The Strip

I had dinner with Susan Sarandon, Mary Louise Parker and Meryl Streep last night.
We were eating the entrée when they told me they were tired of dying on-screen.
I called them The No Luck Club
And they laughed a little too loudly.
Jack Nicholson sent over a bottle of champagne and a side plate with one of his eyebrows on it.
I put it in my handbag alongside Tom Cruise’s front teeth
(but that was more of a peace offering than a souvenir because of the whole “Nicole” debacle)

My dinner arrived
- recommended to me by a supermodel with cheekbones that sat in her eye sockets –
and a struggling actor posing as a waiter offered me oral sex and black pepper.
Meg Ryan told me it was the town specialty.
Julia Roberts disagreed and their lawyers reached orgasm.
I ate too quickly and felt guilty but Dr. Phil gave me a quick pep talk and I bought a multi-coloured ribbon to support/condemn/eliminate a cause/organisation/life-threatening illness.

I was halfway through dessert when Madonna tried to tongue me.
I really admire her, but she never should have gone into acting and I told her as much.
Maybe I was a bit harsh.
Angelina Jolie concurred before jumping off the roof of a moving limo,
And leaving me with groupies who didn’t belong to me.
I smoked a Menthol cigarette with Al Pacino and glanced in the rearview mirror.
Sunset Boulevard looked a lot like my bedroom.

The Strip


Joined May 2008

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Artist's Description

Musings of a popular culture-filled subconscious.

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