Bloated with a ‘B’

Oh, Christ, another day of bullshit lies ahead. I’m so busy. Everyone wants a piece of Madge. It’s not easy being everthing to everyone. Do you think it’s easy getting out of bed, walking my goddamn cats, then over to the stove to make my breakfast only to find that I’ve placed my cunttainer of earth-friendly sugar on the stove and turned on the wrong burner? So I lifted up the goddamn cunttainer and the sugar went all over the stove and started to smoke.

It must be a sign from the Goddess. She’s saying, “Madge, you’re fat cunt!”

Now I have to give a speech to the producers at the record label turday on the virtues of outsourcing young lesbian vocal talent. But do you think I get to relax after that? No. I have to rehearse my speech for the Lesbian Carpet Cleaner’s Union turdmorrow.

No sleep for the Weinstein! World, stop needing me so much. Well, not really.

A Woman of Luna

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

It takes me so goddamn long to get out of the house in the morning. I think I’ve finally figured out what’s going on with me. You see, first I shit out my fiber one from the night before, then I feel so relieved and de-bloated that it takes me a good half hour to get over the fact that I’m not bloated anymore. I put my hands on my pannus and massage my bloaterus, much the same way as a midwife massages the belly of a new mother. I never really get over it, for I think about my production all day, especially if it required two flushes. My shitting is my ball and chain sometimes.

She is like the fat one in Dreamgirls.