A trip to the bank...

Yesterday I dropped off all my change at The Commerce Bank Penny Arcade. My ass be broke. Nacho cheese gordita crunches don’t pay for themselves. And true to my democratic style, this was some change I could believe in.

Now, when you drop off your change at Commerce Bank, they put on a little show. It’s kind of hot. You meet Penny.

Penny is an animated Dora-the-Explorer-esque hot slut that gladly takes your money. She might as well star on The Housewives of Orange County. She’s all, “Let’s play a game. How much money do you think you have?” However marries that hoe should make her sign a prenup. Anyways, so I make a guess--$100 bucks. If you’re $1.99 away from your guess, you get a special prize. Suddenly, I’m playing The Price is Right on my lunch break. Hell yeah. I drop in my change, some lent, a National Honor Society tie tac circa 1999 that somehow ended up in the pile, and that shizzle starts counting.

My mind starts to wander. I bop my head to Vanessa Carlton playing on my ipod. I love pianos. Oh, Penny’s talking to me.

Penny’s all like “Oh! Ah! My goodness! (Giggle giggle) Let me catch up! You got a lot of change! I can’t keep up!” Penny might as well be an anime porn star.

It finishes. The receipt pops out. Penny waves goodbye like the tranny hooker she is.

And then out of nowhere, an alarm starts to ring. Is Beyonce here? I look up to see if she’s coming down on a bungee cord with a yard full of hair extensions.

Stop.

Do I have time for a Beyonce musical break?
Wait… There’s always time for a Beyonce musical dance break…

Ring the alarm
I've been thru this too long
But I’ll be damned if I see another chick on your arm

Won't you ring the alarm
I've been thru this too long
But I’ll be damned if I see another chick on your arm

Back to blogging.

So, I’ve won. Grand total is $99.39. Hell to the yeah.

I hop, skip, and jump over to the teller with my receipt in hand. I imagine Beyonce back up dancers are standing behind me. I knock over some pregnant lady in the process. (Note: The only time it’s kosher to knock over pregnant women is when you’ve won at the Penny Arcade, you’re trying to get a seat on the L Train, or if Sarah Palin is with child.)

And I am awarded… are you ready for it? Are you sitting down? I won a plastic luggage tag. Excuse me? You rang the alarm for a luggage tag? I ask, “Is there anything else I get?” “Well, we may have pencil cases.” Now, I’m not going to lie. The idea of a pencil case makes me tingle down there a little bit. She searches… but there are no more pencil cases. Some people win the lottery. Some people win a date with Ted Hamilton. I win a freaking luggage tag.

Phelps on SNL

Michael Phelps made a bad decision. He spoke. It was kind of awkward, and you knew it was going to be—but you watched anyway. You know how on Christmas Day, that one network plays a video of logs burning on the fire. And that shizzle gets ridiculous ratings. Michael Phelps should have just stood there shirtless for an hour and a half. Give the ratings ten minutes. He’d start, he’d take his shirt off, the mass texts regarding a shirtless Phelps (sans face) would go out, and every queen and bitter lonely girl would be running for the nearest television. The only people left at “BoysRoom” would be a confused Amanda Lepore and John Travolta wearing an “Eyes Wide Shut” mask.

The Baby of All Babies...

I can’t wait for the Will Arnett/Amy Poehler lovechild to pop out. Screw the Brangelina twins, that baby will be pure comedy and will pop out SAG eligible. Most likely, it’s going to come out dancing like that Ally McBeil dancing baby. When I have my child, I’m going to be like Mama Rose meets the Texas Cheerleader killer mom. My baby is going to be adorable—and I will parade Baby Christian (cute name huh—totes biblical) all around every New York City casting office. My baby will book before I wheel that stroller off the elevator. Gimme a few years—and it’s on. By then, Ali Lohan will probably have a baby, and we’ll be arch rivals. Yes, her Momma taught her well, but she can’t compete with me. Do you know the difference between a pit bull and a stage Dad? Lipstick… But we apply like a democrat. We know when someone is a “fall.”

A Freaking Dorable...

Check out the cast of my adorable new pilot, "Astoria, Queens" presently in post production.

I Heart Nachos

It has recently been brought to my attention that there's a running theme of Nachos throughout my blog, and I must say, I'm glad America's paying attention. I'm glad I'm reaching out with the important facts. As a writer, I believe it's important to write two things: 1: What you know. 2: What you Care About. And I know lots about nachos.

First of all, I give good nacho. I give amazing nacho. It's a special Rotel/Velevetta concoction that spanks you in the face. I have to import rotel from Texas and Oklahoma -- they don't be selling that shit in New York - except for one Eckerds in Park Slope - and I sooner die than take the F train.

San Loca gives good drunk nacho. You're in the East Village. It's Friday night. You're crying at a gay bar. It's okay. Just walk down 2nd Avenue to San Loco. Have a little chicken nacho.

It's Happening

Cancel my Zoloft/Effexor cocktail. She’s skinny. She’s marking choreography. It’s only a matter of time before she washes her hair.

Scene: Chipotle 4:00 PM. Union Square. Friday – Labor Day Weekend.

First of all, whoever invented the Burrito Bowl is one hot bitch. You are a genius. Teach me your wisdom.

Now, I’m at Chipotle with my man preparing for the Labor Day weekend holiday. I like to kick things off right with a trip to Chi-pote-lay. And I’m not alone. Bitches be shoveling beef and sour cream down their throats before heading to the Hamptons and pretending to be vegetarians.

We get our food, we look around, there’s no where to sit. Shit. I am not afraid to stand there and eat my burrito bowl next to the trash can, but my boy prefers to sit with napkin in lap with fork and knife. Whatever. Opposites attract. He’s cute to me.

Cut to five minutes later. I’ve already eaten 3/4s of my burrito bowl. My man’s still looking around waiting for someone to get up. There are some options. Option One: A Four Top by the window in which some queen’s skinny ass is taking up one seat. His silver purse the size of an eight year old takes up another seat. And the other seats are full of shopping bags. He’s on the phone pretending to talk to someone—trying to make up for the fact that he’s eating alone… but he’s done eating. He’s just sitting there. So, we go up to him, and out of nowhere, some dude swoops right in and asks to sit down. The queen is a nice guy (so irritating) and lets him sit down.

Turn 180 degrees. Option Two. This man is getting up. Okay. Bring it. We walk over there to stake out the seats, and out of no where, two understudies from the West Side Story revival storm in, and say to this man, “We’re going to sit here.” One saves the seat. The other goes in line to order for the both of them. Biiiiiiiiitch. So, I take a picture of her because trust, I’m going to blog about you. That’s why I bought a domain name.

We are dejected. We are defeated. I wore flip flops for the first time in years, and my feet are getting blistered. I’m falling a part. My man is hungry. I want to eat ¼ of my burrito bowl in peace. We are Mary and Mary, and there is no room for us at the inn.

Cut to four minutes later. A four top opens up. I throw a bag of tortilla chips several yards, which lands on the table. It is ours. Ha! Jealous?

We sit down. And for whatever reason, the West Side Story Chupacabras decide their table isn’t good enough for them, so they get up, and come join us at the four-top.

We sit together. But we can’t speak. Chupacabra #1 is like, “I’m am so drunk already! This Margarita is so strong.”

What!!!!!!! They have Margarita’s at Chipotle? They have everything. They have the seats, they’re drunk off five-dollar margaritas, and they get to be in a Broadway production that will last all of 84 performances. They have it all. It’s so not fair.

Someone Fix Her Face

This bitch isn’t joking. She is dead serious. I’m sorry, but America cannot elect a woman that after 44 years of being a lady, can’t figure out how to apply her foundation. She has a line going down her chin. Seriously. You are a Vice Presidential hopeful. Stop buying Cover Girl on sale at the local Duane Reade and spend twenty minutes at the Mac counter. Let a democrat apply your makeup. I’m vetoing your face, bitch.

It's Been A While

Stop with the hate mail already. I know, I know. I’m a horrible blogger– I’ve made no blogress. I’ve gotten some complaints (Thanks for your support, Maureen), that I haven’t blogged lately, but calm down people. Eat a Jello pudding cup and take a deep breath. Rebookmark this shazizzle. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy writing, directing, and producing a situational comedy for a 18-30 demographic. Oh, and I’m also a model and an actress. Snap. Here I come. Blog the Bounty Manhunter is back.