I've been very busy. I've been very busty.
First thing's first because it has to be, or else it's not the first thing anymore--I'm now a drug lord. It may be more accurate, Aunt, to say that I'm a drug hoard. It may be even more accurate, Achtung, to say that I'm a drug whore.
I'll elaborate.
Several ersatzgentleman approached me six months ago and inquired after the wide, open fields in my cunt. The wide, open fields in my cunt have been used for: flying kites, finding lights, guiding flights, building snowmen, acting Roman, burying Paul Loehman[1], ant farming, corn farming, soybean farming, rose farming, petunia farming, man farming[2], mice farming, muscle farming[3], marriage farming, sunbathing, ankle-wading, Christ-craving, rock festivals, roll festivals, and pig roasts. I explained this, very patiently, and the gentlemen nodded and conferred amongst themselves. I was annoyed by this, because it was rude and because I was late for parent-teacher night at NYU, where Millicent has matriculated to double-major in Organizational Behavior and Film. (Before you think that she must be very smart to go to college at such a young age, I'll let you know that her GPA is 0.0002. Urban is up at Columbia, majoring in Women's Studies, and his GPA is pi).
"What is it that you want, wiseacres?" I asked.
"We were wondering if you would be interested in a small but lucrative farming project."
"I'm all ears," I said. Then I laughed. "We both know that's a lie. Heck, I'm all cunt!"
"Fortunate for us, yes, Ma'am, you are."
I was insulted that they agreed about the size of my cunt. A gentleman is always supposed to insist to his very death that a lady's netherregions are tiny, delicate, pink, petite, pretty, and punctual. These were not gentleman at all, I realized! I'd been fooled by the fedoras and ascots.
"You're not gentleman after all, are you?" I said, warily. "Ersatzgentlemen? Am I right?"
"Aye, you are, shithead," they said in unison. They ripped off their ascots and tossed aside their fedoras. "Bitch sees right through us. Smart birdie."
"Flattery only gets you fucked," I flirted dangerously. "Remember 9-11?"
They looked uncomfortable. "Listen, we'll just give it to you straight, feathers. We're ersatzgentleman, all right, and you know what that means. We're up to no good. We're--I hate to say it, but here it is--drug lords. And we're looking for a nice, clean, open field to plant some coca. Get our drift? Smell our pits? Eh?"
I got it. "Interesting," I said. "What's in it for me?"
They beamed. "Glad that you asked. Lots. You're putting two birdies through college right now, right?"
I nodded.
"And you've got an uncle who is seven dollars in debt and who is on the lam from nine nations?"
I nodded, more ruefully this time. "It's not that I can't help him pay off that seven dollars. It's the principle."
"We get it. A lady of principle. So okay, here's our offer. Ready?"
"YES," I emphasized.
"One trillion dollars. A summer home in Alabama. A spring home in Utah. A fall home in Montana. A winter home in Nunavut. A mansion in Bucharest. A mansion in Budapest. A manson in Paris. A mansion on Mars. A hovel in Singapore. A shack in Shanghai. An apartment in Ethiopia. An arrangement with Eritrea--for your uncle, as we understand he raped the entire population. A Rolls Royce. Ownership of the person: Carol Oates, Joyce. A class to better your voice. A Mercedes Benz. A truck full of hens. A desk full of pens. A camera with a diamond-encrusted lens. A tree rife with wrens. A Barbie and six Kens. A shirt. An unlimited Metrocard. The Vice-Presidency of the United States of America. The Vice-Presidency of Bolivia. The bones of Simon Bolivar. A den of hookers. A sandwich."
"Hmmm..." I said. "All of that is very enticing. What is on the sandwich?"
They rolled their eyes as though to say "unbelievable, this bird." It's true, I am. I didn't care what was on the sandwich. I just like to yank chains when they dangle. "Swiss cheese and celery, with tuna," one of them said.
"And a tomato and mustard," added the other. "On foccacia."
"That sounds delicious," I mused. "Offer accepted."
We shook hands. Well, I shook hands. They shook wings.
So that is how I got a field full of coca planted in my cunt. Now, every morning I wake up and sing this song:
I HAVE CO-CA-YEEEEEENA
IN MY VAGE-A-HEEEENA
CO-CA-YEEEEENA! IN MY VAGE-A-HEEEENA!
COKE IN THE VADGE AND A COKE IN THE VADGE
MADONNA IS MADGE, MADONNA IS MADGE
I sing it about four times, very loudly. I think this is why both Millicent and Urban have moved into dorms. I'm very lonely, but very wealthy, and also, I've been playing lots of Wii. I grew ten thousand more netherboobs and I'm slowly upgrading them to netherteats. It's a process, as you all know by now. Otherwise, I'm doing pretty well.
How are you?
____________________
[1]Paul Loehman, 1634-1690 was a founding father and village elder of the first settlement in my cunt
[2] That's a nice way to say "raising boys for careers in prostitution."
[3] Same as footnote 2, but beefier.
I'll elaborate.
Several ersatzgentleman approached me six months ago and inquired after the wide, open fields in my cunt. The wide, open fields in my cunt have been used for: flying kites, finding lights, guiding flights, building snowmen, acting Roman, burying Paul Loehman[1], ant farming, corn farming, soybean farming, rose farming, petunia farming, man farming[2], mice farming, muscle farming[3], marriage farming, sunbathing, ankle-wading, Christ-craving, rock festivals, roll festivals, and pig roasts. I explained this, very patiently, and the gentlemen nodded and conferred amongst themselves. I was annoyed by this, because it was rude and because I was late for parent-teacher night at NYU, where Millicent has matriculated to double-major in Organizational Behavior and Film. (Before you think that she must be very smart to go to college at such a young age, I'll let you know that her GPA is 0.0002. Urban is up at Columbia, majoring in Women's Studies, and his GPA is pi).
"What is it that you want, wiseacres?" I asked.
"We were wondering if you would be interested in a small but lucrative farming project."
"I'm all ears," I said. Then I laughed. "We both know that's a lie. Heck, I'm all cunt!"
"Fortunate for us, yes, Ma'am, you are."
I was insulted that they agreed about the size of my cunt. A gentleman is always supposed to insist to his very death that a lady's netherregions are tiny, delicate, pink, petite, pretty, and punctual. These were not gentleman at all, I realized! I'd been fooled by the fedoras and ascots.
"You're not gentleman after all, are you?" I said, warily. "Ersatzgentlemen? Am I right?"
"Aye, you are, shithead," they said in unison. They ripped off their ascots and tossed aside their fedoras. "Bitch sees right through us. Smart birdie."
"Flattery only gets you fucked," I flirted dangerously. "Remember 9-11?"
They looked uncomfortable. "Listen, we'll just give it to you straight, feathers. We're ersatzgentleman, all right, and you know what that means. We're up to no good. We're--I hate to say it, but here it is--drug lords. And we're looking for a nice, clean, open field to plant some coca. Get our drift? Smell our pits? Eh?"
I got it. "Interesting," I said. "What's in it for me?"
They beamed. "Glad that you asked. Lots. You're putting two birdies through college right now, right?"
I nodded.
"And you've got an uncle who is seven dollars in debt and who is on the lam from nine nations?"
I nodded, more ruefully this time. "It's not that I can't help him pay off that seven dollars. It's the principle."
"We get it. A lady of principle. So okay, here's our offer. Ready?"
"YES," I emphasized.
"One trillion dollars. A summer home in Alabama. A spring home in Utah. A fall home in Montana. A winter home in Nunavut. A mansion in Bucharest. A mansion in Budapest. A manson in Paris. A mansion on Mars. A hovel in Singapore. A shack in Shanghai. An apartment in Ethiopia. An arrangement with Eritrea--for your uncle, as we understand he raped the entire population. A Rolls Royce. Ownership of the person: Carol Oates, Joyce. A class to better your voice. A Mercedes Benz. A truck full of hens. A desk full of pens. A camera with a diamond-encrusted lens. A tree rife with wrens. A Barbie and six Kens. A shirt. An unlimited Metrocard. The Vice-Presidency of the United States of America. The Vice-Presidency of Bolivia. The bones of Simon Bolivar. A den of hookers. A sandwich."
"Hmmm..." I said. "All of that is very enticing. What is on the sandwich?"
They rolled their eyes as though to say "unbelievable, this bird." It's true, I am. I didn't care what was on the sandwich. I just like to yank chains when they dangle. "Swiss cheese and celery, with tuna," one of them said.
"And a tomato and mustard," added the other. "On foccacia."
"That sounds delicious," I mused. "Offer accepted."
We shook hands. Well, I shook hands. They shook wings.
So that is how I got a field full of coca planted in my cunt. Now, every morning I wake up and sing this song:
I HAVE CO-CA-YEEEEEENA
IN MY VAGE-A-HEEEENA
CO-CA-YEEEEENA! IN MY VAGE-A-HEEEENA!
COKE IN THE VADGE AND A COKE IN THE VADGE
MADONNA IS MADGE, MADONNA IS MADGE
I sing it about four times, very loudly. I think this is why both Millicent and Urban have moved into dorms. I'm very lonely, but very wealthy, and also, I've been playing lots of Wii. I grew ten thousand more netherboobs and I'm slowly upgrading them to netherteats. It's a process, as you all know by now. Otherwise, I'm doing pretty well.
How are you?
____________________
[1]Paul Loehman, 1634-1690 was a founding father and village elder of the first settlement in my cunt
[2] That's a nice way to say "raising boys for careers in prostitution."
[3] Same as footnote 2, but beefier.