It's your favorite oral dentist's favorite dentist: Mel Silver, of course. It's about that time...time for my monthly homage to women working in the greatest profession to ever employ young, naive, hardbodied 19-year-olds. Barely legal, and educated only in the many ways of working a mouth. Of course I am talking about my main source of material to womanize: the dental hygienists who might be on my payroll.
This month's lovely lady first met me due to a dental crisis. She's a little older than I usually like them, but don't let that fool you. She's wild. After a raucous night guzzling booze, vacuuming up rails of coke, and losing extremely heavy gold-and-onyx earrings, this lady truly transforms into a real cougar. And I mean cougar in the sense that she snarls, hisses, and may well rip you to shreds. Especially if you pour out her hooch.
I kid. I kid. That's actually my ex-wife Jackie. The woman is the drunken scourge of my existence and she is NOT a professional in the oral sciences. She's like a rabid blonde chinchilla who smells like Poison by Christian Dior, vomit, Crystal Palace vodka, and Tic Tacs. I just figured that in the spirit of April 1st, I'd make what my son David calls "a joke." Got you. April Fool's. Ha. Ha. Ha. Don't forget to brush.
**Oops. I really fooled you. It turns out Jackie Taylor died this past year from metastatic breast cancer. Maybe I should keep better track of what's going on with the mother of my only daughter. Oh well. Plenty of fish in the sea. I better see what kind of hotties' resumés I've got on file.
I've been busy with a regimen of intensive behavioral therapy prescribed after the episode that occurred when I found out Brenda Walsh was staging a grand comeback on Dancing With the Stars, while I, LAURA KINGMAN, am trapped in this so-called "psychiatric hospital." Therefore, I haven't been stabbing at my Brenda Walsh voodoo dolls with my authentic Maggie the Cat pin as much as I'd like.
Thank heavens that the gods have heard my plea. For years people have been making suggestions that worshipping a pair of ceramic drama masks is pointless or insane. Well, LOOK WHO IS LAUGHING NOW, AND IT ISN'T BRENDA WALSH!
It's me! LAURA KINGMAN! Maggie the Cat is alive! I'm ALIVE!
That's right, America fell sway to the power of my voodoo masks, and BRENDA WALSH couldn't even beat Kate Gosselin, who according to one of the orderlies in my ward is one of the most unpopular shrews in America. The vile Minneapolitan role-stealing WHORE was voted off for SUCKING at jive dancing. I guess that since the evil and corrupt Roy Randolph wasn't on the judging panel, Brenda had nobody to do a DO-OVER private "audition" with. I guess Carrie Ann Inaba isn't as easily influenced by skin-tight black mock turtleneck mini-dresses as CERTAIN California University acclaimed visiting theater directors. NICE TRY, BREN.
Now that I've secured my archenemy's dismal failure (HA HA HA), I intend to increase my schadenfreude even more by praying in the name of Tennessee Williams to my revered masks that something like THIS will come true:
It's a pity that I can't make this happen with one of my patented fabricated rape accusations, but hey, a STAR LIKE ME can dream!
I know that's not the greeting you're used to from me, but I'm practicing for my new undercover assignment. With all these middle-aged blonde terrorists getting caught failing at half-baked schemes to assassinate Scandinavian political cartoonists, the powers that be knew there was only one patriotic cougar in the national security business they could count on to prevent future evildoing.
Unfortunately, Valerie Plame retired after that whole big Bob Novak-Karl Rove political vengeance thing. So, the boys over in Langley decided to see what kind of investigative assets were available at the domestic agencies. Fortunately, the notorious Franco-Sicilian Marchette crime family has been inactive for years, so guess who is free to be the new go-to undercover MILF?
That's right. I'm trading in my usual Joan Collins-inspired trophy mistress sequined gowns for a hijab and going international. Luckily, minorbevniner.blogspot.com isn't on most Islamofascists' RSS feeds, so please don't blow my cover. I just wanted you all to know why I will not be around to provide safety tips and death-faking instructions: I am off to infiltrate the ranks of socially inept, lonely, white middle American women who, after their third or fourth failed marriage to an illegal immigrant, join terrorist Yahoo chat groups in a sad, misguided effort to belong, and wind up as co-conspirators in some harebrained attempt on Lars Vilks's life. Really, these sorry women just ought to try e-Harmony. I'm sure there are plenty of other people out there who are 29 dimensions of pathetic that they could be matched with.
Anyway, I'll be away indefinitely defending our rights as Americans, and Lars Vilks's right as a Danish guy to draw the prophet Muhammad as a dog without lethal reprisals from those who think they hate freedom but really just hate the fact that they've never put on a gown from Givenchy's 1991 spring collection and fallen in love with the convicted junk bond trader they were assigned to protect from the fictional mob. So please don't worry about me. I'll be fighting the good fight and winning the war on terror.
Antiterroristically yours,
Special Agent Christine Pettit
Federal Bureau of Investigation on loan to the Central Intelligence Agency
Dr. Mel Silver, DDS here. It's that time of the month again...and I'm not talking about my ex-wife's epic sporadic coke-and-alcohol binges. It's time to make like my son David and "swiggity switch it up" with some fresh hot dental hygienist strange!
Reality television is a rich hunting ground for sexy tooth scrubbers, and I was pleased to see that a perfect specimen of this was on a show with a concept that appealed to me as a playboy oral surgeon: Beauty and the Geek. This show is a reality competition that reads like my autobiography during my dental school years: earnest young intellectuals scoring with stupid yet disproportionately good-looking women. That's why I knew that from the moment I saw Sarah Coleman, a feisty technician of the oral sciences from season 2, that she was Miss March.
I wouldn't think twice before hiring Sarah to wield a lip spreader at my office and assist me with my oral care of Beverly Hills' social upper crust. Look at her elegant taste in shirts. The diamond detailing is a particularly sophisticated touch. And if you look at this picture while in the same state Donna Martin was at her senior prom after three flutes of my finest champagne, Sarah almost looks like my stepdaughter Kelly Taylor circa season 2. She'd fit right in with the clientele at my thriving Beverly Hills practice, which in case you didn't know, is the third best in all Los Angeles. And no, it's not creepy that I'm salivating over the prospect of "hiring" a woman who looks like my stepdaughter. The operative term is STEPdaughter, and ex-stepdaughter at that. So don't listen to the ridiculous lies that certain attorneys of one Jackie Taylor might be spreading around concerning my supposedly "lewd" and "inappropriate" sexual proclivities at work. And remember, ladies, what happens in the dental chair, stays in the dental chair.
Recently, the intelligence community has picked up chatter containing specific threats related to a Ms. Brenda Walsh and her upcoming performance on ABC's hit prime-time competition Dancing With the Stars. Ms. Walsh has been the subject of numerous threats due to the modicum of public exposure she has received by starring in two non-prominent theatrical productions at California University and traveling abroad to western Europe. Additionally, she has consorted with numerous French and British nationals on foreign and domestic soil and was once criminally involved with what she implied was some sort of stupidity-mediated, self-imposed Stockholm syndrome situation with a militant yet inept radical animal liberation group. In an effort to escape both her tumultuous past and her present notoriety, she has taken to using the alias "Shannen Doherty." Recent internet intelligence suggests that her past identity has been discovered, and it is now of the utmost importance that we protect her against those evildoers who would cause her harm.
Typically, we would do this by raising the terror alert threat level. Unfortunately, since the majority of the threats against Ms. Walsh appear to come from a delusional, institutionalized mental patient who briefly gained access to a computer rather than known jihadist organizations or drug cartels, I am unable to justify such an action. Even though it is against my nature as an employee of the federal government, I find it wasteful and excessive to cut through that mountain of red tape the pencil pushers over at Homeland Security require for just one person. Besides, with Al Qaeda and all the other legitimate terror threats keeping us busy, we at the government's 249 or so various redundant law enforcement and security agencies are spread thin as it is. Therefore, the FBI–and more specifically a team consisting of and headed by me, known to the boys at the Bureau as the Ravishing Cougar Unit–will handle the recent threats to Ms. Walsh's person.
As I have known Ms. Walsh briefly during passing encounters at the Bel Age Hotel in Beverly Hills, California while I was undercover as her boyfriend's father's bodyguard/mistress, it is with great sadness that I announce Ms. Walsh will be dying soon in an unexpected car bomb. She won't be expecting it at all when she goes to unlock and start a mysterious obviously government-issued American-made sedan, and it explodes, instantly killing her and leaving no trace of her body.
It's really a tragedy that Ms. Walsh's "death" will result, but that's what we at the federal government have to do to keep our cultural icons safe. Luckily, Ms. Walsh doesn't have any annoying, brooding children who will try to deal with traumatic memories of their parent's faked death by tracking down the killer(s) only to realize that the parent was cooperating with the government in some sort of nondescript RICO/securities fraud investigation and was put into the witness protec––
Actually, I meant to say that it's merely a tremendous tragedy that Brenda Walsh will soon die in a car bomb. A nation mourns.
***EMERGENCY LAURA KINGMAN FAN CLUB ALERT BULLETIN***
To all of my rabid fans, I have terrible news. We have a "CODE BRENDA WALSH" type situation occurring. Today in my ward they let us watch "Access Hollywood," and let me ASSURE you the nurses will not be doing that again. In fact, we will not be watching anything, since I ripped the TV–chains and all–from its wall mounting in a fit of rage upon seeing the TERRIBLE news:
Brenda Walsh AKA PART STEALING BITCHFACE WHOREBAG is going to be on DANCING WITH THE FUCKING STARS!!!
Darling fans, you must remain strong through this difficult time. NEVER FORGET that I am the true star, and SUFFERING IN CAPTIVITY, all because of this devil-bitch from the land of 10,000 lakes. It is Brenda Walsh, not this supposed made-up diagnosis of "dissociative psychosis" bullshit that the so-called "doctors" here keep talking about, that is responsible for my imprisonment. She has convinced everyone that I am crazy, when we ALL know the real truth. My star power would so outshine hers so she has to keep me LOCKED UP.
Brenda is a USURPER. All she can think about is her jealous rage about what a wonderful actress I am, such a wonderful person to share a stage with. And I think mostly because I'm really indifferent to it. Isn't that right? Never had any anxiety about it. Just did it naturally, easily, slowly. Absolute confidence and complete calm...If I thought I would never be a star again, I would go down to the kitchen, and pick out the longest and the sharpest knife I could find and stick it straight into my heart!
Can BRENDA WALSH give a monologue like that? NO. All she can do is STEAL from me. She isn't an actress. She failed her audition. She doesn't hang ceramic drama masks on her door. She didn't perfect her craft by falsely reporting date rape so believably it inspired Lucinda "Ungatoken" Nicholson to lead the entire California University female student body in a raucous 30-minute Take Back the Night Rally. She hasn't WANTED it like me, and she doesn't have MY TALENT!!! And when I tried to play her game and steal my part back (except it's not stealing because I AM Maggie the Cat, and the part was ALWAYS MINE!!!!!!!), I was publicly disgraced merely because I spread the truth that she is A BIG ROY RANDOLPH QUID PRO QUO SEXUAL FAVOR-PROVIDING PROSTITUTION WHORE and asked Steve Sanders to help her have an "accident." I didn't mean KILL her! I just meant that he should tell her to break a leg, and then break her leg, or something like that. It would have been more effective than always calling Cindy Walsh and blessing her with a demonstration of my acting ability, which easily fooled her into thinking I was someone from the drama department and thus making Brenda late for rehearsal AND pissing off Roy Randolph. Too bad then she FUCKED ROY RANDOLPH LIKE THE BIG SLUTBAG SHE IS, and cost me MY shot at the BIG TIME. I never would have done that if she hadn't SCREWED ME (via Roy Randolph), and made me the lowly understudy while she took my RIGHTFUL place as Maggie the Cat.
That is why, dearest fans, we must not watch this Dancing with the Fame-Stealing "Stars." Actually, since I am currently sequestered from my adoring public, I can't fall back on my old tricks of getting revenge, pity, and attention by fabricating some heinous felony sexual assault or by threatening suicide with a stage sandbag rope-and-pulley contraption. I have been confined thanks to the vast conspiracy against me perpetrated by BRENDA MARIE WALSH WHO I HATE AND DESPISE!!!!!!
I need those of you who know the TRUTH about how much better I am to get out there. Start protesting! Show up at the DANCING WITH THE THIEVING BODYSUIT-WEARING FRAUDS set and distract this FIENDISH STUPID IMPOSTOR by pelting her with objects during her routines (maybe with copies of the CAT ON A HOT FUCKING TIN NON-BRENDA WALSH-BEARING ROOF!!! BY TENNESSEE HATES FUCKING BRENDA WALSH WILLIAMS!!!!!! script-lol). PLEASE CONSPIRE AGAINST BRENDA AS I HAVE BEEN CONSPIRED AGAINST BY BRENDA, and destroy her chances of stealing yet another triumph that should be MINE!
At least vote against her. I don't particularly care for whom (I know who you WOULD vote for if you could write in...maybe at my next hearing the mental health board won't say that treating my alleged "disorder" is "like watching an improvisational, never-ending version of the final scene in Sunset Boulevard," and that they've finally seen the light as to my superior skills as a queen of the stage, and let me out of here in time for next season, where I will FINALLY OUTSHINE THAT SNAGGLETOOTHED HOOKER-ASS TWATFACE.
Please hang some ceramic drama masks in your home or office, or from your car's rearview mirror in solidarity. One day I will be free!!! I'M READY FOR MY FUCKING CLOSE-UP, BRENDA!!!!!
Cheerio, my tasty young co-eds! 'Tis I, the world-famous master of the theatre, Roy Randolph, and I have taken a break from my current directorial smash success on the off-off-off-off-off-off-off Broadway collegiate summer theatre circuit to enlighten you all with some spectacular news.
Typically, American television is a ghastly mess of humourless situation comedies, formulaic police dramas, and the most vulgar forms of documentary (which I believe the Yanks refer to as "reality shows," though perish the thought that any of them should ever be my reality). However, finally the blokes who decide telly programming made a proper casting decision...prepare yourselves, chaps.
BRENDA WALSH WILL BE APPEARING ON SEASON TEN OF DANCING WITH THE STARS!
Now, while this programme will hardly be as brilliant as the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing (a guilty pleasure, I must admit), it has finally managed to attract a talent with the stature of the effusive Miss Brenda Walsh. On the off chance that you are unaware of current trends in the dramatic arts, allow me to exponentially increase your levels of taste and sophistication by sharing my experience with this gifted ingénue. Brenda Walsh once (under my unparalleled direction) gave a performance of Maggie the Cat from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof so unrivaled that I'm simply bowled over that Tennessee Williams himself didn't rise from his tomb to applaud her. (In fact, that was without a doubt the greatest production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof ever to bless the stage, so sod off, Elia Kazan!) Frankly, the venerable theater company known as the California University drama club has never seen her equal in the mastery of provincial dialects, and they have suffered since she departed for London to study with the greatest director known to the stage since the time of Shakespeare (dare I humbly say that is myself, Roy Randolph).
Brenda Walsh has many talents. Now that she's recently come from her directorial debut (not as magnificent as mine, but it is unfair to make the lovely Miss Walsh compete with a veritable god) on the West Beverly High production of Spring Awakening, she's decided to show that she is what your coarse American critics would categorize as "a triple threat." Not only does she act and direct, she also can dance. And how, by God!
While notable amateurs such as chat show host Jerry Springer, physical prankster Steve-O, and footballer Warren Sapp have displayed their footwork on this programme, none will be able to match the sheer explosion of talent emanating from Miss Walsh. I should add that the forgettable Kelly Taylor, who chose a dull life of pathetic insignificance when she removed herself from contention for the role of Maggie in my aforementioned epic production, previously proved herself once again a miserable failure not worth the clotted cream on her crumpets during a previous stint on this show. Likewise, Steve Sanders, the erstwhile accomplice of the utterly mental trollop Laura Kingman, couldn't sway the audience with his jive routine in the semi-finals of season four. Those grim fates shall not await the singular Brenda Walsh. Undoubtedly she will shine like the effulgent star I aver her to be.
Miss Walsh has already displayed that her dancing chops are almost as meaty and luscious as her acting chops. During a private moment she once confessed to me that she once, due to happy accident at a university pool party, found herself in a dance contest with a masterful dancer: specifically, the noted David Silver, who even at that young age already had a credit as remarkable as the second chair pianist for the noted tenor Kenneth "Babyface" Edmonds. Not only could Brenda Walsh match Mr. Silver's suave stepping technique, she assisted him in a grand and valourous triumph over their rivals. On another occasion, she prevented a reignition of the tragic riots that plagued South Central Los Angeles by participating in a dance routine that distracted the ruffians of colour who threatened to disrupt the West Beverly homecoming dance. Ultimately this resulted in racial harmony, a brilliant spoken word performance by the aforementioned Mr. Silver, and a treacly, poorly structured 10,000 word first-person editorial piece of rubbish by Brenda's insufferable, self-important enemy AKA her twin brother Brandon Walsh.
I sincerely hope that Miss Walsh has the fortune of being paired with a dancer of European origin. Not only are European men far more smooth and sophisticated than their coarse and boorish American counterparts, but it will grant her the opportunity to showcase her ear for accents. Due to my familiarity with her very early work, I can say that she does honour to accents from both Brooklyn and France. Certainly, thanks to her legendary performance under my directorial command, the entire world knows she does a spot-on version of a trashy, desperate Mississippian. I would be positively thrilled to listen to her shrewish voice flex its Ukrainian muscles when engaging in improvisational banter with Maksim Chmerkovskiy. She has demonstrated her British accent to me in the privacy of my estate on many occasions, and I must say it is impeccable.
So let us all toss our tea in the bin, and instead raise a snifter of brandy to the glourious Brenda Walsh. May she dance with the stars forever!
PS-Please exercise caution in viewing the below video, as the despair over never having seen something as astonishingly majestic as this might cause you to consider suicide, as your life will surely be complete.
Since Sanders got me voted out of the KEG house despite my herculean efforts to get him kicked out of CU via set-up attempted thefts/fraternity pranks committed against cuckolded, dickish, anti-KEG sociology professors' autographed baseball collections, I've had a great deal of time to reflect on my behavior. Some–like those femi-nazi bitches at the Take Back the Night rally–seem to think that I'm the worst example of a frat boy based on my obnoxious behavior. Okay, I'll admit, I tried to fuck a fifteen-year-old runaway before (YET AGAIN) my archnemesis Steve Sanders laid down a cockblocking of epic proportions. And instead of realizing that taking advantage of vulnerable, already probably exploited minors is wrong, I came to the following conclusion: WOMEN ALL SECRETLY WANT TO HAVE NON-CONSENSUAL SEX WITH JOHN SEARS, BUT THEY LIE ABOUT IT AFTERWARD JUST CAUSE AND THAT'S HOW YOU GET INTO TROUBLE. This has become my new life motto, a "carpe diem" of sorts.
By the way, in the interest of full disclosure, I am John Sears, former KEG man and enthusiastic date rapist. I am also being discriminated against by these lying women who all want every inch (all four and a half, BABY) of my weight-lifting, self-congratulatory, disgusting frat pig self, and who later claim that's not true and I "assaulted" them. No means yes, ladies, GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULLS. You were put on earth for one reason, and one reason only: to be sexually harassed, abused, and preyed upon by myself, John Sears. WITHOUT following that up with accusations of so-called felony rape. Girls, it's time to get with the program. It's completely unacceptable for you to be infringing on my right to impose my mighty Sears penis upon you.
Let me give an example of what women should NOT do. Let's look at Kelly Taylor. The girl is a certifiable rape magnet. I mean, she lost her virginity when some heroic dude dragged her drunk ass into some bushes and used his high school senior status to subjugate and "date-rape" her (you go, bro). Adding insult to injury, he then inscribed "Kelly is a slut" (FACT) on a wall tile at West Beverly, where it remained until Kelly's five-year high school reunion in 1998. Then she wore a suggestive costume to a Halloween party and almost got what she deserved from a USC frat boy dressed as a cowboy with an admirable ability to stay in character even while attempting to straighten Kelly out as far as the sex she ought to be having. Too bad the cowboy wasn't at CU (GO CONDORS), and too bad ONCE AGAIN that dolt Steve Sanders intervened and punched him out when he called Kelly a slut (a fact, I should add). Then Kelly would later be raped for the slutty crime of walking down an alley in a bad part of town while enabling that moody, needy loser McKay. And with me, Kelly acted like a TOTAL whore. She talked to me on the phone about her psychology homework, she FLIRTED with me, and once she even did a little tongueless making out with me. But in spite of all this skanky behavior, she claimed I–yes, I, JOHN SEARS!–was the one acting out of line. UNBELIEVABLE. What did she think I was doing, hanging around for her brilliant freshman repartee?
I've had it with the Kelly Taylors of the world, and by Kelly Taylors I mean ALL WOMEN. They run around acting like total skanks and basically shouting from the roof that they want me, BAD. And how could they not? Look at me:
It should be obvious that I'm the kind of guy who doesn't take no for an answer. Just ask my former KEG brethren, who couldn't get rid of me even after my railroading at the hands of the loathsome legacy pledge Steve Sanders. Women take note: if you've ever interacted with me AT ALL, you should be prepared to back up your seductive ways by receiving what I like to call "the John Sears Jackhammer," and NOT complaining to law enforcement afterward. I really HATE that when some broad obviously comes on to me, by asking if I want paper or plastic, or by asking if I'm a teacher at her middle school, or by greeting me at the Encino Wal-Mart, and then acts all stuck-up about the sex that naturally ensues. I mean, sex without permission is totally NOT rape when the woman signs away her so-called "rights" by wantonly asking me if I have the time.
I've had enough of this and it's time to strike back. The only way to fight what I like to call a "Snow White" act (because Snow White was also an uptight bitch who would rather hang around with laborer midgets than put out) is with my own God-given sword. So, my plan is thus to go out there and "rape" up a storm, in hopes of reclaiming my divine right as a man and a Sears. Take that, Snow Whites and Kelly Taylors of the world!
And if that doesn't work out and I'm not in prison, I'll probably just go play Chad Michael Murray's dad on One Tree Hill.
Sorry I've been absent for a couple months, but you know what they say: absence makes the heart grow fonder. Well, that's what I told my son David, anyway, when he complained that I'd been gone so long at an "oral surgery conference." Better tell him that than the truth: I was actually getting oral from a certified head doctor and youthful new employee during an extended trip to sunny México. If it makes David feel any better, I was thinking of him when they played that Jasper's Law song he wrote for Donna or possibly Valerie in the Mazatlan airport bar. That's a great song for waiting around to. I think I might start jamming that in the reception area of my thriving dental practice (the third best in Los Angeles, I might add).
Anyway, let's get to the business I know best: hot, nubile oral hygienists. This installment of this series had to be great, since it has to make up for two months of silence. After scouring the world for a woman of such quality, I finally found the lady to light fires in my loins during these two dreary winter months in beautiful Italy! Meet the luscious and talented Nicole Minetti:
The luscious Ms. Minetti was convinced by the awesomely corrupt Italian President Silvio Berlusconi to throw her thigh-highs into the political fray and run for some type of regional governor position. This makes a great deal of sense, because before she attended to President Berlusconi in a time of dental crisis (when an angry citizen struck him in the face with a marble statue of the Duomo di Milano), she appeared on some show as a "dancer" and the Italian version of "Candid Camera." Clearly she is qualified to preside over the workings of Tuscany or wherever, if she's qualified to preside over the president's mouth. I vote Minetti, or I will, the next time I take one of my dental assistants to Europe for another "conference."
It's me again, Dr. Mel Silver. I hope now that Thanksgiving is over, you'll consider making an appointment with your local dentist (and if you happen to live in or near Beverly Hills, that would be yours truly.) All those pies can really erode your enamel.
Speaking of sugary pies, now it's December, and you all know what that means! Time for a new Dental Hygienist of the Month! You might be asking yourself why I'm qualified to judge this category, especially since nowadays the people in this line of work like to call themselves dental assistants. Well, it's like I always tell my son David: I'm the third best oral surgeon in Los Angeles, and I'm old school. I also call flight attendants "stewardesses." Sue me. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and boy, am I a dog.
That brings me to the other reason I'm qualified to select the creme de la creme of the world's most able oral care specialists: I'm a TOTAL pussy hound. Unfortunately, my weakness for a barely legal, vocationally-trained woman flossing someone else's pearly whites has ruined all my marriages. And as long as I'm single, I might as well appreciate all the beauty that this glorious profession has to offer.
Enter Miss December. She's a little older than my usual choice of hygienist, but I think you can all agree with me that she has so much style and class I can overlook her cougar status. Her name is Maria, and she was on an incredibly tasteful television program called "Rock of Love Bus." So she's not only an oral master, she's also a storied entertainer. Truly a Renaissance dental hygienist. She can massage my gums anytime.
I'm not going to trouble myself with familiarities, because you wouldn't want to be familiar with me anyway. I'm a thug, and I'm about to hit you up with some prison poetry...okay, not really, but I've had a hard time of it since the days when I was selling U4EA to unarmed idiot teenagers in front of God and everybody, and I'm ready to share. I've been silent too long, and I'm doing life, so like I have anything better to do.
My name isn't important. I'm the kind of guy who likes to be known for his actions and reputation, rather than government name. Call me "Four" if you must call me anything. I like to be remembered for my deeds, rather than what my crack whore of a mother named me. Long ago, I once wore a big number four on my shirt to advertise my "business." This reminded me of how successful I once was at peddling a nonexistent drug to high school kids. My number "FOUR" was like a beacon for dumb kids who wanted to spend entirely too much money on invented-for-TV pseudo-ecstasy.
I still wear a number four on my shirt. Two of them, actually, as well as a handful of other numbers that identify me to the powers that be here at Pelican Bay. Once Emily Valentine stopped hanging out with the gang, I didn't have as much of a market as I thought I would. Everyone caught on to the whole "exchange an egg" thing thanks to a major story broken by Andrea Zuckerman in the West Beverly Blaze, and subsequent TV news exposés revealed that these parties were illegal and in *horrible* neighborhoods anyway. Then Emily Valentine started taking lithium and remembered her childhood ambition to be a marine biologist, and exchanged her figurative egg for a scholarship at the Cousteau Institute. With few options remaining, I elected to get into the meth game. BIG HUGE mistake.
Truly, I WISH that U4EA had caught on. The worst thing U4EA ever caused besides Emily Valentine-mediated attempted date rape is teenage regret. Seriously, Brandon just strolled home with no consequences save a mild scolding from his skanky-ass sister, and then went to sling megaburgers at the Peach Pit! He took U4EA–and without any prior preparation or knowledge of doing so–and still went to work without a complaint the next day. He was so damn spry he probably laid a bet on the Lakers while he was there, he was feeling in such good spirits. Then, however, Emily Valentine left Beverly Hills, people stopped handing out "Egg" business cards on Alvorado, and the U4EA market dried up. Apparently, people were doing "ecstasy," which I couldn't get from my competitors because I'm a gigantic loser. So I hit the internet, bought eight tons of Sudafed, and embarked on an unintentionally short career in amateur chemistry. I lit my shitty apartment on fire, attracted some police attention, and then...guess what? Somehow they found out I was a former U4EA dealer.
Thanks to "the gang" from Niner, I'm now on my third fucking strike, and doing hard time *4* LIFE. Instead of standing in an "underground club" with a shirt with a four on it, I'm making use of body orifices I didn't know I had as a mailroom smuggler in the prison "tits" trade. In case you haven't seen Oz, that's prison talk for "I'm a heroin mule," and I can swallow ten FULL condoms at a time to prove it! I tried to get in the game with the people controlling the tits business around here, but apparently their economy involves more complex and sophisticated operational techniques than simply advertising your wares with a large, extremely obvious representation on your person (ie: a giant "4" on your shirt when you are selling U4EA). I got some pot once, and tried to tap the market by writing "420" on my jumpsuit, and that earned me a robbery and forcible sodomizing. Please believe I learned my lesson there. I'd exchange any number of eggs to be back in the peaceful, relaxing confines of the underground club. There, all I had to deal with was a drunk David Silver, a guy in a rubber jumpsuit, one guy smoking crack, some random club trannies, and a bathroom worse than some chicken farm in Minnesota. In other words, PARADISE compared to cell block fucking D.
Seriously, kids, don't do drugs. Even something lame and made-up like U4EA can really come back to fuck you in the ass. LITERALLY!!!! In the form of my cellmate Garrett Slant. PLEASE, say no to drugs!!!
My name is Hannah Rose Zuckerman Vasquez. Can you even believe I got stuck with such a shitty-ass name? I'm pissed.
Right now, this blog is coming to you from inside my fat mother's womb. Her name is Andrea. It's not pronounced like how you would noramlly pronounce Andrea but instead it's "AHHHHHNNNNNNDREEEEEAAAAAHHHHH." When I first heard my dad call her this I about blew a gasket. Is she for real?
I was conceived when my normally uptight, super-lame mother got all hopped up sexual feelings and decided to bang the shit out of my Puerto Rican father. Talk about a scandal in the Zuckerman house!! Ain't no Jewish PR's out there. Grandma Rose bout flipped her shit when she heard that one. But then she realized my dad's pretty smart and for some god awful reason loves my mom, and then she got over the hump.
Anyway, I'm hearing from my annoying-ass mom that tomorrow is Thanskgiving. I also heard today while watching "Issues with Jane Velez-Mitchell" that some vegans are taking to calling it "ThanksLIVING" instead - because all the turkeys should live and we shouldn't eat them. Maybe when I get out of the womb, I'll become a vegan. SHA - and maybe someday my mom will have a nickname OTHER than Buzzkill Zuckerman.
So - I guess I'm supposed to say what I'm thankful for. Um - NOTHING. Let's see - my mother is ANDREA ZUCKERMAN. That means I'm sure to be the school nerd, perpetually look about ten-fifteen years older than I really am, and always be packing on at least an extra 20 pounds. Thanks Mom.
Due to my dad, Jesse Vaquez, I'm sure to get preferential treatment due to the fact that I'm a minority, but given the ethical morality of my mom, I'm definitely going to have a huge internal dilemma about everything that's handed to me in my life. Cool.
But what I'm most UNthankful about is that all the other kids of the original 90 cast get preemo spots in the new 90210 - guess what narded Hannah Vasquez gets? A tiny bit part in the very first episode - THAT'S IT - guess what I was doing? Following in my buzzkill mother's footsteps, reading on-air school report for West Bev. You know what though, it's all good because there was a "MAJOR STORY BREAKING!" and I was the first one to crack it - after I exchanged an egg of course.
Aight peeps I'm out - I won't be back for a while because after my mom eats the entire bird for Thanksgiving, I'm sure to be in a food coma till birth.
Happy Thanksgiving to all you law-abiding civilians! The Peach Pit turkey is on the table, and rather than sit around watching it get cold while a spoiled, ungrateful brat broods about his daddy issues, I thought I'd share some of my sure-fire crime prevention tips! That way, all you regular folks can avoid being caught in the post-Thanksgiving crime epidemic that befalls us annually during this otherwise happy season.
1. Fake your death. I can't emphasize this enough. Criminals can't victimize you if they believe that you were killed in a car bomb. And this is one of the rare situations where you actually want to follow the terrorists' example. Really do try to make it spectacular. The less likely it is that you survived, the more likely it is the criminals will believe you are actually dead.
2. Avoid getting involved in business deals inexplicably involving junk bonds and supposedly Italian mobsters with French surnames. Junk bond trading and organized crime are each illegal activities one should steer clear of in general, but combining these two can be particularly dangerous. For starters, you should always be suspicious of anyone purporting to be of Sicilian descent who answers to a geographically and linguistically incongruous name like "Marchette" (for example). Anyone who is so unabashedly misrepresenting themselves is highly likely to be involved with violations of the RICO act and securities fraud, as well as other more unpalatable crimes (ie: murder).
3. Avoid allowing your offspring to marry offspring of Franco-Sicilian mobsters. This usually results in an accidental death by assassination.
4. Do not grant bottom shelf 1980s-era Geraldo Rivera knockoffs access to your entire $8 million dollar fortune. I repeat, no matter how many times he promises to "clean up the bay" so you can surf more often, no matter how many vinegar-and-baking soda experiments he shows you at work to prove his capacity in this regard, and no matter how persuasive he can be when dropping fancy official-sounding "science" words such as "bioremediation," do NOT invest every dime you have except the Blue Book value of your Porsche in his scheme. I don't care if this guy is married to some trailer-trash former mistress of your father's that you didn't know about or if he's the stepfather of your hideously ugly bastard half-sister. He is running a long con on you and is NOT to be trusted.
5. Do not use alcohol or heroin. If a shady creep in a pool hall asks if you've ever "chased the dragon" in front of the entire bar, go back to your surf shack and bang the hell out of Valerie Malone instead. Don't take him up on his offer. Illegal narcotics are bad news, and guess what? If you are an alcoholic, you can't just have a beer or two to unwind. That's how flowerpots get smashed and Brenda Walsh gets scared.
6. Whenever possible, go undercover as a rich guy's trophy cougar mistress. In my experience, there is no disguise more effective at deceiving criminals.
7. If you must steal something, make sure it's your best friend's boyfriend. And in my experience, there's no better way to cement this legal form of theft than by doing her in the pool at the Bel Age Hotel.
8. The best place to hide from one's enemies, responsibilities, creditors, or potential murderers is the Bel Age Hotel. Actually, if you have a yacht, that works too.
9. In the event that some family member of yours fakes his/her death, don't launch an investigation so incompetent that it makes Elmer Fudd look like Sherlock Holmes. For one thing, you'll draw unwanted attention to the person who is trying to hide. For another, you'll probably encounter the dangerous sorts of people that your fake-dead family member was trying to get away from. TIP: If you are trying to get the most asinine, threesome-containing sci-fi screenplay ever picked up by a producer, AVOID pitching the project to known criminal associates of your fake-dead family members who have abandoned ski gondolas in their backyards.
10. If you really want to know how to hide and you can't ask me, you should actually talk to the U.S. Marshals. They are in charge of federal witness protection, not the FBI.
And on that note, I wish you all a wonderful, safe holiday season full of faked deaths and intact 8 million dollar fortunes.
Dr. Mel Silver here. Not Mel Silver the producer. Mel Silver the oral surgeon. The third-best oral surgeon in all of Los Angeles, in case you were wondering. Anyway, I'm single this week, so if you meet the following criteria, you should call me:
1. You are involved in the oral trade, either as a student or as a practicing dental assistant
2. You are hot, and not old enough to drink legally in the United States, and you do not know my son David
3. You like free trips to Cabo contingent upon fucking your boss, who is admittedly one of the hottest nerds in the dental science game
In the meantime, take a gander at the new young lady in my office. I mean, doesn't she just look like she's ready to throw a bib on you, grab her impression mask, and discover your secret bulimia? And then, like she's ready to go to México and bone the shit out of you for the price of plane tickets and some huevos rancheros? HELL YES! Let's give a big old Bev Niner welcome to Miss November!
CHEERIO, my good co-eds! You may refer to me as Roy Randolph, and I am a world famous director and overall master of the thespian arts, which I should disclose on the off chance you've been dwelling under some sort of rock or boulder somewhere. I am particularly well-known for my award-winning 1994 production of Tennessee Williams' masterpiece Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on the exalted stage of the California University drama department. Of course this memorable production starred the inimitable Brenda Walsh as Maggie...excuse me, I mean Margaret. The lovely and colourful Ms. Walsh prefers to call Maggie the Cat by her given name, and if you could see how much more spectacularly inconsistent and cartoonish her Southern accent is in comparison to the certifiably insane and privacy-disrespecting Laura Kingman, you would certainly understand her rather unorthodox approach to her roles. Said approach involves visiting me late at night and telling me–as her character Margaret, of course–what a wonderful lover I am.
Sure, sure, I signed a contract with the hallowed academic institution known as California University assuring the administration that I would keep my cockney hands off the co-eds, but it's hardly against the rules if she's in character and I have assumed the role of Brick. That's called acting, for all you pitiful, insignificant little peons that cannot appreciate my brilliance at the fine and subtle art of the stage. Besides, it is not as though I need to employ my hands at all to receive certain favours from my aspiring leading ladies. Furthermore, by performing said favours, the astonishingly gifted Ms. Walsh can safely claim that she has still only ever technically slept with Dylan McKay and Stuart Carson, who I might add are both amateurish fools who know tosh about the demands a thespian might face.
Then again, these fellows should hardly feel bad since nobody else can fully honour my genius, either, except perhaps Brenda Walsh and my disturbingly Mel Brooks-ish stagehand. I've been told that in years of late, the talented Ms. Walsh has seated herself in my chair, and has tackled directing a production of Spring Awakening for West Beverly High. Keep striving, my little Minnesotan crumpet! Someday you'll be able to ascend to my level of directing drama club productions at university!
Therefore, I have agreed to inaugurate this pathetic little "blog," so that I might remind you all how resplendently superior my talent is. And, of course, so these depressingly unsuccessful other little "co-stars" of mine from my California University days might attempt to scratch out some sort of artistic meaning to their pathetic, insignificant little lives.
Stand by for more missives explaining to you all about my indisputable superiority, as well as a lot of tawdry efforts by the other riff-raff, people with pedestrian jobs such as dentists and chemists and cut-rate English scholars. And–Great Scott–even a collegiate athlete, and not even a footballer! I shudder to think of what you dear readers shall endure. Never fear, however. I shall return to relieve you of this literary drudgery with further tales of my smashing triumphs of the off-off-off-off-off-off Broadway university theatre circuit! It shall be grand! And until then, please endeavour to reacquaint yourself with the greatest theatrical production of all time!
Hi gang.
