Poor Pitiful Pearl

Still, it was smooth, except that it most certainly and preposterously was not.

I pulled myself to my greatest five-foot-two and froze him to pieces with my patented icy, affronted southern lady glare.

"What are you drinking?" I chirped, and then I bought him one like the sad, old, sugar mama I will someday be. Someday I also hope to pay lots and lots of alimony to some pathetic loser.

See the picture above? This was from Orange Idol at the Orange County Crazies' Don Cribb Theater. I was a judge, and though the "comics" weren't necessarily "funny," the panel of judges kept itself in stitches. It was actually superfun, but I'm pretty much out of space.

All you really need to know about the night—except for the mortifying fact that it turned out I embarrassingly was acquainted with the heckler (we called him "George") who was embarrassing himself with lame heckles all night, although not as lame as the guy who shouted to Dave Chappelleat the Irvine Improv some time back, "Show me the money!" and then, "You're a goddamn dirty coon"—was that one of the black dudes won, which meant that there were a whole bunch of white dudes who didn't. And then we wouldn't let them into college, either, and we gave away their jobs!

Am I still talking? Talk, talk, talk! And all you wanted to know was: so anyway, the 21-year-old felt me up. God bless the child.

Commiegirl99@hotmail.com.