I feel like I am going to eat that pie that is sitting on my desk. I feel like I am going to take that fork and start shoveling pie into my face faster than you can say, "fat ass."

Here's what I am going to do instead of eating a giant pie. I'm going to talk about what's on the front page of People.com. I have no excuse other than I stumbled on their website while literally stumbling. Consequently I have decided that no matter how much I think my life sucks goat balls today, at least I'm not worthy of being talked about on People.


Gary Coleman - Totally sad deal that he passed away, but People felt it wasn't sad enough. Did you know that his wife, Shannon Price, told the 9-1-1 operator that she really couldn't help him? "I've just been kind of sick. I don't want to be traumatized right now." What the hell? I'm gonna do what we're good at in our society and go ahead and find her guilty of some hinky business before I bother with a trial. Lock her up - but give her some echinacea first. We don't want her traumatized until she feels better.


John Travolta and Kelly Preston - He's 56 and she's his 47 year old beard and they're calling her pregnancy a "miracle." As a forty-six year old woman myself, I'm willing to agree with that statement. If my dusty ovaries were to miraculously begin to fire again (with a little help from modern medicine and Scientology money) and I got pregnant by a closeted gay actor who believes he's an alien trapped on planet Earth in a physical body, I would no longer have need of pie. I would kill myself using a rusty spoon and some bailing wire. 


Heidi Montag - She's sad. People has the photo to prove it. I have no idea who the hell she is or why I'm supposed to care. Did she find out she's pregnant with John Travolta's alien spawn, too?

Kim Cattrall - There's a new blunt bob in town, and I don't mean the rude guy at the Safeway. Apparently Kim Cattrall is "sporting" a new, blunt, bob and People is completely shaken up about it. Do we love it or hate it, kids??? People needs to know RIGHT THE HELL NOW! There is a POLL for godsake!


I don't think I feel completely better, but I can find some solace in having seen what's considered highly important at People. Sweet lord. At least I'm if I hit my head and am bleeding out, someone will toss me a towel. At least I'm not pregnant... with alien sperm. And at least my hair is not named after a dim-witted Southern cartoon character.


Praise be and pass the fork. 

Dear Kim Kardashian and Your Cellulite,

 First of all, I don't know who the hell you are, Kim Kardashian. Seriously. I know I'm supposed to be keeping up with you, but until I figure out why, I'm gonna focus my attention on keeping up with my two Yorkies. If I don't, they poop in the house. For all I know that's precisely why people are supposed to keep up with you, but even if that's true, I'm still pretty sure it's not my week to watch you. I suggest stopping all food and water beyond 7PM. That's what I do for Buddy & Tanner.

Here's why I'm writing you, Honey. Obviously I have done something in the last 24 hours for which the universe felt I must be punished, because everywhere I look I'm seeing you or hearing you talking about your "less than perfect body" and your cellulite and how you have finally lost that last ten pounds.

Scooch up close to your computer, Kim Kardashian, and listen intently to me because I'm only going to say this a couple thousand times...

SHUT THE MOTHER TRUCKING HELL UP!

From your interview in Shape:  Kim revealed that tabloid pictures which had surfaced last year, showing the reality star in less than perfect shape, were upsetting, but helped her turn over a new leaf. "It did motivate me to finally drop those last 10 pounds," she said.


Darlin', Honey, Baby Doll, SHUT THE MOTHER TRUCKING HELL UP!

Upsetting? Really? Let me tell you what's upsetting, Sweet Cookie. What's upsetting is being a real, live, woman who has a body of a real, live, woman and because she lives the LIFE of a real, live, woman, does not have time to do the Ultimate BUTT Body Sculpt. You know why, Pudding Drop? Because we are working our BUTT's off trying to take care of our families, doing voodoo over our bank accounts, and cleaning up after our Yorkies when we forget to keep up with them.

You wanna know how I got my own "less than perfect shape," Honey Buns? I pushed two babies out my who-ha and I eat frosting and peanut butter when I'm stressed. Know the other reason my shape is less than perfect? Remember that bank account thing I just mentioned? Well, Sugar-Coated Dumpling, it doesn't allow for things like fat-sucking, and collagen injections, and boobie boosts and butt sculpting. Don't bother to tell me you don't partake in any of those delights. Jesus punishes the offense of lying about plastic surgery by slowly turning you into Priscilla Presley. (Forgive me Elvis.)

When you prance around with your perfectly lovely little body, Kim Kardashian, and talk to the press about how it's not perfect and about how hard you have to work to make it better and about how cellulite is "not cute",  you diminish the worth of every woman, most especially our young sisters, who are looking in their mirrors and finding themselves utterly devastated because they will never look like you. 

I would gladly pay an old woman with the face of a shriveled apple the sum of 1,000 bottles of chicken lips and butterfly eyes to curse you with one more cellulite dimple every time a teenage girl cries because she doesn't have a body that looks like yours. The very moment I find one on Craigslist, you're in deep kimchi, Kim.

What would have been just super-dooper, Monkey Ears, and I'm convinced a much better choice for you, would have been to have said, out loud, and proud, "Yeah! I have cellulite! Suck it!" I would have loved you harder than a goat loves a stump and may have even been persuaded to keep up with you.

In closing, let me just say this: watch your non-fat back, Ms. Thang. "The Priscilla" is just around the corner.

Warmest peanut butter and frosting regards,

Sherri Lynn Bailey
President & CEO of Women Against Keeping Up With Kim Kardashian








Contact Sherri Bailey at humorwriter at gmail dotcom.
Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

And a one and a two and a ..... oink.

My life is a whirlwind right now. The good, the bad and the ugly has got me by the genitals and is slinging me around.

Not really by the genitals, but I really wanted to use that word tonight so I had to work it in somehow.

The good: all the footage we shot on my trip to Tampa for our TV show is in the hands of the world's most brilliant editor. I saw about 5 minutes of it yesterday and I LOL'd. It wasn't even that fake LOL that I sometimes do when really I'm just sort of smiling, or at best softly chortling.

The bad: my son is sick and also injured his ankle at football tonight. He's not going to be wheelchair bound or sitting on the sidewalk playing a harmonica and asking for food or anything, so don't openly cry for us quite yet. The bitch of the news here though is that he was exposed to Swine Flu and so now we are all sort of standing around waiting to be swiney.

"Did you just cough? Cause I couldn't tell if it was a real cough or if you sounded like Miss Piggy coughing."

The ugly: my enormous ass in the footage mentioned in "The good". Seriously, I am distraught at my completely gargantuan ass. Like I wake up thinking about my ass and apparently I'm getting ready to go to bed to think about my ass some more. Yes, I knew I'd put on some weight as a result of a lovely little pill I'm taking that does wonderful things for your brain, but sometimes makes the rest of you look like you live in a trailer park. It just didn't hit me between the eyes until I saw myself waddling around no film.

On one hand: never been happier.

On the other hand: my ass. Which is too big for just one hand.

Help me Tom Cruise. I'm exhausted.




Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.