POSTIN' RECORD, BITCHSNIFFERS!

Crush on Michael Showalter persists. Zach Braff exiled to D-list of masturbation fantasies. Just kidding, I never think about celebrities when I masturbate, or any boy besides my husband, for that matter. I think about AMATEURS, baby. The loosey-goosey garage sale blondes with the frayed Wranglers and the Caesarean scars. The gals who, in the space of 45 minutes, graduate from "I've never done this" to "Plug my ass, both of y'all!" Women with acne and underbites. Women with hot tub lung and honeymoon cystitis. Bitches.

I got a video camera for my birthday. Now I just need to find some amateurs. I can't put myself in such a film, because I'm afraid Bill Cosby will appear, point to my jiggling haunches, and make some pithy comment about pudding. I need lean, mean, scrawny AMATEURS with a genuine desire to MAKE IT in Codywood. I will promise them 14k gold, elaborate feasts at Red Lobster, and the finest foreign-made espadrilles Payless has to offer. They will be shaved in the dank, reeking downstairs bathroom that we never use. They can borrow my clothes for the shoot. I'll make them fit with pins and chewing gum.

I really need to get one of those electric knives my dad used to have. I love the sound they make. GRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNGH! Who wants pot roast?

I'm laughing so hard I'm crying right now. Going nuts is like vacation!