that I remember a lot of things as they should have been, because people need the uplift of my grandness to be consistent. YOU KNOW, Taffi, it has been a roller coaster of a life for me. Them challenges have prepared me for this upcumming elevation to my new gig!
Still no Nippy. I am shitting bricks. And these fucking Italian toilets can't handle it. Parking my divabottom on a 15th century commode is a sad enterprise. Solid gold is nothing without sufficient oomph in the flush.
You don't understand...the cardinals think you are the new pope!
What is a Nippy? Is she a saint?
Darling. Blessings. Don't try to rush the narratives. That gaggle of Armenians in dirty shifts is not the cardinals, baby. They are the sad pathetic underbelly of My Church.
If you are possessed, I know a good exorcist. Place is crawling with them. Otherwise chill. And there's no Cheeba in this Papess's future. We shall determine our name when the good time comes.
And if you truly need to ask who Nippy is, darling, it proves the point.
Be at peace to love and serve - Me.
But she IS a pushy one, isn't she Ratzi? The Swiss Guards have said she does nothing but walk around in a burnt housecoat smoking. Tragic.
Georg, the bitchy one
Damont. Since you have been unable to locate our Nippy even if she has managed to keep quiet in the belfry or wherever she is out cracking rats' knuckles for nibbles, I'll give you a chance to redeem yourself.
Please take the enclosed sealed scroll of Holy Orders from me, and carry them out. You will see it is time to visit the dishy vicar - uh, bishop - and straighten him out on the new order of things here. I've got 14 Italians under my ochre thumb at this point, and have the goods on that Ghana worm, who has some secrets s/he would preferitate not to have PRd. I've also picked up some special snaps of the German and American cards. - you know, candid poses with their "special friends," showing an unusual way to work through the beads with a snap. So I've been doing E-FUCKING-NUFF without this distraction coming at me.
You go to Castle Gandalf. You take Cindi with you. You both sit that Kraut and his Ratzi down and 'splain to them how it's gonna be. And I want two ring fingers brung back to me to seal the deal. And we are gonna use them for Nippy Bait. I need that girl with me when the concave or whatever starts up, and it's looking like they want to get it going in a week.
I'll be "prayerfully and humbly" soliciting votes with the Spicks today.
And, Damont. Tell your fellow Swish Guards on the way out that it is not a housecoat but a technicolor dream coat like in the Bible, and it is not ciggies I am smoking but His One Way To Paradise Special In-Scents Blend. It helps me see the Light, as you know.
R38 Who is that with the Swiss guards? *rubs eyes*
It looks like...but...it can't be. If I didn't know better, I'd say that was Tina Turner....
There I was in my new robes looking like the Queen of Diamonds under all that scarlet sitting in YET ANOTHER FUCKING MASS staring up at the monster baldy-chino thing over their mass table at St. Pete's when I see Nippy up there. She's made a nest or something with all them little naked angels and she started a pee (I thought she had all dried up in there by now). A fucking pee. Thank Jebus the place has more leaks than the Reagan White House. They just had a couple altar boys lay down on the wet and the cardinals at the sanctuary just stepped on them to keep their slippers dry.
I am working on a plan to get her down. Cindi ate the bait, so that won't work.
Looks like I can slip out tonight to get out on the town, as MYSELF THE DIVINE MISS WARWICK. Roma is a nice place and it is sooooo easy to pick pockets by those fountains. Finally some spaghetti. All they serve in Vat-Can is sauerkraut and sausage, like monkey arms. THAT is gonna change when I am eeelected.
Lawd Dee, I didn't mean to leave you hanging, but yesterday was an important one in mine and Creflo's ecclesiastrological calendar: First Sunday After Government Checks Are Mailed. You know we had to make that paper. And guess what -- I thought of a way to make it rain a little for our next Papess (that'd be your ass, sister).
Creflo always gets frisky when the congregation ponies up for the afterlife's necessities first (salvation child -- we DO offer lay-away), instead of just plain old life's necessities like food and liquor (Jesus that'd be a fiasco). He was hittin' me from behind, and instead of following my mother's advice about "Just close your eyes and think of Oakland" I actually wondered WHY Creflo wanted to smoke it from the back, and in the midst of my fears about potential pederasty while remembering to grunt like I could feel it, in cuntrapunto, THIS occurred to me:
One of the ceaseless stream of youngsters playing the role of Arnold's poor little friend in the Atlanta church community's ongoing revival of the "He Touched Me" episode of Diff'rent Strokes got shipped off to hush it up, and guess where to honey? That's right.
His climber of a mother tells everyone he represents Xerox's "interests abroad," but he doesn't do shit but service the copiers in THE VATICAN (he also services old white sissies up in there, but who in the world is surprised by that?) I was at Western Union right after lunch today, and here is what we got for the euros I sent him.
Get you a DaVinci Code Tour Self-Guided Audio headset and follow it to #14 on the cassette. Stop. Turn right. You are facing a door, behind which is a machine and a box labelled "White Toner," which to you and the Italians may heretofore have meant nothing, but I'M telling YOU ain't no such thing. Try a rail or two and see if that copier
isn't all of a sudden looking you in the funbags humming "Put 'Em On The Glass" (whether you do or not, that cocoa catamite set the access code to MSG2MYKL . . . I thought that might come in handy if you need to run off fake ballots, too -- get Damont or Cindi to handle it).
Hope this helps some. I can't do much, but every little bit, right? Thanks for telling me about lapsing into dialect. I got kicked out of Jacks and Jills before the Elocution Lady came.
Your posts are WAY too long, OP. Brevity is the soul of wit, and your posts are in desperate need of some wit.
Who are you talking to R43? Miss Warwick is the OP, and I am in no need, desperate or otherwise, of your raggedy two cents.
But let me be brief: suck it.
I take a break from my night out in Rome to note that people with short attention spans should limit their reading to what they find on the toilet stalls they frequent. Like I give a shit about what some pinch-ass has to say when a fine drag on some of this Sicilian Sizzleweed sets my loquacious side to jawboning.
Damont, make a note about that fool and remind me when I am visiting the States in my new role as Holiness to plant a ruby slipper up her cunt.
Well, they got the muzzles on these bitches here now. The Italian and German fascistos who run the VatCan have said, no talking, no getting out of line, no waves from the balcony, and no panhandling in the square offering photo ops with the next Holiness for five bucks or its equivalent in tourist currency or pills/puff/whatever gets the job done. And that old Miss Dago Thing was looking at ME at the last comment. He's first on my "donate you relices while you're alive" list when I get elected.
I'm back to 7 votes, but it's a long way to Lock-Up.
Nippy's still up on the altar top. Like a cat in a tree. Damont is throwing her hosts and marzipan to keep her quiet.
And Damont DID come back from Castle Gandalf with the two fingers from that old pope and his fuckbishop that I demanded. Damont said they just laughed and said that with their kind the fingers would grow back, and to tell me if I needed any more to just let them know. Those fuckers are worse than "That's What Friends Are For" reunion.
Can someone let me know if Re is dead yet? I can't get decent news here.
Pray for me.
Shit - just fucking with you.
Nippy got down from the altar top this morning. Thank God or whatever it was below opening time. I had slipped out for a toke - I found that if I slip a few nuggets of Pontifical Imperial Byzantine Incense from these big golden pots they've got, it not only camel flages the scent of my Mandingo Mau-Mau Mix (found me a Congolese "friend" in the Cardinals' mess hall), but it adds something divine. Anyshit, there I see Nippy sliding down one of those whacky curvy posts, and she leaps out and bites one of those Dago cardinals on the neck. Then she takes off for one of the pope boxes - hungry, I guess.
But wait. That old fucker comes waddling over to me and genuine-flecks. Tears in his eyes. Kind of zombified, but still mumbling his Latino so he almost looked normal. All these religious types are half braindead anyway.
So maybe I got another way to sway the votes. Nippy's got her some Pro-Di venom. Amen and Halleluia!
But Christ With A Diaper Full this waiting is dull as Diane Ross's last album. With a range of three notes what else would it be? BUT all this conferring and praying and back-patting. I'm holding back now, playing the "I'm so humble and the Ghost is talking to me" routine. Although it's my nature to give it a good holler and roll on the floor for Jesus.
But if I can get Nippy to behave, I could be a little closer to my sweet gig. I could play any house in the world, except Mecca maybe.
They got cable in these confessional things. Shit, I'm staying in here - bigger than that shack hole they got us staying in. That elevator looks like a sardine-and-tomato can when they all pile on for breakfast cocktails. And they call the fucking room a cell! A fucking cell!!! Racists. I'll bet those dagos don't have rooms that look like a Harry Potter dungeon. Just cause they think I'm Afro. Shit. I'm putting my feet up in this confessional and then let them look for me. They can't start their lock-up without all of us. Show them.
I think I am getting a little stir crazy. Must be cabin fever.
And I'm down to pure incense for my smokes. Christ on a cross I'm suffering here!
Miss Warwick, will you be snatching those red Prada shoes?
Sister, I snatch nothing. They will vote me in, dress me up in my paypal bridal whites, sit me up on that golden throne, and grovel to slip those ruby slippers onto my size tens.
I've been pumicing the shit out of my feet for two weeks now to get ready. With all this travel I have neglected my hygiene some, and these kickers were going a little palamino on me. I just about got most of the nails on one foot down to two inches. What color polish do you think a pope should wear on her toenails? Cause I'll need to order it by the quart and get it with me when we head into the conclave Tuesday.
Shit. I hope they let me smoke in the Sistine Canteen. At least they got a good dance floor laid in there now. You can't bugaloo on that fucking marble, and my first order when I am head cheese is to see a cardinal conga line a la the human centipede. Because these assholes are gonna be taken down a few pegs. I just found out that the "Prato Fantino" they've been calling me - which I thought meant "Exalter African," axually means "Lawn Jockey" in Wop Talk.
Have you offered the Italian government your nostrils, Miss Warwick, for use as storage for art treasures?
I resenticate your peculiar focus on my nose holes, R52. They are standard sized. For numerous species. And I am blessed to be able to snort coke with one while exhaling my two-minute-held bong smoke with the other.
Better that those pinholes the Jacksons all went for. Latoya has to go in to the outpatient once every two weeks to have her booger removed through a trapdoor in the roof of her mouth, because they don't fit out her nose and she'd suffocate otherwise. Because with all that talking she don't got time to mouth breathe.
Now leave me alone. I got to get some sleep because they've got even more fucking masses tomorrow and I gotta trot around the altar huffing the mumbo jumbo to keep my cover. Shit.
We eagerly await word, Dionysus!
I am so fucking sick of fat-ass Eyetalians with big noses and garlic breath I am about to pull of my red robes and do a "fuck me Jesus" routine with the crucifix just to get out of here. But thankfully the same tenacity that got me through singing with Gladys on my hit "That's What Friends Are For" (you know how her eyes go off in two directions? And Stevie knew when she was in the studio because he said he said her ass was so big it changed the acoustics) has seen me through this shit. So far.
Nippy's nibbles have gotten me another 20 votes so far. We got to be sneaky, so I have her dressed as ninja nun and tell everyone she is my Consecrated Virgin. I hope the effect of her zombifying them lasts long enough to get me electrified. I need 77 votes.
About these fools. That fatass Dolan is such a camera hog and there's always grease marks on his robes. And he plays with himself under that cassock. I've seen him in the altogether (it's part of our Cardinal Bonding Sessions) and he ain't got enough to fidget with.
Scola, the Milan guy YOU KNOW that old Ratzinger wants? Shit. Shifty-eyed. Reminds me of Flo back when she'd be scoring some smack and didn't want to share.
The Brazilian? Scherer? These Curio Dagos want him bad. He's one of them - and he's got a bad vibe going down in Rio. On the beach they call him "Odilo de Olhos de Peixe" because he's got them fisheyes for the bikinis. Until a speedo shows up.
Turkson, the Curia Obama? The Black Beauty of the Conclave? Ghana Manna? They think he's dumb enough to be a good front because like religious Africans he axually believes this Church shit, but they really do think black people come from being charbroiled by the devil because of a special unoriginal sin, so he's a last resort. But Lord that man is cute. And hung. I hate to see that sausage go unbunned. But I think he's the type who teases and then goes and cuts the tip of his foreskin with a nail clipper for penance. In the bonding session it looked like flower petals all around it. Shit. What a waste.
The Hungarian Erdo? Smells like a Gabor with cologne and never cracks a smile. They all give him a wide berth because they think he's knitting their names on a stole like that loony bitch in Tail of Too Cities.
Ravasi? Cardinal Hollywood? We've been snorting lines - crosses, axually. Whoever gets to the middle first gets the rest. I think he's a Gay Redbird. He always wants the other cardinals to lead when they're dancing.
And there's a lot more who think they're on the road to the soft seat in the Popemobile. There's enough ego here to put the BET Awards green room to shame. And always little soft voices and whispers and Christ this and Jesus that and Holy Mary all around the room. Phonies. Absofuckingly Transparent Phonies.
We get along fine.
But now comes the lockup. Like I'm back in the Hoboken slammer for trying to trade a little nook back in the day for a lid of Jersey Devilweed. At least the food is good, now that they've banned the German crap and are back to lasagna. So good with Riunite on ice.
I hope Re isn't having a stroke over my suckcess here. I'll bet it's killing her that she'll have to kiss my ring. I'll be sure to do a little nugget digging with that finger before those lips hit it.
Amen. One step closer to Glory!
How about Pope Malcolm X?
Dionne, you ain't foolin' no one! I bet you aren't even at the Vatican! I'd bet one of my breast reductions on it!
All you know about it is that the pope's nose is a turkey ass, Ree Ree. I don't need no Doubting Tonnage coming at me like Beelzebubba at this crucial juncture in the history of the universe and my bank account. Haven't you been seeing me on my Roman Holiday blog, bitch? Or are your fingers too fat for the keys?
Back to prayerful meditation. AKA crank hangover siesta.
Exhalted Cardinal Dionysis,
What's the update? I am ready, more so than ever, to get on the next flight to serve as your dedicated monsignore. All I need is a few altar boys for myself. SOLID GOLD BABY!!, or BAMBINO!!
Miss Warwick, now why'd you go and tell everyone that Michael Jackson used to call you his second mom, when you know that is a flat out lie? After he died, you went on CNN and told that tale. Why come?
Technically, asshole, I was telling the truth, in the way a potential pontifical potentate would. It's all about reading between the lines.
Michael Jackson used to call me a second(rate) mother(fucker). So up yours with a bell rope and a hard tug for the Angelus.
If I left a little out it's just because I didn't want his family (that old Darvon-popping phony Katherine and that nasty lech Demon Joe) to feel hurt that Michael would talk to me - ME - in such a way. I understood him. He was always so horny but he wanted to be like a real white so Bad that when he had his nose whacked off he also had five inches of his Afro-pecker taken off so he could pass. Problem was that little Mikey only had five inches to start with. Don't blame me because you don't know math, Michael, I would tell him.
Monsignor McCoo, maybe (I said maybe) I'll raise you up to be Bishop of Downtown Montgomery, Alabama (You can then be called Your Axellency), or something, but we'll have to see about you coming to Rome, baby. Most of the cute boys already are taken by the other cardinals, and I don't want you making a scene in a fountain or anything, trying to baptize the bambinos as an excuse for getting their wife beaters wet.
I got a few more votes locked. Didn't even need Nippy. I got some photos. Tawwwwww-dreeeeeee these old men. All I can say is never buy a twelve-inch saint statue used.
Oh, we're supposed to keep on the down-low when were conclaving, but I got me an iPhony up where no one is gonna look for it, so I'll be keeping in touch.
One more thing. It is spelled like you got it right, M. McCoo. There is no "us" in Dionne, but I am a sister, so it's "Dionysis." Just for a few more days. Until I get my new stage name.
Maybe something true to my color and background.
BBC says that no clear candidate for pope has come forth.
Them bitches don't even KNOW.
Looks like the little phone I snatched in wasn't damaged by the proximity to my ladyheat.
I shall keep the world informulated about what's going on in this conclave shit.
Consider it a Warwiki Leak.
Speaking of which, I think that bladder infection I picked up on my Kamchatka tour in the eighties is kicking up. Thank these superstitious hoo-doo priests for the smell of incense to cover it. I don't want no Pope Joan going on. This has the makings of Pasolini gangbang in here.
See? I pay attention to more than Re's shoveling down the hindenburgers.
Nippy's here under the floor platform they built to protect the old marble from all these cardinals' Giuseppe Zanottis. I got her here in case I need some Spook Messages or a few throats torneded out.
Shhhh. They're all standing around looking humble, trying to catch attention by being all holy holy. Gotta do the same. Assholes. I've seen more reverence in the way Deacon Jefferson used to pick Elder Pinckney's pocket when he was passed out in the floor with the Spirit-Tongues making him him talk Swahili.
This thread is a carbuncle on DL's back. Please let it die along with the OP.
This really isn't funny OP.
You both are anathematized and excommunicated, you husks of smug vacancy. Since when is the holy truth supposed to be funny?
Now fuck yourselves with your pathetic insecurities and let me get back to my carbonara.
This thread is hysterical. Don't mind the haters, Dionysis.
Most Amazing and Right Holey,
I have secured a third class ticket on Air Italia to Rome, arriving Thursday at 9 AM. Could you send the Popemobile to pick me up? I have two or ten pieces of luggage, all our costumes from the Solid Gold days, plus some stuff from a Transvestite Touring Troupe (lots of dresses and gowns in sizes XXL). I figure you can get some nun seamstresses to make some alterations.
Looking forward to kissing yur ring
Maybe it's my natural suspicion and maybe it's because I 'member a night when someone polished the floor under my camera mark with leaf lard, but you're being awfully nicey-nice. I mean I know you ain't got no career and you're as bald as the dome of St. Peter's, but what happened to your pride, girl? You been listening to "Up, Up and Away" and dying of embarrassment or something? They've been playing it with the video of that Egyptian balloon blow-up.
Well, never mind. I don't even trust my own reflection in the mirror. Looks a little like Sanford's pal Grady over there in the glass lately. But of course with all this passing as a sell-a-bait male I have had to lay off the twice-daily wax jobs. One more sacrifice for Jebus and Career. At least I can strike a match on my chin now when I need a smoke.
I could be elected by Thursday, so you come on over. I'll put you up in something the Medicis left behind. But PLEASE stop saying "costumes" and start saying "vestments." And while we're at it, I gotta stop saying "Up your pruney old ass you cocksucking motherfucker" and start saying, "After you, Cardinal Bertone. I don't mind waiting to take a shit if you need the john so bad."
Speaking of which, that little Filipino is spending a little too much time drying his hands when the Latin American are coming out of the shower. Hm.
Finally getting into full swing tomorrow. I didn't get quite as many votes in the test vote today, but I think it's because some of Nippy's converts got drained a little and used the wrong end of the pencil. But tomorrow is another fucking day, and I'm in my cardinal Scarlett to say it.
Oh - McCoo - get a message to Damont and tell him to drop me a brick of Blowcaine on the Sistine roof from a helicopter or something. I need a back-up strategy. Nippy can ninja it down for me. Thanks, BISHOP (maybe) Baby.
Well, we had a 115-way-tie this morning but it looks like this is it!!!!! They've been coy to me but I expect that white bridal dress any second.
And some of that white smoke came from my stash going up. Shit. I thought it was a cabinet. I'm surprised it didn't spark and fume but as you can see the crowd is half-stoned with the Tuscany Tom-Tom blend I had in there.
I haven't been this excited since my fifth Grammy. Holy Fuck!
They got some other guy trying on my dress first. Probably to check for poison.
I can hear the crowds! I can't wait to start the concert. First number: Deja Vu.
OK, OK. I decided right after that white bird shit on my hat that I was turning this gig down. They told me that I would be expected to be celibate and keep my hands off of men. I guess that's a thing they tell all the popes when they're elected.
Well, fuck that shit. I said they could go jump off a balcony because there was no way I'm giving up my sexual healing therapies. AND I told them this shit about not letting women in is bullcrap. And I told them I wanted not only to let gay people marry, but I wanted to do it myself like Rev. Moon and have a thousand gay couples in Pete's Square for the event. And I told them I was going sell a lot of the shit I saw laying around because not only did poor people need the dough but those papal apartments needed a serious reno job. Do you know there is not a single foot of orange shag carpet in the whole palace? Shit.
And I said that I was legalizing pot in Vatican City for all to come and toke. And that I was firing their fucking asses altogether because after the last week I SEE WHAT THEY ARE. And that I was bringing in a whole new chorus and troupe to do the Curia thing. And I said any fool who had touched a kid was heading to the Vatican Dungeon with my red slipper up his ass.
Well, with THAT they offered me a drink of Holy Water. I could see it smoking and fizzing and figured they were pulling a John Paul I on me. So I started to excommunicate the whole fucking bunch of them, but the beat me to it, nullificated and denied and excommed and generally shat on me like that bird did, and led me to a back door, put me in a taxi, and told the guy to dump me in the Tiber.
So I popped the driver with the heel of my pump and drove the cab to the airport. RIght now I'm sitting here with a miter out to collect the bread to head back to Rio. Enough of this crop of mad Dagoes. I'd have been better of taking that two-night job at the Ponderosa Steakhouse Unveiling of the New Salad Bar in Waukegan and skipped the whole thing.
Damn. I forget to collect Nippy, Cindi and Damont. Oh, well. They'll figure it out when the see that Argentinians tango down the aisle.
And that's enough of this fucking shit.
Sorry, Miss Warwick. We were hoping.
Sister McCoo has been cloistered up and no one can see her. Kinda like the last 30 years of that bitch's career.
One more thing. Why you think the new guy is walking around in black loafers?
Because the last thing I did was snatch me the ruby slippers. I realized I had them at the station. I really wanted to get back home to Rio. I figured why the fuck not, so I slipped them on (axually only the top part of my feet because those little popes only got size sevens and I'm a big girl with corns).
I clicked them together, said there's no place like home,
and found myself sitting on a corner in fucking Topeka.
Still cheaper than international airfare!
Love you, Miss Warwick. Please keep us posted when you reach your next destination.
Well, like any invoked demonic entity, honey, when I am summoned with the proper bait, I must appear. With Grimholt of the Fangy Void, baby heads and the menstrual blood of Pygmy princesses are required for an appearance. With my divine divinity, a whiff of So-Called Divas Gone Funky is all it takes! Although I prefer cold cash, you bitch.
Mavis, Mavis, Mavis. It's like Sonny in the Dallas Primate House broke into a Halloween costume store and decked himself out before the sedation dart put him down.
And if that voice gets any deeper, they'll have to keep the bitch away from the California coast because of all the whales running aground in confusion at the noise, thinking an old whale cow is in horrible pain.
But in this little clip you see the sad fact that poor Mavis Staples needs to have both her stomach and her lip treated to the procedure she's named after. Gladys told me that Mavis was hiccuping some purple drank, but I think her pacemaker set off something in that upper plate of her dentures. It weight thirteen pounds, you know. You oughta see her with a coconut when she wants another pina colada.
Now if you'll excuse me, Lupella is fixing me some pasta puttanesca and I need to make sure she understands that no real whore parts go into it.
Again - cold cash, please. My AIDS gig ain't paying like it used to - fucking "treatments," and that Rome business cost me a fucking bundle.
Any chance you may pop up on that show Dancing with the Freaky People? Or a guest arc on that SMASHes show on NBC? I hear they need someone to play a diva ready to pull down Miss Jenny Hudson...
Jennifer Hudson makes Nippy look like Alberta Einstein. If that girl ever loses her voice she'd only be fit for a job as a ladies' room doorstop. I heard someone ax her once if she ever lost her voice and she said no because she keeps it in her mouth where it belongs. Notice how she never closes her mouth? It just hangs open no matter what. And poor dear Jennifer Holliday still has a contract out on her, although no one has taken her up on it because no one thinks Miss Holliday has the fifty bucks she promised for the job.
But, anyshit, they did pitch me for Dancing with the Losers, but I said no when they wouldn't guarantee me winning AND they expected me to be ON MY FEET for the whole fucking dance routine. The whole thing. All of them. I said can't you make me look like I'm in a coma like they do on the soaps and then you can have a dream ballet with some girl in a mask? That never-be-anything Juianne Ho lost her job as Seacrest's cover and she's free. Although that little Mormon bitch backed Romney and I didn't really want her playing me even with a mask and a wig. SO no. Plus they said I couldn't take the craft service decor and leftovers home with me at night. Because Wynonna had dibs. So NO.
But thank you, small obscure fan, for your interest. And please note I am selling ring tone vocalizations now on my psychic hotline web site and I will also send you your lucky numbers and my personal recipe for a good bunion foot soak if you act NOW.
So move it.
How the fuck do you get into the little fishes when the key on the tin breaks off????