The scene: After a long night of hooking, I stand inebriated, holding a 40 of bud light in a paper bag, on the sidewalk outside the bar I was asked to vacate and a Hungry Howie’s pizzeria that banned me after an all you can eat misunderstanding I don’t care to go into right now. I’m wearing my best target wigs stacked three high, a sequined tube-top I made out of a 30 years old prom dress I found at Goodwill and a pair of spandex daisy duke’s, and knee-high white Gogo boots. In other words, I am looking absolutely fucking fabulous. I’m 6’9″ and feeling fine. When it hits me: where have all the divas gone? Long time passing?
Me: (drunkenly throws beer bottle at passing police car.)
Officer: (slamming on breaks and exiting car) “Halt! Police!”
Me: (stumbling away at a snail’s pace on six-inch titanium reinforced Gogo boots)
Officer: (in hot pursuit, easily overtakes me and attempts to tackle me but only manages to pull my tube top down, exposing my moobs, and now being dragged very slowly down the road) “….What in the world are you doing?”
Me: “Protesting (grunt) the (grunt) death (grunt) of (grunt) Liza Minelli (hiccups, heaves and falls to the ground, belches).”
Officer: (pulling out handcuffs and realizing that he might need three more pairs to accommodate my wrists) “Sir….Ma’am? Calm down! Liza Minelli isn’t dead… I just saw her on the news!”
Me: (enraged, turning my body over in one agile, flab-jiggling hop, and glaring ferociously at the officer through the massed clump of 301’s and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrappers I used to create my false eyelashes) “Then you know I have no time to waste!“