The trail was shitty, yeah, but it was shitty because we made it that way. Those half-assed blobs of flour were our blobs, and they took you where we wanted you to go, on streets ironic in an Alanis Morrisette kinda way, empty hipstervilles, and Cockamole laced byways that’ll make even Masterbaster grin. We felt you up like the Perfect Woman and made you Banana In Public, and took Sister Fister in at the end.
People said Jesus Christ seeing us run down the street, but he was the wrong deity to pray to, because now we’re the goddesses of not giving a fuck, and it’s our altar you’ve been kneeling at all along. Like a virgin delivered in a Circle Jerk, we’re pure in all the ways that count, and we’ll have Cherry Poppins for all the ways that don’t. We’ll get Zippercised when we’re of age or not at all, and only if there’s a little Muff Daddy delivered on the side.
What we’re saying is that we don’t lose keys because we’re ditzy, but because we’re Whorifist, and we don’t take sexy selfies for sluttiness, but because we’re Dick Simmons, and we don’t talk in Code For Penis when we can just ask an Udder Moron to hand Geordi Le Foreskin to us. We love our Primal Vagina and Six Tits a Week enough to Pole Her Bare when we please, not for you but for ourselves. Or not.
We(e Wee)’d make you a cake, but not because we’re all good at baking but because we can mother Fuckering read a recipe and care about our friends enough to put in the effort. We’ll clean up after our Snoballs have blown, and we’ll Miss Delivery our gratitude to any Dick Ass Mother Fucker we’ll choose to, and we might even Wash This Asshole when we’re done. We’ll say please and thank you like our Cuming Mutha’s have taught us, because we’re not always Douchicorns when it comes down to us. And if someone calls us a Little Sissy Pants Hasher Boy we’ll be proud of it.
But make no mistake, you’ll love us even when we’re being Jack the Rippers, and Deadbeats. Our Stinky Flosses have a lot to show you Buck Fuckas, and… Meh. It’s just like I’m talking Me No Engrish now—what all is in a name anyway?
We can give someone a moniker but in the end it tells you just as much about a person as Just Liz, Just David, Just Jessica and Just Cam do. So never judge a Brown Eye by his Hoseblower, because if there’s one thing in our collective consciousness it should be the unplumbable depths of someone’s heart.
So I can start this off in the spirit of woman power and segue to the unique truth, warts and all, of everyone who I’ve come to love over the years. But at the end I have to give tribute to one person in particular, whose sense of humor, wisdom, sensibility, and kindness has been around for ten years now, and who we will be lucky to have with us for the years to come.
And without letting a Wrinklepecker get into all the name shenanigans, let’s just Saigon Sally forth to the sunset.
Happy birthday, Fuck…