old thoughts.

Theres a very certain lonliness in the absolution of addiction that silences all the demons telling you whats right and wrong.

A dry foot in the dead of winter, the skin is cracking and red. You want something to stop the sting but its unyielding.

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I sat there and tried not to look like I wanted to do what I wanted to do.

I smiled and wondered if it looks as different as it feels when I smile at you.

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wrapped up in a blanket of karma

that has a warmth all its own

I reach out with my arm

and give you my peace on loan.

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intention

what i realized today is this... even the best intentions can go sour. possibly Ive been learning this my whole life but a simple act of ashing my cigarette turned into a metaphor for my life, and how I lead it.

My friend Dan always has an ashtray standing by for when I visit, so I dont ash on his front porch. I was just outside smoking when I noticed the long ash hanging from the end of my fag. So I swung my hand towards the bowl of discard and as I did a large ash fell onto the porch. I found myself thinking " that just looks like disrespect" here the ashtray is, a foot from my body and there it is, the blackened spot on his light cement.

My intention was and remained to properly place something where its meant to be.

My intention in life is the same, in my career all I try to do is place the right material in the proper place, yet i just keep falling short of the dispensary, so to speak.

On the bright side, I just missed the tray by a few inches... hopefully my writing career is just a few inches off as well.

Betty Booze DIVA

The Adventures of Betty Booze VOL 5 Diva

by Meaghan LiBrizzi

Foreword by Stan Lerner: And yes, Betty like her older brother Downtown Oliver Brown just makes stuff up — so get over it!

“It only takes me one drink to get me drunk. The trouble is, I can’t remember if it’s the thirteenth or fourteenth.”

-George Burns

BORDELLO – “a building where prostitutes are available”… ALSO a kick ass bar/club in downtown Los Angeles at 901 E. 1^st St.

That was the meeting place for myself and one Ms. Lindsay Lohan, who in my opinion hides from her life and sits in the shadows of a jail governed by public scrutiny. If you’re a drunk, say it. There are a lot worse things you can be… has she never heard of a functional drunk… has she never heard of ME? It not only offends me as a proud alcoholic, but disgraces me as a successful professional.

Oh this was going to be a night to remember…

It was 7:15pm on Friday night. Lilo’s driver was picking me up at 10:45. I offered to take my own town car but she insisted on picking me up. I hadn’t requested this interview, Lindsay’s camp (as they call it in Hollywood) called me. It was the first time a celebrity had requested an interview and my editor Sal was not ALLOWING me to decline, as much as I wanted to.

I called Sal.

“Hey Sal” I said, “What do you think about me trying my best to get her sh*t-faced?”, “believe me you’re not going to have to try,” he said.

That’s all I wanted to hear. So I went to the computer, found out what her poison was and went to the liquor store. She’s so-called sober, so what do I do? Find the one thing other than penis, she can’t turn down. As soon as I saw it on the shelf, I knew it was the one. It was called Diva Vodka and it was 900 dollars. The bottle contains diamonds and semi precious stones. Well f*ck me sideways, this was THE drink for Lindsay.

I picked up a few Red Bull’s and went back home. As I was doing a little more research, not on what she drinks but what I can probe her about, my eye kept drifting to the bottle of Diva. NINE HUNDRED dollars for a bottle of vodka… Hmm. I was more curious than a child staring at Boy George. I stood up, walked over and examined the bottle again. I was tempted to open it but I couldn’t give her a bottle already tapped, so I went back to my computer.

Twenty minutes later I had finished the bottle. Now, not only was I hammered, but I hadn’t showered, and I had to go down to the liquor store again to buy another bottle… It was 9pm. I had enough time. I bought another bottle, and while walking back home I mistook the height of the curb and ate cement like Tony Danza trying to rollerblade. (See: http://img80.exs.cx/img80/9323/danzafall2jd.jpg)

My cheek looked like what I imagine Pam Anderson’s “jiner” looked like after a night with Tommy Lee. All chopped up and damaged… sorry, that was gross, even for me. I have a bottle of Jack in me as I’m writing this and Jack makes me MEAN.

9:37 pm and three bottles of vodka later, I take a steady stance in front of my bathroom mirror… what I saw was an even bigger train wreck than Linz and I combined. Nothing I can do, and because of all the vodka in me it just won’t stop bleeding. I shower and get ready. It’s now 10:35. Ten minutes till the juvie’s arrival. I’ve done minimal research, but know enough to get a good conversation, and it’s not like I’m interviewing Natalie Portman.

.

At 11:15 there’s a knock at my door. A large man in a suit informs me that my transportation has arrived.

I stepped in the limo, Lindsay was on the phone, she held one finger up and smiled. F*CK ME, she ‘s really on the phone?

I made myself comfortable, reached for two glasses and put some ice in them.

I pulled out the Diva and showed her. She got off the phone.

“What’s that?”

“Vodka,” I said.

“But Betty I don’t drink.”

“Me neither,” I told her, trying my best to shield my laughter.

“Just a little toast, it could be our little secret.”

“You’re a journalist.”

“But I don’t write what people I’m interviewing don’t want written. It’s in the contract I sent to your people… you get final cut so to speak. You read it, and if you’re not comfortable with something, it goes away.”

She smiled. I opened the bottle, and poured two glasses. She took the glass.

We cheers-ed… we drank …. and we kept on drinking until the car stopped… SHE TOOK THE BAIT!

I won’t tell you what we talked about because she doesn’t want me to… and please don’t tell anyone she was drinking…. OUR little secret.

I will tell you one thing about the drive to Bordello… she drank more than I imagined her little body could, and smoked a pack of cigarettes. Actually, I’ll say one more thing… she drank like Tara Reid on vacation… three shots of Petrone, two vodka- red bulls and a Bud Light… she was beginning to grow on me.

We pulled up to Bordello and the driver got out to talk to the bouncer. We waited,

Lindsay then said, “We have to make sure they know I’m here so they can bring us straight to the table.” I believe she said it with a slight slur and her eyes were glossy… I’m just sayin.

I nodded. Wondering why I thought drinking vodka was a good idea, since I usually only drink whiskey. It was a different drunk. I felt kind of wired, and understood that if I switched to anything else, I’d be f*cked. But never doubting the fact that I was the less f*cked of the two of us… at any point of the night.

When we got to our table there were two security guards posted on either side. The bar was amazing. Gold, red and brothel-ey! Black chandeliers and beautiful people everywhere…We were seated in the Parlor Room, in a private booth that had closing doors. Our waitress came to the table, introduced herself as Trish and asked if she could get us anything… I stopped myself from replying with “NO you dumb f*ck, we came to the bar to read.

Lindsay asked for a Red Bull and a water, I asked for a bottle of Belvedere. Off she went to gather our liquids. Lindsay didn’t order it, therefore she’s not drinking it. Lindsay being comfortable with me at this point gave me an indiscrete wink while I ordered… this was going to be too easy.

An hour later I was in the booth, doors closed, accompanying one very drunk, and very gossipy Lindsay as well as an empty bottle of Belvedere ($150.00).

As she began to tell me about the whole Sam restraining order thing she lit a cigarette… the waitress came back to the table, and I ordered another bottle. Lindsay laughed hysterically when I ordered it… I kept thinking to myself if this waitress is smart she’ll snap a photo of her…sh*t-faced, smoking, forehead to the table in an uncontrollable belly laugh. I took a cigarette from her pack. I lit it. The bouncer looked at me and said, “Ma’am, would you mind putting that out please.”

Are you f*cking kidding me? Can you shove your head straight up your ass?

“Me?” I asked…. “She’s smoking too.” To which he replied, “yeah, and you’re not her.”

I was so pissed off I could have taken a bottle to his forehead, but Trish had cleared the empties and I wasn’t going to waste Vodka… so I put it out. Lindsay laughed harder, and I got more and more pissed off.

One piece of advice, don’t piss off the B-ster if she’s writing about you.

Lindsay’s laughter was contagious, my anger faded, and then I went back to a vodka clear mind. She was growing on me, and I didn’t like it.

My internal dialogue during the next thirty seconds of Lindsay laughing and smoking went like this:

If she wasn’t such a slut she’d totally be the younger version of me. Wait… I was a slut when I was her age.

If she wasn’t such a bitch…? I was also a bitch.

If she wasn’t so pretty…. Yup that’s it… that’s where we differ.

She really is like a mini me. She’s a complete lush, she f*cks up daily, sometimes hourly, and she doesn’t give a f*ck what anyone thinks of her. I hereby nominate Lilo as my little sister… Bingey Booze.

When her laughter subsided, I asked her to continue her story about the restraining order. She did NOT. She said it in a sweet way, how could I be mad at the cute little thing? The waitress came back and said, “its last call, would you like me to bring you a glass of vodka, so you don’t have to buy the bottle?” I knew she thought that “I” couldn’t finish it, and being the proud drunk I am, I informed her that the bottle would be fine and she can bring the check along too. I could see the uncertainty in Trish’s eyes, making me more eager to get the bottle and show this bitch why my name is Betty Booze.

An hour later the lights were on. I had paid the tab and Lindsay had three large men ready to escort her to the limo. They had a blanket and an umbrella… As I could not detect the looming threat of a thunderstorm inside the bar, I was royally confused. Then Bingey stood up, they draped her in the blanket, put the umbrella over her and walked her to the limo. I watched in awe, it was like she was suddenly invisible. I followed, wondering why no one was holding ME up. After all I had a total of about three liters of vodka in me. That curiosity didn’t hit me nearly as hard as the chair my face connected with while taking a nose dive into the floor. That’s the last thing I remember, along with the persistent thought that this girl I hated four hours ago was now my new hero.

The next day I woke up on my front steps. They had dropped me off like I was baby Benjamin Button.

To sum up the night:

$26.00 on medical supplies.

$445.00 at Bordello.

$2700.00 on Diva vodka

Getting Lindsay Lohan to believe she signed a contract… PRICELESS.

She didn’t once ask me what happened to my face.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered,

Betty Booze

Betty Booze ABCENTS

“ABCENTS” The Adventures of Betty Booze VOL.4

by Meaghan LiBrizzi

Standing in line for the quarter machine at the lavanderia (that’s a Laundromat, for those of you who don’t live in Los Angeles) I thought for a split second, “am I really doing this?” and before I could ponder anymore, it was my turn. I started injecting bills into the machine, and it sh*t quarters into the tiny tin cup. Once I was done filling my Crown Royale bag with fifty dollars worth of quarters, I left.

I walked through the jungle of dirty looks given to me from those in there that were ACTUALLY doing laundry, and continued down the street and up to my apartment to get ready for the night. (They may have been a little peeved about the fact that I had emptied the machine of its quarters… Oh well.)

I was told about the “Soup Kitchen” happy hour on Friday nights at the place I was going… the Edison at Main and 2^nd in downtown, and how they offer thirty-five cent martinis and grilled cheese with tomato soup, between 5 and 7pm. THIRTY FIVE F*CKING CENTS FOR A MARTINI… hence the “coin mission”. I was meeting Mr. DiCaprio (I’ll never let go) there at 11 for our interview, so I figured I could get pretty sauced up prior. Everyone I interview has a full understanding that I will be conducting my interview with enough liquor in me to make Val Kilmer look like an AA devotee, so I couldn’t disappoint.

When I got to the Edison I sat at the main bar and ordered any martini they wanted to make me, and pulled out my “change purse”. I paid. Thirty seconds later I ordered another. When I went to pay the bartender informed me that only the FIRST one would be thirty five cents and the ones following would be given to me at full price… WELL what the F*CK!? Not that I mind all that much, but this was my intention heading there:

I would drink as many martinis as I possibly could in two hours, hopefully extinguishing the contents of my change purse. That did not happen… THIS is what happened…

I wanted a drink recommended by the barkeep, and what he gave me changed my life… It was the Hemmingway special… Absinthe and Champagne.

Hemmingway being one of my favorite authors, Absinthe being one of my favorite liquids, and champagne (to me) being just all together classy, I indulged… possibly reinventing the meaning of the word itself. By the time I had to piss, my bag was considerably lighter, along with my mood.

When I got back from the bano (bathroom) I asked for a glass of absinthe, it was seventeen dollars. .. sixty-eight quarters. After paying (which took me about three minutes) my bag had just about twenty-five quarters left. I drank the absinthe.

My previous experiences with the drink have always left me feeling a bit “unglued” … not in the sense that I was crazy, but in the sense that my limbs were floating around my torso, so I knew it was potent sh*t.

THIS experience proved different. After that glass I looked at my watch, it was 10, and Leo would be arriving in an hour or so, which gave me enough time to let the “im f*cked up” realization set in and move forward to the “I’m right where I need to be” mind set. I would have reached the latter, had I not been in a room, which housed a large black boiler looking thing in it. It started to reform into an old fashioned locomotive, and I began asking people nearby where they were going. They looked at me like I was insane, and I looked at them like they were f*cking stupid. F*ck them I thought, I’ll talk to someone who can actually hold a conversation. As I turned to find some other talk-mates I nearly sh*t myself. She was green, shiny and small. She was also coming towards me. I, not enjoying the sight of her, went to the bathroom to gain a sense of composure… DID NOT HAPPEN… I was “hovering” in the stall when next to me a pair of green pointed feet were seen… I ran out of the bathroom like Amy Winehouse in the streets of London. Somewhat unstable on my feet I wondered through the crowd only to find the same room in which I was sitting before.

I sat again, trying to convince myself that these green f*cking fairies were NOT real. But before I could, there she was again… only this time she was speaking to me, OFFERING ME ABSINTHE! This time I ran faster than Mia Hamm in a breakaway. When I found a place that offered a bit of seclusion, I looked back to see if she was still following me, and BAM! Head first into a brick wall. I fell down and sat there for a second. When I could see straight again, I looked around and she was AGAIN making her way towards me. I slid myself under the “train” and there I stayed.

I woke up the next morning underneath the train. Not a soul in the place. I had a hangover that quite well could have been fatal. I heard some people come in, it was the cleaning crew. I found my legs were able to work so I stood up and walked by the bar, eyeballing the bottle of Absinthe. When they noticed me I told them that I had been locked in. They kindly and without suspicion, let me out, and I walked to the street. The sun hit me hard. I hailed a cab and got in. I checked my phone, two voicemails. I listened.

I had missed the interview, hiding (passed out really) from the creepy green fairy. But, like everything else bad that happens to me, I came out on top.

I had stolen the bottle of Absinthe, had two voice mails from Leo DiCaprio on my phone AND I still had two cigarettes in my pack! OH, AND the two fifty dollar bills I was saving for the interview were still in my pocket.

The Edison is the best bar I’ve been yet, and through research the next day, have found out that the fairy I was seeing was real… she or they (I’m not sure which) was their Absinthe girl.

Think it’s a coincidence they have the server of one of the MOST potent liquids on earth, the same liquid, mind you, that’s said to have made Van Gogh cut his ear off, dressed as a green fairy? I DON’T.

God, it’s good to be Betty Booze.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered,

BB

Betty Booze PITT-JOLIE BABY MAFIA

BETTY BOOZE

by Meaghan LiBrizzi

Welcome back,

Question: What’s better than wearing a skirt?

Why in his right mind, he would ever say yes, is beyond me… but I wasn’t about to question it. His ASSistant emailed me the address, and then after a nanny emergency, I was emailed another.

I was supposed to meet him that night on the roof at the Standard in downtown Los Angeles. That is definitely NOT where we met.

When my friend dropped me off (in a 1990 Eagle mind you) I wasn’t at all surprised by the location, but I was convinced that I would have NO real one on one intimate time with him… which was disappointing. I could have swept him off his feet… (sigh)

I had to show my I.D. at the door. The large man, accompanied by three other large men, was in plain clothes… which insulted my intelligence when I saw his surveillance ear piece.

He asked me if I had any weapons on me and then, as if he’d known me for years, leaned down and gently said “flask please, ma’am”. I looked at him in my best “f*ck you, how dare you assume… (I can’t even finish that).

I handed him the flask in my bag. He smiled, and moved out of the way, letting me inside.

There were kids everywhere! It was like Michael Jackson’s house at midnight. I looked around, my hands were sweating so badly, I could have taken a shot with the water shed. I tried to spot him, but there were just so many little humans running, screaming, crying, laughing, shitting, pissing, farting… you name it they were “ing-ing” it.

I walked to the bathroom, and removed the flask that was strapped to my right inner thigh. I meant to only take a sip or two but I “invisiblized” the contents in record time. I had already had a few shots of Jameson before I left the house, so I was slightly intoxicated (to my and your amazement, I’m sure).

I washed my hands and tried to get my liquor inspired brain to calm my nerves. I don’t get star struck, and I don’t get nervous… which is why I was about to shit my pants stepping back out into the toddler safari.

I spotted him, surrounded by his baby militia he looked like a greek god… wearing Gucci. I approached, and approached, finding it the afternoons mission to get close enough to touch him. He saw me, and waved. I waved back like I was greeting a human size bottle of Jack Daniels. As soon as the little sobriety I was clinging to knelt down and sucker punched me in the vajayjay, I stopped waving and walked through the room like a jewel thief maneuvering laser security beams. I lost balance at one point and swung my bag to regain my composure. Thank hay-zeus no one saw what happened. As I swung my bag, it forced a little kid into an air born glide straight into the coin machine. I pretended not to notice, and continued through towards HIM. My heart was beating so fast my tits looked like they were ceasing.

I was finally near him, he yelled to me, “ball pit”. Oh the amount of times those two words were thought of in the same sentence, he could never imagine. I put my bag down, and followed him and his culture infused family into the ball pit.

Hard is the word you would use to describe a concrete slab; but hard is the word I would use to describe walking through a ball pit with a half a liter of Jameson coursing through my veins, not to mention, the ENTIRE Jolie-Pitt offspring. So I did what I always do in tough spots, I sat and waited it out… UNTIL, he said my name…. “BETTY!” I heard it in repetition though he had only spoken once… my body went numb. For being a professional lush, there is no better pay off that sitting in a ball pit, drunk as f*ck, with Brad Pitt calling your name.

I looked up at him. I just stared. “We’ll go back to the house after, talk then… now we play!” he said. If only he and I were on the same page as to what “play” actually meant.

I smiled again, wondering how I could interview someone that I couldn’t speak to… I knew the answer, so I got up, excused myself and climbed up to a neglected corner inside a small plastic tube. I swallowed the rest of the flask’s liquid and returned it to my inner thigh strap (as I did, I made a note to self: SHOW LARA CROFT MY FLASK STRAP, because you know, she’d appreciate it).

I climbed down, and when I say “climbed” I really mean, I fell down, took out a few kids, thankfully none of the “chosen ones” as I like to call the J-P Baby militia. I hit the ground so hard, I almost felt it.

An hour later I was back in the ball pit, Little Shiloh was on my lap throwing balls at her siblings… she hit one of them each time, they were EVERYWHERE. It was like a family of ants.

I felt the need to pee, but Angie walked in and kissed Brad who was in the opposite corner, literally being DAD OF THE F*CKING YEAR…I wanted Angie (yes Angie, hey if Us Weekly can call her that, so can I) to see Shiloh loving me up… you never know when they might be in a crunch and need a alcoholic journalist to babysit…. I bet the pay’s unbelievable.

So I paid more attention to Shiloh and before I know it there was pee in my lap (why am I always getting piss all over me?).

I picked her up and told B (only way to shorten Brad) she had an accident. He thanked me for noticing and brought her to the bathroom.

Three minutes later I was sitting at the table watching Angie playing with the kids. I was imagining her rocking her children to sleep at night, as they were nestled tightly within the safety of her lips when Brad came up and said, “we wont be having you over. Thank you for coming down, please leave.”

I gathered my things, went to the bathroom and walked towards the door.

It was the best day of my life, no matter what the outcome, and I still, as always, have a story to tell.

As I walked out I put my hand out to the man who had taken my flask. He smiled and said “of course ma’am.”

I smiled back, walked around the corner, sat on the curb and called a cab.

As I took a sip from my returned flask I couldn’t be mad… I was impressed. Only Brad Pitt could organize a way to make me drink pure urine, and my reaction is a smile. I just wish it was Brad’s piss and not Johnny Hugeneck’s.

That’s the last time I’ll ever step foot in a Chucky Cheese.

Answer: Wearing no underwear, pisssing in the ball pit, and blaming it on Shiloh Jolie-Pitt.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered,

Betty Booze

Betty Booze THE NOTE

Betty Booze–The Note

by Meaghan LiBrizzi

“I always keep a bottle handy in case I see a snake, which I also keep handy.” W.C. Fields

Cheers.

So I called Gunner the other night to ask him if he’d allow me to interview him. His answer was yes, to which my response was “ it can’t be no, can it Gunn?” …

“no, it can be, it just isn’t” he said… I paused and took a deep breath, thinking to myself that he really needs to keep track of who can blackmail him for all he has…

I started a sentence … I didn’t need to finish before he said “when and where?”

So there I was, 10pm at SUEDE on Figueroa St. sitting in a sea of fake tits, and desperation. (or was it just me?)

He was already 30 minutes late and I had already capitalized on the fact that he was picking up the bill. I ordered two doubles of the best single malt they had. Nothing bothers me more than “interview tardiness”, but when I’m not paying the bill, there’s nothing I likemore. So I drank like Lindsay Lohan on a Tuesday afternoon… my second trip to the lue “suggested” that I was slightly “buzzed”….

You see when I pee in public I hover… The definition of hover is “to fluctuate around a given point.” Oh I fluctuated alright… Pissed all over the ass of my jeans. This proved quite a pickle, but I’m the master of both solving problems inadequately and not really giving a sh*t… it was a single bathroom so I took off my pants, washed them sloppily in the sink and walked back out to the table, swamp assed and all…

I still smelt a “bit” like piss, my ass was wet, but when my waitress arrived with another glass of “I don’t give a f*ck”, that’s exactly what happened. Now, when I say a “bit”, use it in this sentence… Jenna Jameson has had a “bit” of sex.

I felt him come in… when you’re as famous as Gunner, there’s an atmosphere surrounding them where you know everything for them, is available… and, well, how does a 30 year old rich/famous man keep from occupying his time walking through the pumpkin patch, so to speak, of fun bags constantly on display for his picking? Just ask Ryan Phillippe how hard it is not to “pick”.

When Gunner sat he asked to switch tables… because as he put it “it smelled like a homeless person”. Little did he know it was his company… JEALOUS? I had to tell him what happened, or rather, my whiskey infused sensibility considered it a must to tell him. He gave me a half smile, and began looking around the room. He spotted a few people in the back that he knew, so he excused himself and headed over. I knew it would be unlikely for him to come back so I did what any professional “anti- sobrietor” would do… I wrote a note on a napkin and gave it to my waitress in order for her to deliver it. She did. I watched him read it, he laughed and handed the waitress some money. Atleast I think he laughed, and I think it was money he gave her… could have been ghonnerehea considering how drunk I was.

I turned back to give my full attention to my liquid man, when I found someone at the table with me… he was wearing a lot of blue and had chocolate brown eyes. I was so drunk my vision was nearly quadrupled, but I went ahead and began moving my lips regardless.

I have no idea what happened in the next hour other than, the waitress constantly coming up to me, and saying “they’ll be here soon, are you okay?”

From the information the waitress provided, this is what had happened:

I had blacked out while talking to a blue PEEP, yes a PEEP, it was the day after Easter and I had a few in my purse… I wanted the poor guy to loosen up ( couldn’t get a peep outa him) so I gave him some whiskey… well he didn’t take to well to the liquid and began to just fall the f*ck apart. I couldn’t possibly let him waste my whiskey, even if he had thrown up in it… so I drank it…

It was the first time I had ever actually consumed an interviewee. But then again, there are a lot of firsts in my life.

You might be wondering why during this entry I haven’t had a drink. I’m in the f*cking hospital, apparently when the EMT’s find you with blue lips, piss stained pants, passed out at a table in an upscale bar… that’s reason enough to rush you to the ER. What they don’t know is that was just another Saturday night in the life of Betty Booze.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered,

Betty Booze (from RM 2182 at Ceders Sinai Medical Center)

P.S. The note read:

Pay my tab, or Ill come sit on your lap.

Betty Booze THE INTRODUCTION

Betty Booze

by Meaghan LiBrizzi

Adventures of Betty Booze…

“A LITTLE BAD TASTE IS LIKE A NICE DASH OF PAPRIKA.” – Dorothy Parker

Look at the word ASSISTANT. What do you see? Since you’re the listener in this interaction I’ll tell you what I see. ASS. The fact that THAT word begins with ASS, can’t be a coincidence. Either you’re made to feel like one, treated like one, or constantly kissing one… with very few exceptions.

Pardon me while I pour a glass of whiskey….

Before starting this gig “dialoguiqly accosting” the “privileged”, or as you may refer to them “celebrities”, I was ASS-isting them. Notably, Gunner Blaze, of the BAMBOO PALACE TRILOGY… With a name like Gunner Blaze, had I not been from earth, my initial deduction would have been: this f*cking guy’s a firefighting porn star. The latter I was correct about… got more ass in a week than David Hasselhoff does in Germany ALL year. That’s saying A LOT.

Excuse me while I prepare another glass of “juice”…

Okay…So… I’ve been trying this new whiskey called Bulliet, VERDICT…? Fongule’n heaven. Goes down easier than Paris Hilton. I first tried Bulliet at Seven Grand downtown… I THINK… had I not consumed enough to get the old version of Star Jones drunk, I may, right now, be able to recall the night, and give you a sufficient review of the drinkery. My apologies. I’ll go back, and give you the full breakdown.

Someone keeps liberating my glass of its companion… hold on, I’ve got to fix a new one… sorry.

Don’t worry, I won’t be getting that drunk when I do my next interview. I learned my lesson when interviewing Andy Dick… I wound up coked out of my mind, wearing a tutu and surrounded by midget strippers, who were by no exaggeration the CUTEST f*cking things I’ve ever seen. It was like waking up in a David Fincher film, but not that cool because, as I said, I was with Andy Dick.

Okay, sorry… sometimes I ramble… BUT, to get back to Gunner. Turn on your t.v., or flip through a magazine. The first twenty women you see, he’s “noodled” at least ten of them. Married women, older women, “proper” women, virginal women, dumb women… just about every kind of woman that Los Angeles has to pitch… they all lined up to get a taste and I’m just not sure why…. Granted… my man, I’ve been loyal to in everyway for eleven years now, so maybe that’s what generates my confusion.

Gunner has more money than Tommy Lee has STD’s, and he’s not shy about pissing it away in increments that would make you want to tie your tits in a bow… tightly. What he spends in ONE day is equivalent to what Joan Rivers spends a week on plastic surgery. The woman looks like a f*cking wax sculpted Animaniac.

Excuse me… the thought of her is FORCING the whiskey down my throat.

You may be asking yourself, why the f*ck is she telling me all this…. And here’s the answer. I will be bringing you interviews with celebrities, whenever I can best fit into their “insane” schedules… SCHEDULES… well in the celebrity world that term means something very different than in the layman’s. To wake up at the crack of noon, get 40,000 dollars for taking a sh*t… Go eat at a restaurant that charges thirty three dollars for a f*cking pickle, come home, “fall into” a few hot women, take another sh*t, make another 40,000, nap, get ready and go out… now at night is when the day actually begins… it’s hard being young and famous, I know, I saw it first hand. Tough, tough life, right? Now, don’t let me mislead you, I am not speaking of anyone in particular, especially not Gunner, because that would place me in breach of my disclosure contract… did I mention “he” f*cks A LOT of women? Contradiction serves as the legs I stand on, get used to it.

The thing about me and anti-sobriety is that I don’t care what I say, I don’t care what kind of trouble it gets me in… I just say it. So stay tuned, I promise, when I’m interviewing, you will get answers you’ll never expect, because I’ll be asking questions that will make your balls leak… eyeballs that is… induced by laughter.

By the way… my man’s name is Walker, Johnny Walker. Only man who could ever love me as much as I love him.

Signed, Sealed Delivered,

BETTY BOOZE.