(in order of importance)
NOTE TO READERS: This introduction lists the cast of characters in order of their importance to this blog. But also, really de facto in life. And you, dear reader, should assign a value to the human worth of these characters in accordance with their descending position on this list.
I can’t stress this enough, as we go from the top of the list to the bottom, the importance and inherent overall intrinsic value of these characters diminish rapidly. Like, exponentially so.
Also, you will note I provide some insightful commentary into the deeper meaning behind the layered, complex, and, if you will, deeply allegorical imagery you will find artistically arranged throughout this website blog deal.
I welcome you to peruse it further, perhaps with a bottle of wine, relaxing in a black beret as one does. And as you swirl the wine in your mouth, enjoying the bouquet and acrid oaky undertones, think about the deeper meanings subtly interwoven into the texture and fabric of the visual artistry within.
So, who am I?
…Have I condemned myself to slavery- to write a blog that’s probably just for me?
Will readers visit more than once or maybe think I’m just a dunce?
Who am I?
(Yep, this is happening, just lay back and go with it).
Do my words reveal I’m something more, than just another vain attention whore?
Will I find fame before I die or just freak out and binge and cry?
Why then try?
Before I screamed into a deep black void- while trying in vain to avoid the Noid.
This whole endeavor could implode before my swollen heart explodes.
But pepperoni sauce and cheese can bring this fat bitch to his knees.
Who am I? Who? Am I?
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. How best to describe me? As an avid reader of my blog like YOU are, dear reader, I’m sure you’re also an extremely devoted fan of the hit series Gilmore Girls. So I rest assured that you’ll understand this reference without further explanation.
My personality is a mix of the social intensity and anxiety of Paris Gellar, the awkwardness of her boyfriend/husband, Doyle, all with the height of Richard Gilmore, the body of Caesar if Caesar ATE Caesar, the gay sensibility and annoyingness of Taylor Doose, the sex drive and sexuality of Miss Patty, and the manic rapid-fire dialogue of Lorelai (without any of the looks or charm- and the face of Louie Andersen, but he was never in Gilmore Girls).
It is only natural that I am most important character on this blog. This is not narcissism. I am not a self-important, grandiose braggadocio. This is just fact. And you’re learning the facts of life, learning the facts of life, you’re learning the facts of li-(excuse me a moment while I wash this window)-fe.
This fat swollen blob object represents me, from oversized head to knock-knees. And I stand alone on stage, with my three sisters looming behind me, as look off to an uncertain future.
And what’s on his shirt? Why, it’s-
Believe it or not. My pony has a first name. It’s O-S-C-A-R. My pony has a second name, too. I’m not going to tell you, though, as I’m trying to protect the identities of all of the cast on this site. But, I’ll give you one hint: he has an affinity for tube meat.
What, you thought my pony was a girl? Well, I’m sorry to be the one to dispel you of the illusory myth that all magical rainbow unicorns are female. Some of us, I mean them, are men. Manly macho men. Take that, society.
Yes, Oscar is a complicated creature, and I support his fabulosity by wearing his picture proudly on my shirt. And you might also notice that he appears to sport a slutty lower back tattoo. TM. TM for THIS is MINE. Oh, and it’s not a tattoo, it’s a BRAND. Yep. S&M doesn’t just stand for Sisters. Mister. anymore.
Here be the Sisters Three.
You’ll notice they are photo-realistic silhouettes of actual humans. You’ll also notice that, while maintaining the façade of humanity, they are an amalgam of distortions and graffiti, kind of like they might be coming out of the static of an old-fashioned television set a la Poltergeist or The Ring. Which anyone with sisters would know is one of the most accurate analogies to having sisters ever stated by anyone ever in the history of probably the entire universe. Or I can only imagine so.
However, to properly introduce them, I think it is only fair to do so in order of appearance. Like, from oldest to youngest. So what we’re going to do is flip the pic. So. Let’s flip the pic.
Now that that’s all fixed, we can start introductions. Without further ado (and I recognize that there’s been much ado, but at least it’s about something this time, not like when my historical peers go on about ado), let me introduce to you them sisters: Marla, Darla, and Varla.
Of course, those aren’t their real names. Because what type of moron parents name their children names that rhyme? Idiotic moronical morons, that’s who. These are merely pseudonyms to protect their identities and prevent the relentless nonstop streaming gaggle of nagging that would be sure to follow if I released a detail that outsiders could track to them.
But, now I’m stuck with the dilemma of what kind of information I can give out about them that DOESN’T affirmatively identify or like, embarrass them in some way, as that would, again, lead back to me being lambasted and skewered like a fat kebob.
Boob jokes? I mean, boobs ARE the one thing that my sisters and I have in common. Of course, mine come from gynecomastia. Gynecomastia, of course, comes from the Latin “Vagina Cone Masts” with the addition of “eee” and “uhhhh” to represent the social awkwardness people feel when faced with a man with tits. Ancient Latins put a lot of thought into this type of shit.
But thinking about boobs, perhaps THAT is the cause of all the issues I have had with my sisters over the years. I mean, I developed earlier and my boobs were far bigger than theirs for most of our childhoods. Have I just accidentally discovered the unconscious root of all of the what I can only assume was deep-seated jealousy and envy? So I guess I won’t talk about my sister’s knockers, even though they are all now fairly large and in charge.
Gee, when people kept saying that blogging would be “therapeutic,” I must admit, I would inwardly cringe and think “Jesus, what a fucking moron!” But perhaps they were right. Look at me, already making major emotional breakthroughs! I’m healing. Work from love. Grow from love. I know you can’t see this, but there is a solitary tear sliding down my cheek marking this auspicious moment.
Marla is my older sister. So I gave her an old-fashioned name. Marla loved Little House on the Prairie and had a huge thing for Dylan McDermott or perhaps Dermot Mulrooney. It’s hard to remember, and I’m pretty sure that they are the same person anyways. She always had the coolest stuff, like “Electric Youth” perfume, and she was the only one allowed to stay up to watch Beverly Hills: 90210. Don’t tell her, but one time I went into her closet and tried on her banana yellow jumpsuit and the white shirt she wore with it and kept it on in there for a whole ten minutes! Seriously, don’t tell her though, because she may still slap me across the face like a full-on Dynasty diva and then cry and beg me not to tell Dad.
As a younger brother, my whole goal in life was to basically do everything she did and try to do it one better. And she set a pretty high bar, so my youth was relatively successful. Thank you, Marla, and you’re welcome!
Darla, on the other hand, is younger than I am. I chose Darla for her because it is a little like Daria but still rhymes, because rhyming is very important. It is not moronic at all and anyone who would suggest so is a fucking cunt! Anyways, I’ve known Darla to be cynical and deadpan, a la Daria.
But Darla, she lives her life like a functional adult human being like I’ve witnessed with no other human ever. Balancing an incredibly busy schedule because she has like 1000 children, she not only finds time to handle all of THAT noise, but she goes to the GYM, she eats HEALTHY, she dresses like a real person almost ALL THE TIME, and she has a pretty successful career where PEOPLE ACTUALLY LIKE AND RESPECT HER.
And the worst part? Guys, she’s ridiculously fucking smart. It is super fucking annoying. I hate her, but I still want her to be my friend.
I know how hard she works to maintain all of these things, so it isn’t like some effortless breeze magical life. But zomg sometimes I just want to like, have her take over and run my life too so I don’t have to do it. She could probably handle it, what’s one more ball to juggle when you’ve got 30 going at once flawlessly, right? I could pay her in wine. Win-win.
Varla is the baby of the family, and she’s our own personal Oompa Loompa (in that she’s not very tall and it is hilarious when she does interpretive dances to explain our conundrums and/or chastise us (and society!) for our faults). I chose the name Varla for her because Varla just sounds like a campy, brassy broad. And that’s my Varla. Of my sisters, she is the only one who I think might actively enjoy camping. And like, non-craft beer.
I have fond memories of her little Minnie Mouse voice shrieking at my mother every morning before being taken to preschool until my mother promised her a present if she would just stop crying. Growing up, she was always one of those “little mothers,” so basically when she had friends over it was like she was babysitting. And she now has her own gaggle of children, and she loves being a mother most of all. It’s sweet.
They’re campy and they’re classy, the youngest one is brassy, I’ve known them to be gassy, they are the Sisters Three!
Oh, and they are pretty, too. And just for the record, when I compliment the looks of one sister, I’m really complimenting them all, because even their children will get them mixed up from time to time when everyone is together).
So, that’s that.