Don't Let The Door Hit You In The Ass!

I love throwing parties - decandant, themed, girls making out in the corner, gumdrop, overstuffed pillow, DJ's in chaps, delicious parties. All morning I've been dealing with caterers, jugglers, bearded ladies, pantless clowns, members of the lollipop guild, ornery cat dancers, divalicious Siamese twins, elephants shitting all over my backyard, and one pissed off carny. If I've told Horatio once, I've told him a thousand times, Goat Man is not allowed to use my bathroom facilities. He's gonna have to go out back with the rest of the animal attractions. For crying out loud, you'd think no one ever threw a "Fuck Off And Die Rachel Reilly" party before. *throws hands in air* I mean, come on, this is Rachel we're talking about here. Every person she's ever encountered in her tequila soaked shmammered life has thrown similar celebrations throughout the past 26 years. I'm pretty sure Hallmark has a new "Congratulations! The Bitch Is Out Of Your Life!" display stand at the drugstore. So yes, my fair readers, I've gotten all of your RSVP's (why Deion submitted his with a naked photo is still a mystery) and my front door opens at 6:30. I figure that'll give everyone enough time to get some refreshments and pet Goat Man. Oh and one more thing before I head out to my vajazzle appointment, a certain Irishman will be making his triumphant return tonight. Get ready. Let's recap, shall we?

Let's go back in time a tiny bit if you will... back all the way to Tuesday night. There's a conversation that took place that I'd be remiss to ignore. Apparently, Hyena Fuckface and Bitch Boy were playing the cockroach game that Rachel plays back in Vegas. Her small Efficiency above the laundromat that reeked of stale alcohol was a safe haven for many out of work cockroaches. Whenever the exterminators would clean out the casinos the little guys would gather up their knapsacks and head to Ms. Reilly's abode. If there's one thing they could count on, it was lots of delicious and tasty olive oil soaked pans in the sink. Being a "scientist", Rachel loved to name her cockroaches and monitor their movements. Sometimes Charly revelled in the dank scents wafting from her laundry hamper. Conversely, Ilene much preferred the crusty panties on the floor. And, Skippy, well, Skippy was a drinker so he was right at home deep down at the bottom of a Patron bottle. The roaches were Rachel's family and she loved them.

Occasionally though, some "discipline" issues would arise among Rachel's vast and diverse roach community. For example, the day Emily went through Rachel's purse and found the adderall bottle was a day that'll live in roach infamy. It wasn't like Emily had ADD or anything. She was just a little self conscious about her weight is all. To make a long story short, Emily ate some of the good stuff, skittered all over one of Rachel's moustache twirling Saudi Princes who frequented the efficiency and in a vicious spitting rage Rachel squashed poor Emily with the bottom of one of her Peter Pan boots. The roach tribunal considered leaving and there were seminars going over risk management yadda yadda yadda. In the end, the roaches decided to stay with Rachel. She may fly into fits of rage on occasion, but the rampant filth littering every corner of her tiny home more than made up for it.

So, anyhow, Rachel found some roaches in her panty drawer at the BB house and she was showing Bitch Boy how to talk to them and love them. There were two that just couldn't deal with Bitch Boy's pungent breath and they kept trying to escape. Bitch Boy didn't really understand the roach game and he kinda wanted it to end so he named the roaches Britney and Ragan and promptly squashed them with his big toe. Rachel whined, "Brendoooooonnnn" and then they made love on the floor. It was gross. I puked again.

After a whole 2 minutes of groin grinding, Rachel got up and went outside to show off her "freshly fucked" look. At the mere sight of her, Britney sneered and Ragan pinched his nose shut. Mortified and angry, Rachel ran inside crying seeking sanctuary in the DR. After rinsing himself off with Rid, Bitch Boy headed outside to join his concubine. As he walked through the empty house he could sense something just wasn't right. The flaming red hair extension caught in the DR door was a signal to him that something was, in fact, very very wrong. In a frenzied panic he raced outside to confront whoever dared to mess with his woman and, as a result, the following conversation took place...

Bitch Boy: Hey you, Gay Guy, what's going on? Did you make my girl cry?

Ragan: *sigh* Brendon, you're not even privy to this conversation?

Bitch Boy: I am so privy! Well, you're in an alliance with a midget. Did ya know that? Ha!

Britney giggles

Ragan: *makes a 'W' with his fingers* Whatever Brendon. You're in a gruesome twosome!

Bitch Boy: Douchebag! *scratches head* What's 'gruesome' mean?

Ragan: Are you kidding me? You're an early man... a neanderthal.

Bitch Boy: Nuh uh. Besides it's neander-tall I'll have you know. *itches his crabby pelvic area*

Britney bursts in laughter

Bitch Boy: You're both fucking fake man. I'm genuine *points to self proudly* I have integrity.

Britney snorts

Bitch Boy: Nick has no balls!

Britney: You're one to talk!

Bitch Boy: I do so have balls! Rachel has them in her purse I think. You're a cock-a-roach! *giggles*

Britney and Ragan look at each other quizically.

Britney: A what?

Bitch Boy: A cock-a-roach! You know, those things always eating my mom's enchiladas and Rachel's panties.

Britney: Yeah, uh, ok.

Bitch Boy: You're like 3 feet tall. *pause* Ha!

Britney sighs

Bitch Boy: *skipping around the yard adjusting his maxi pad* Britney's a 3 ft tall cock-a-roach. Britney's a 3 ft tall cock-a-roach.

Ragan: Uh Brendon, are you ok?

Bitch Boy: You should keep me here. Imma watch the cock-a-roaches run. *giggles to self*

Ragan: OK Brendon you do that.

Bitch Boy walks up to Britney

Bitch Boy: Did you hear me? I said you're a cock-a-roach.

Britney: Yes Brendon, I know. You realize I'm not scared of you, right?

Bitch Boy: I wanna watch the cock-a-roaches run! *adjusts his baseball cap so it's now sideways* You should be scared of me. I can kill you with my toe!

Britney and Ragan shrug their shoulders.

Bitch Boy walks back inside.

Aaaaand scene!

So yeah, that's pretty much the gist of it.

Moving onto yesterday, or what I like to call "Ultimate Bitch Day". It was snarky, it was witty, it was slightly evil so of course I rubbed glitter all over my chest and watched with a sparkle in my eye. Ragan and Britney are just about over all things Rachel and, to my utter delight, they have no problem whatsoever making fun of every single one of her annoying habits. We begin with Ragan's evaluation of Rachel's wardrobe. He says it's like a call girl's, but, then again, call girls make money so, actually, it's more like a street prostitutes. He's seen her vagina more than he cares to remember and Britney crinkles her nose in disgust and wonders how Rachel can look in a mirror and ever give her own appearance a stamp of approval. Ragan then says that Rachel looks like the type of girl who wears the same tampon for a week. She'd pull it out, see there's some more absorbancy left, and then stick it back in. *fights back giggles* OK that was pretty good. I'm a little diasppointed I didn't think of myself actually. Kudos Ragan, kudos.

Speaking of Ragan, he's growing on me a little bit. I fear his days are numbered though if he doesn't start winning something soon (that Diamond Veto in particular could really affect his game), but he and Britney make a nice little twosome I can actually appreciate. So, when some ignorant fuck on Twitter yesterday decided to use a homophobic slur as Ragan's new nickname, I recoiled in horror. This idiot actually thought she was being funny. Personally, I think she did it for attention and probably has an extra chromosome. I'm thinking she licks drywall and eats soup with an envelope. That's the only excuse I can come up with for the name she called Ragan.

Moving on, the plan is still to evict Rachel and, gloriously, Brendon thinks he's the one going home instead. He actually believes his caveman tantrums have bothered the HG's so much that they just can't stand it anymore. Sure, the HG's can't stand him, but that happened loooong before Brendon starting flailing his arms and killing roaches. I think it happened when he stepped his giant toe across the threshold and said "Hi, I'm Bitch Boy. I'm a eunuch, I like to swim, and olive oil gives me power." Conchita and Pepe must be so proud. Speaking of Brendon's parents, aren't you just dying to see their interviews? Seriously, thinking about it makes me want to let Goat Man share my bed. Watching Conchita clutching her voodoo doll while Brendon's sister, Lupe, flashes gang signs to the camera is like watching that scene in Staying Alive when Tony gets the lead in the big show. Your tummy begins to tingle, your heart soars, and you start writing Tommy Faragher fan letters begging him to please start recording again... or so I've heard.

So yeah, the evil wench is riding her broomstick out of the BB house for good tonight. Better yet, she thinks she's staying. Finally, all her integrity and generosity will be rewarded justly. That house is too much for her anyways. They'll never learn to appreciate her as much as she appreciates herself and, besides, the mirrors need some time off. Any more duck-lipped fluffs of that red thing on her head and the whole world might be subject to 7 years bad luck. We can't risk it... as a planet, we just can't.

I wasn't really home yesterday so I didn't get to watch too much of the feeds and today has been crazy so I know I'm kind of all over the place and unfocused, but let me just say that the Half Way Party was last night. This is the celebration that marks BB being half over. *deep breath* Really? Just half? *sigh* Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck! I can't believe I'm saying this, but I kind of can't wait for this season to be over. I really just want this all to be a stinky distant memory that I'll hopefully never remember. Maybe 5 years from now when I'm a famous bestselling author and I'm visiting the Barnes & Noble in Vegas on my worldwide book tour, a sudden tightness will take hold of my chest. I'll clear my throat and go out for a breath of fresh air trying to shake off the uneasy feeling making me prespire. I'll wonder if any of my many stalkers had finally found me or if, perhaps, I'd left the coffee machine on back at my palatial estate in Nantucket. My fingers will tremble and I'll nervously adjust the lapel on my custom-fitted Gaultier jacket. I'll lean my head back and look up to the sky asking whatever deity is out there to please help me calm down. I'll open my eyes to take in the sunshine and then... I'll see it. The sign. The big gaudy neon sign. WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS. And then, in a flash, it'll all come tumbling back to me. The summer of 2010. The summer when Vegas was tainted and my loins suffered so. A chill will take hold of me, which is rare in the desert, and I'll scream at my agent to whisk me out of that dreadful city or else his job is on the line. I'll get all Naomi Campbell on his ass and end up on TMZ or some shit like that... So, you know, yeah, stuff like that could happen.

So, is everyone ready for the party tonight? Hostess gifts are mandatory by the way. Do you think Brendon will cry? What furry creature will you destroy if Brendon wins HOH? Would you follow me like a deadhead on my book tour? Comment it out bitches and have a great day!