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Photographic Evidence:
I am not a lush ALL the time. I actually volunteer for various non-profits, sit on several boards of directors, and hold leadership positions in the community.

However, sometimes my private, insane persona and my public, pillar-o-the-community images get entangled.

Like last week. A very nice, older woman who sat on one of my volunteer committees recently purchased a photo lab, and since I know that she is struggling, I’m making an effort to give her all my disposable cameras to develop. I’m really irresponsible about getting photos developed promptly, and as a result, have a number of mystery cameras lying around the house. So, I gathered them up and turned them into the nice lady last week.

HERE IS A TIP! Don’t do that.

Because you will get the photos back, and discover that there is an entire roll dating back from a year ago, when you and Shawn held the Sex Toy Party. These photos are dirty. So, so dirty. There is much play-acting with the plethora of props provided. Also, one strange photo where Shawn is bent over in front of you, her pink thong a-blazin’, and you are laughing behind her, but what are you two doing?

I don’t know, but it sure is embarrassing.

Also, if you and Co-Host Kim are the designated Wavers And Candy-Throwers again in this year’s 4th of July Parade, and she gets it in her head that the logo on the front of your t-shirt should SPARKLE, so she will rub glitter gel all over your rack, in public, in the middle of the crowds getting ready to start the parade?

Another nice older woman will ask you about it at the end of your businesswomen’s club board meeting.



“Why was Kim… rubbing the front of your shirt before the parade?”

“Oh, she decided that the logo should sparkle, so she was putting glitter on it.”

Now the nice woman is only pretending to understand.


Oh, and remember how I did not come equipped with volume control? So I will then choose that quiet moment to mutter not-softly-enough:

“And, she wanted to feel me up!”

The entire board will gasp. In unison. Seriously, I felt precious oxygen being robbed from my personal atmosphere.

I am going to New Orleans next month, for the first annual meet-up of my three best buddies who are not my sister.

I just now remembered that our country station’s program director, who is a inductee in the Country And Western Hall Of Motherfucking Fame, is also a Certified Cajun who hails from the town of jazz and gumbo and oh, yeah. Mardi Gras.

I’m pumping him for the local scoop as we speak.

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