Stories. I like stories. I like to read stories. I like to hear stories. I like to tell stories. Story time bonded the cavemen, delighted Cleopatra, made Jack The Ripper all the more scary, and, I'm pretty sure, it makes this blog like the best in the world. I'm still waiting to get my "Best Blog In The World" award by the way. I'll bet it got lost in the mail or something. So yeah, stories are generally pretty great. There is, however, one person who can tell a story so vivid and so horrifying that it makes babies cry, mothers weep, and the Villegas family abandon Christianity and turn to Voodoo. Mrs. Villegas (whom I'll now call "Conchita") has replaced all of her Virgin Mary iconography with Marie Laveau paintings. I don't know if you're familiar with Marie Laveau, but she was one of the greatest Voodoo Queens who ever lived. She could shake a rattle, charm a snake, and behead a chicken like nobody's business. She also organized scandalous mixed race orgies in the parlor of her New Orleans home, but shhhh, don't tell that to Conchita. Mr. Villegas (Pepe) isn't exactly thrilled about Conchita's new passion. Their house smells like pig parts, chicken fat, and burning sulfur. Pepe lets Conchita indulge in her new hobby because deep down inside he, too, hopes that all his wife's efforts will have a successful outcome: to get that red headed harlot away from their bouncing brown eyed baby boy Brendon! Let's recap, shall we?
Let's start from where the mild drama began. It's the middle of the day and Rachel is stuffing her pimply face with something or other. Matt sits across from her and he's being nice telling her that this whole nomination hullabaloo isn't personal, it's just game. Rachel responds with her characteristic devil's glare and Matt's testicles promptly crawl up inside his body. Hyena Fuckface then rises and makes an evil prophecy. She stands tall, raises one hand to the sky, points the other directly at Matt ,and proclaims, "I damn you to a life of eternal damnation and hellfire! Just wait and see what happens when you come to Vegas. No hotel will grant you entrance! No club will serve you drinks! You will be shunned by Wayne Newton! Bette will laugh in your face! Not even Criss Angel will take your money! You mess with me, you mess with Vegasssss!!!" Then she disappeared into a cloud of red smoke leaving behind nothing but a dab of pimple cream and some strands of black and red hair.
She pops up again in her bedroom. I guess all that damnation prophesizing left her spent and emotionally exhausted because she hid under the covers and fell into her first real crying jag. At home I grabbed a Diet Peach Snapple Iced Tea, some bon bons, and kicked back to enjoy the show. Memories of Ass Licker curled up in her yellow dress in the Green Room danced like sugarplums in my head. Unfortunately for us, Rachel had the good common sense to cover her head with her comforter as she wept. Blubber blubber burble burble hiccup hiccup was all we heard. I'm not gonna lie I giggled a little and probably tinkled from the excitement. I sent out Tweets, updated my Facebook, called an ex ,and shouted from the rooftops, "Hyena Fuckface is crying!" Then I shook my moneymaker and threw some glitter in the air for good measure. Good times.
Like an unwanted rash, Bitch Boy entered the scene. He was all sweaty and manly from doing his Jazzercise and says, "What's up babe?" She replied with a hiss, "Matt said I'm making things personal *sniff sniff* He told me I'm too EMOTIONAL!!! Wahhh wahhh." Bitch Boy reached for his Wizard hat and said, "I'm gonna go bash some skulls!" OK so I might be paraphrasing a little, but you get the idea. Rachel was sad, Brendon got mad, and lives were threatened. I took my top off and crossed my fingers for a Matt/Brendon altercation. I don't know why but fights always make me want to get naked. Rent Rocky IV when you visit me and you're in for good time.
I turned on the "Fight Alert" bat signal and feedsters from all around ran to their computers. We waited with bated breath as Bitch Boy prepared to rumble. The fact that he was debating whether or not to shower first was a little annoying, but I knew that eventually he was gonna throw down. Boy was I wrong! After several attempts to open the sliding door and get medieval on Matt's ass, Brendon just bagged the whole thing and decided to lather himself up in the shower instead. So yeah, no fight. Worse still, Bitch Boy comes out of the shower and decides to canoodle with his paramour. It was gross, it made me gag, and I'm pretty sure I'll be on Lithium by the time this season is over. When they make out it's not just the sound of tongues searching that completely paralyzes my belief in mankind. No, it's the giggles and the sighs and the "Brendoooonn's". No child anywhere should ever be named "Brendon" again. Rachel has done things to that word that even I don't have the strength to go through. She elongates it, she moans it, she whines it, she does these little staccato "Brendon!" shouts. I've written the Baby Name Society and I've requested they remove that vile word from their records. I'd like it to be as popular as the name "Adolph". I'm pretty sure no one names their kid "Adolph" anymore and I'd henceforth like the name "Brendon" to be treated the same way.
After they rubbed their skins together and produced some vile odors, Rachel was feeling chipper so she decided to go apologize to Kathy. Yup. Pretty great, right? Rachel sucked it up and told Kathy she was sorry for being such a vile hose beast after the POV. Kathy accepted her apology and said that she'll be happy to talk to Rachel if they can talk with class and tact and not all the name calling and drama. Rachel agreed and all was well. Of course Kathy immediately marched outside to tell everyone what happened. She made the distinct point of announcing "But I did NOT apologize to her y'all. Let's get that one thing straight." At home I giggled and put Spam on my shopping list. I'll go ahead and send the Dragon Lady some cans for when she gets out of the house. She's got a long winter to get ready for in that tiny little cabin of hers and I'm more than happy to help out a fellow Rachel-hater in any way I can.
For the rest of the afternoon the house was pretty chill... that is, until "you know who" made an appearance - Mr. Salvatore is baaaaaack bitches! This time the Feeds went down which kind of sucked, but through my powers of telepathy, telekinesis, and good old fashioned eavesdropping I was able to surmise that Mr. Salvatore is pretty much up to no good and out to piss me off. His message, for some reason, said that Brendon has been throwing competitions. I don't know why, but it almost seemed like Mr. Salvatore was trying to get the house to vote out Brendon instead of Rachel. On all that is holy and sacred, I most vehemently object. I want that bitch out of this house, off of my feeds, and forever erased from this blog. I want her to sit for a week all alone stewing in her own misery. She'll be so bored she'll have nothing to do but eat and get drunk. By the time Brendon joins her she'll have a whole slew of new zits and cankles to boot. That's my fantasy and, so help me god, I'lk karate chop anyone who gets in the way of making it a reality.
This brings me to my most favorite part of the night. Picture it - Hyena Fuckface (sometimes known as Satan's Baby) and Bitch Boy are in the kitchen making another olive oil feast when Hyena decides to regale Bitch Boy with some fanciful tales of her life in Vegas. You know how I mentioned "story time" in my opening paragraph? Well, it was all for this bit of deliciousness. OK so Rachel is wearing some mustard yellow tie-dyed number and checking her hair every 2 seconds in the mirror when she tells Brendon about her "clients". I'm not exactly sure what it is Rachel does, but I think there might be a required waving of a lamp over genitalia to check for open sores before the "work" begins... if you catch my drift. Money might be left on the dresser and regular HIV testing is probably mandatory. Wink wink, nudge nudge.
OK so the first story Hyena shares is about dancing. As dancing is near and dear to my heart, I was actually looking forward to hearing this little tale. As Hyena tells it, she and her friends decided to get like all crazy one night and just take Vegas by storm. They were gonna do it up right and get all shit-faced and, oh my god, it was gonna be like so awesome. Rachel had the brilliant idea to get all dressed up in daisy duke's and cowboy boots and choreograph a dance routine to an Aerosmith song. The gaggle of gals would then roll their shirts up like bikini tops and hit as many bars as they could perfoming said routine. They had a limo and a boom box and prepared for like days for this little bout of awesomeness. The night of their self-imposed "gig" arrives so they hop into their limo and head to the first bar/victim. They leap out of the car in a flurry of excitement. Rachel saunters in and shouts, "Hey HEY Heeeeyyyy! Hit it Jules!" Jules is her friend who was assigned the duty of hitting the play button on the boom box. She's pretty and blonde, but she fears Rachel is gonna skin her new cat so she indulges Rachel and her crazy schemes while praying that the job she applied for in Des Moines as a file clerk comes through. Jules hits play, Rachel cackles, and the dance begins. Rachel shimmies this way and that, she kicks her booted leg here and there, she juts her hips and swings her hair and is having a generally fabulous time. Only when there's a break in the song does she realize that her pals are no longer dancing with her. It appears that even after weeks of practicing at the "Ranch", those stupid bitches forgot the routine! Isn't that like the funniest best story ever?!
Bitch Boy? If you like your penis you might wanna nod or something. Rachel's nostrils are flaring and I think she wants an answer. Eventually, Bitch Boy forcibly laughs and says, "Yeah that's funny, so what is it exactly you get paid to do?" Rachel replies...
Oh my god so there was this other time when like I was so drunk at work that I made myself go throw up just so I could drink some more! I mean, everyone does that once in a while, right? It's so not a big deal.
Hang on a sec, I gotta lift Bitch Boy's jaw up off the floor.
Brendon clears his throat and says, "Uh yeah. Guess so... So who are these 'clients' of yours?" Rachel replies...
Then there was this other time when I was totally like shmammied at this bar and I was doing tequila shots all night and like my friends were all like, "Why don't you like enter a bikini contest?" so I like think I did and then the next thing I know I'm like in some alley somewhere naked covered in vomit with a death grip on a wad of hundreds. Isn't that the best? I won!
Bitch Boy gulps and wipes his brow, "Uh yeah that's great." He then very gingerly grabs his own mic and begins to whisper into it. He says, "Um help? Please... someone, anyone listening, send help. She's scaring me and I think I have to go home to my mommy now. Her name's Conchita Villegas. Please. Hurry!"
So how long do you think these two will last once out of the house? Will the spirit of Marie help Conchita and Pepe get their wish? How many times will Rachel have to puke on Brendon in order for him to get the hint? Does Rachel really have any power in Vegas whatsoever? Comment it out bitches and have a great day!