I’ve petitioned my head keeper for a heaven day pass. A conjugal visit with Liz Taylor would put me up on my paws. More malignant memories are crawling through my cranium. I’m jumping Joan Crawford and socking it to Simone Signoret. Jerk-off James Ellroy would be digging this shit.
Where’s Ellroy when I really need him? Fuck — my ass hurts!
My head keeper just passed on the word: no heaven day pass. Consolation prize: I’ll have an hour in my cell with an earthly “old flame.”
I put on a spiffy sweat suit. I spritzed on Lucky Tiger cologne. I prepped some withering one-liners — L.A. in the ’50s, ring-a-ding-ding!!!!!
A tall woman approached the bars. Oooooooh — blasphemous-blond and boss-built! She got closer. She boded biiiiig and seemed fatalistically familiar. She wore stewardess blues, replete with pillbox hat. She smiled. What’s that bulge in her skirt? Holy Homo Hannah — it’s Barb Bonvillain, pre — sex change!
I screeched and screamed.
I cringed and crapped my pants.
I cried out for my keepers.
Am I hurtling to hell? Did this memoir make the prince of darkness send up for me?
Barb’s outside my cell now. Call it karmic comeuppance. You get what you pay for. I sure as shit learned it late.