Disney Channel Graduate Girl

          I’m lying in bed watching a new Fox reality show called “Jihad to See Her”, where Muslims are put into suicide vests packed with two kilos of TNT and given one thousand dollars in cash and taken to a strip club in Las Vegas.  They are given the choice of either blowing themselves up so they can be martyrs and get forty virgins in heaven, or they can choose to lose the suicide belt and be martyrs by spending their thousand bucks for a lap dance and any extras they can finagle from rubber-titted guest celebrity stripper/whores with daddy issues.  This week Mohammed al Siri is debating whether to go for a lap dance and a possible hand job from Kim Kardashian or blow himself up and I’m on the phone placing a hundred dollars bet with five to one odds on the latter with my bookie, Frankie the Gaspipe. 

                  “You wanna throw your dough away, it isn’t my problem,” Frankie the Gaspipe states.  “The smart money’s on him making it rain and getting a Kardashian tittie grope and wank from Kimmy K, and let me tell you there is a 100 to 1 parlay if little Al Quaeda gets…”

                  All of the sudden my attention is diverted as my bedroom door is flung open and a crying Nina Pennington, wearing fishnet a pink PVC corset, crotchless panties, fishnet stockings and seven inch platform stiletto heeled shoes with clear plastic heels and holding a crack pipe bursts in. 

                  “You have to have a lighter here somewhere,” Nina mutters, while dumping the contents of my night table drawer on the floor.

                  I’m about to tell her I don’t have a lighter because as she knows I don’t smoke, when the sound of an explosion diverts my attention back to the TV.   “Yes!  You owe me five hundred bucks,” I shout into the phone – as Mohammed al Siri makes it rain, in a slightly non-conventional strip club way.

                  “I’m sorry Ric, but you didn’t finish placing the bet.  We were still talking about the parlay,” Frankie the Gaspipe welshes as Nina starts rummaging through my dresser.

                  We proceed to argue whether I had placed the bet, until Frankie the Gaspipe reminds me that he is but a peon and that all appeals must be directed to his superior, Luigi “Blue Eye” Pellegrino, who conducts business during visiting hours at the Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary in Pennsylvania. 

                  I slam down the phone and am not in the best of moods, especially when Nina begins yelling at me that she needs a light and this is all my fault.

                  “What do you mean this is all my fault?  What did I do?”

                  “You had to be a fucking big shot and write a fucked up book about us, which was bad enough until you sold your soul to the Devil to get Hollywood and Roger Debris to make it into a movie.”

                  “The book wasn’t about ‘us’, it was about me.  You weren’t that big a part of it…”

                  “Oh yeah you bastard?  Well if I’m not such a fucking big part of it, whose name is it that all the advertising is about?  I don’t see the actor who is playing you splattered all over the tabloids, it’s the Disney girl who is playing me that everyone’s paying attention to.  Did Hollywood change my name?  No.  Did he change your name?  Yes.  Because you’re nobody.  No one cares about you.   Why do you think Hollywood changed the movie’s title from your hippie whimsical ironic, ‘While I’m Dead…Feed the Dog” to the title which rolls so easily off your tongue, ‘Behaving Badly”?  Me they care about and now I have a fucking image I have to live up to; so get me a fucking lighter so I can smoke crack.”

                  “Not that I don’t mind the outfit, in fact it’s quite sexy, but what do you mean by ‘you have an image you need to live up to?”

                  “I’m being played by a Disney girl, which means I have to live a Disney girl life,” she starts singing some insipid Josh Groban sounding pop drivel, while moving to the bathroom in quest for a light.

                  “I watched the Disney channel and Phineas and Ferb don’t carry around a crack pipe and wear crotchless panties.”

                  “I’m a Disney Channel graduate girl, which means I have a contract saying I have to do crack, flash my pussy, twerk and send out incoherent tweets… just like Miley, Demi Lovato, Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears… in fact,” she grabs her iPhone 5s, “let me take a selfie of my pussy and post it.”

                  “You don’t really have a contract that says you have to flash your pussy do you?”

                  “Yes I do,” she pulls a pulls a contract out of her purse, and tosses it to me.  “It’s right below the clause saying I have to smoke crack, and have Dr. Phil stage an intervention which must be filmed and sold to TMZ.”   She thumbs through the paper and starts reading, “Disney Channel graduate girl must hire video crew to film her slugging Dr. Phil at rehab facility and leaving said rehab facility with 72 hours of arrival.  All proceeds from selling this video to TMZ shall be split on a 90/10 basis in favor of Hollywood.”

                  “You only get 10 percent for slugging out Dr. Phil?   I’m sure Selena Gomez gets more than ten percent of the video royalties for when she slugs out Dr. Phil.”

                  “First of all may let me remind you who is wearing crotchless panties, and let me also remind you who has a knife in her purse.   Now that you have that firmly in your mind, are you saying that Selena Gomez, who not only signed with Hollywood but went out with Justin Bieber is smarter than me?”

                  “No,” I admit glumly.

                  “Good.  So go get me the lighter you use to light your farts, so I can live up to my contract and Behave badly like a Disney Channel graduate girl contractually should.”

                  I give her the lighter and wonder what a Nickelodeon girl graduate’s contract looks like.

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