now just a minute. when i say horns i mean horns. i want to see cheeks like grapefruits, people. i'll wait.
so there i am, miss charly commando, a shimmy shakin, light reflecting off eight jabillion sparkles on my petal white skin, twirling my giant feather fans and generally being well, pretty fucking awesome.
well, maybe more like this. cause i have you know, a few tattoos.
about a year and a half ago i saw the suicide girls tour, which is now coming to dvd and is being advertised on every bus bench i see. all that cheekiness (look ma! double entendre!) just reinforced my desire to be like bettie and lili and mae. because all the world loves a scantily clad broad with big boobs and a bigger mouth.
i crave the glamour, the fashion, the crazy horny music. (horny!) and fsm knows i adore all the sparkles and sequins and feathers. but i really love-- really really love-- the naked bits and all the shaking.
when sg came to town i just about peed myself. and you people know i would. aside from there being *way* too many people there (of which many were the kind of pasty white you can only get from sitting in your basement and abusing yourself... no i am not the pot in this situation. *i* abuse myself in the bedroom like a proper lady.) and the whole "pasties and g-strings rule," it was a good time. except for one major thing.
i realized i am just not mean enough to be a suicide girl.
sure i'm sexy, but i have no underlying desire to kill people. not much anyway. so i'm not welcome.
they were throwing their breasts around with power, angrily raising their booties in the air like they were just hoping, just about praying for someone to reach out e.t. style with a glowing red fingertip and the urge to um, "phone home." (i just made up my own euphamism! see, dad? my edumacation was soooo worth it.) then they could turn around, rip said extra terrestrial's arm off and then tear the rest of him to pieces, chewing at his flesh and letting his blood run down their spectacular boobies.
but instead they just poured beer and chocolate syrup all over themselves and each other, and the audience actually, which i didn't realize until i got home and found some chocolate in my purse. sure, it was hot but it also kind of made me feel bad for who ever had to clean it up. because i'm nice that way.
i'm sure not all of the suicide girls are so angry, but most of them seem that way to me. i'm sure some of them are secretly off baking lasagnas for their adorable ex-gangmember tattoo artists. or answering tattoo guy's girl questions. because girls who do that are inherently swellerific. woot!
some of the girls i'm sure take it very seriously, like dita, who is quite lovely (if a little too skinny) but not at all fun. in any way. i'm sorry dita, but you are far too busy being creepy with your equally high-maintenance "man" to be fun and you are hardly, dare i say, (shout out!)sassy.
where for art thou, burlesque? where has all the laughter gone? because if i just want to see naked chicks i can go to cheetah's, or the spearmint rhino, or the ever classy jumbo's clown room. courtney love used to strip there, so you know it's good. if all i wanted was skin and gyration and vacant eyes i would watch "one night in paris". again.
so i have decided that one way or another, i am going to live my life as a burlesque queen. i'm going to be loud (um, louder?) and bawdy and outrageous and curvaceous. and like i said, pretty fucking awesome. except because i don't want to frighten any children, i'll probably keep my clothes on.