My name is Katie Perry and I am a worthless whorebag

My name is Katie Perry and I couldn’t succeed as a singer despite being amazingly lucky enough to be chosen to sing a song for a film about pants. And because I am such a fucking moron, I believed my agent when he said that writing a song myself would be the ticket, so I was surprised when my txt-spk-homophobic-slash-idiot-cough-hit-cough “Ur So Gay” EP got panned. 

So I begged my record company to give me another shot, telling them I would do anything at all to be famous, as I am in fact a massively insecure and crazy bitch who is insanely desperate for attention. After sucking a lot of executive cock, a giant douchbag stuck his dick in my ear and told me that he wanted to make some money out of my worthless ass. He told me that my only chance was to say that I am a lesbian, so that stupid men would listen to my songs and think about lesbians, and even stupider women would listen to them so that they could try and ingratiate themselves to these stupid men. So I sang a song about making out with a chick, but got sick of it so said I was sick of it, and before I knew it, I had an executive wang in my face telling me that I best shut up or I’d be taken to the dump and shot. He also said I had to make out with a chick in public so that the idiots of the world would be confused enough to semi-believe in the possibility that I was a lesbian. 

I think I sold a lot of records as I keep hearing me on the radio, but the executives keep me pretty much in the dark (for my own good apparently), so I’ve got too much jizz in my brain to tell. They did tell me that no-one gives a crap about me anymore though so if I want to keep people looking at me, I would have to appeal to kids who like stabbing this time, as they are also idiots. So I let them take some pictures of me with a blade, and I’ve got my fingers crossed that for some reason, it will make people like me. 

My momma, and poppa, and grandma, and all my relatives in fact are pretty angry with me for being such a completely worthless whorebag, but at least that means they keep calling me, which gives me just a little bit more of the attention I so desperately crave but don’t deserve. 

The thing is, which I don’t understand about this whole “I kissed a girl” hoo ha (and let’s be honest, I don’t understand most things) is that I’ve seen myself naked, and I know that I am rough as fuck, so how was it a good idea to try and make me all sexual and that? No time to think about it now though, an executive needs his balls brassed. Toodlepip

Hungry Hungry Heroes

So yesterday I had a magically mega lazy day of doing nothing but watching Heroes season 2. As it was cut to just 11 episodes due to the previously-supported-coz-I-hate-Hollywood-Producer-bastards-who-seem-to-ruin-every-movie-but-now-resented-as-I-feel-the-effects-a-tiny-bit-like-with-pushing-daisies writers strike we thought we might as well watch every episode in a row. It was somewhere around hour 8 when we took a dinner break  to eat the kindly and thoughtfully prepared steaks cooked by my delightful girlfriend. I was a bit worse for wear from the crazy things I had seen when I realised how warped my brain was, as upon the steaks arriving in front of me, I narrowly avoided almost committing the most nuclear powered smack down of pre-dinner-faux-pas- fuck-ups by not completely uttering the sentence “Do you think the cheerleader could mass produce s...

Raven

I’ve always had an affinity for homeless people, or at least they’ve always had an affinity for me. From the time a homeless guy came and told me it was beer o’clock, to every time a crazy hobo chooses me to sit next to on the bus, I know that there is something which makes me closer to being on the streets than most people. It’s probably the furry face, or the shabby appearance, or most likely the forlorn look in my eye. Whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

The other night I was drunk on the streets, and puking on the streets, when a man from the streets came over to me to try his luck. “You got any spare change?” he asked. I had no idea if I did or not, and as my hands had been used to wipe the puke from my beard, I was loathe to jam them in my pockets and root around my unpukey stuff for some bucks. I generally give all my coins to any tramp who asks, but as I say, I was past drunk. “Come on man, not even a pound?” he begged again. “Nah man I ain’t got nothing” I said still wiping the smell from my face “You want a fag?”. He said “Yeah man safe....hey, you alright blood? .... You gonna be alright getting home?”. I mumbled something about there being a main road and wandered off, to eventually fall on my ass with my friends.

So a homeless guy asked me if I would be alright to get home. A Home-less guy asked me if I could get Home. To quote the late great Clay Davis

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet.

That was a low.