Has Anybody Seen My Douche?
It’s true, I’ve been a bad little blogger, as the real world has unfortunately been infringing on my beauty sleep and dampening the creative firestorm to which readers of this publication have become accustomed. But fear not, our crack staff is on the case, formulating new and exciting ways to bring in the heavy traffic and visibility our advertisers demand without resorting to cheap publicity stunts or sweatshop-manufactured merchandising tie-ins. But enough excuses, let's begin...
America’s Funniest Home WULAD
I’d like to begin by dispelling some of the disinformation surrounding the home video I made with teen socialite and hotel heiress Paris Hilton, which apparently is going to be released by some soulless profit-monger who has no appreciation for all the hard work and emotion that went into planning and producing this tribute to our affection for one another and our love of porn. It’s no surprise that, due to the seedy circumstances under which the film came to light in a way never intended, there have been numerous factual errors reported in related news coverage. We’ll tackle the myths one by one:
• It has been suggested that I had something to do with the leaking (pardon the expression) of this video; I am here to tell you that this is a damn lie, if I may be allowed a little umbrage. I have no incentive to release to the public what I really consider to be a sub-par performance on my part (not to mention Paris, who really has a lot of work to do if she ever wants to become a serious adult film star); many finer examples of my work are already available for purchase, such as Wrapped Up Like a Barely Legal Coed and WULAD Does Winnemucca. See your local adult superstore for details.So I hope this will convince my loyal readers to always get their news from the source, and not believe every scrap of sensationalistic claptrap that tabloid rags such as the Star, the New York Post and the Wall Street Journal choose to feed to the unquestioning masses.
• One vivid rumor has Paris, Shannen Doherty and I engaging in a heated argument and hair-pulling fight at a Los Angeles party. This is absolute nonsense, and I’ll clear the record by stating that I have never seen Ms. Doherty socially, except during my guest appearance on Charmed, and I’m not sure how her name got mixed up in this mess. The truth is that I was beginning to tire of Paris—her endless dramatic episodes, her crippling addiction to "Yoo-Hoo", her overpowering obsession with the plays of George Bernard Shaw—and by the time of the party in question my attentions had begun to stray. So when I saw that guy from Dude, Where’s My etc. sucking tequila from the bare navel of KRON 4 Morning News personality and mistress of wit Darya Folsom, I quickly stepped in. “Does somebody here drive an ochre Hummer H2 MegaBlingBling Edition®? It’s being towed,” I shouted, and faster than a prairie dog in Paraguay our Dude was bolting out the door.
“Nice work,” cooed the lovely news anchoress as I helped her up from the kitchen counter, “these nouveau-riche have no sense of class.” She quickly looked me up and down and cocked a meticulously manicured eyebrow. “What brings an Internet mogul like yourself to a veritable outhouse such as this dreadful soiree?” We proceeded to engage in scads of charming and playful banter à la Cagney and Hepburn, to the delight of our admiring fellow guests. I was about to offer Ms. Folsom a lift back to her suite at the Biltmore and perhaps suggest a nightcap or candlelight game of Strip Triple Yahtzee, when I suddenly saw a blonde, Zima-reeking typhoon sweep past me—it was Paris, blind with jealous rage. Before I could stop her or at least remove the expensive opossum stole that I had given her for her half-birthday from her neck, she and Darya had rolled into the pool and were frantically pulling each other’s hair and garter belts, their sheer dresses immediately becoming transparent and clinging to their lithe frames.
Luckily, the police arrived before anyone was seriously hurt, and it was with great embarrassment that I soothed a furious Darya (her wet mascara giving her the appearance of some sort of evil she-clown), convincing her not to press charges, and asked our driver Leonard Nimoy (no relation) to escort my soon-to-be ex-meal ticket to the car. It was only later that my shame was magnified even further when I discovered that Paris had written “KRON 4 Sucks Ever Since it Lost NBC” in lipstick on the side of the house, and that the little drunken harlot awoke the next morning with Darya’s eyebrows still clenched in her teeth.
• Finally, I would like to address the allegation that I only dated Paris because she was a multi-millionaire high-society ingénue, and that I never really cared for her, and used her to expand my sphere of influence and generate the massive amounts of capital needed to run the vast enterprise that is Wrapped Up Like A Douche. This is true.
Coming up next week: more finds from the treasure chest of pre-WULAD history, including the infamous not-seen-in-20-years Wonder Pumpkin! Don’t miss a single episode, or you’ll be hopelessly lost at the water cooler and ostracized by your peers. Until then…
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