Saturday, July 5th

Good Lord. The past two days have been utter crap. Ever since the fucked up situation with the Poxy Prat Pride (please pardon poor alliterations), I’ve done nothing but sit around watching Judy Garland flicks with me mum and her new pet bottle named Brandy. The pitiful part is that this has led me to question why Mickey Rooney never requested a pair of stilts.

11:46 a.m.

I’m in desperate need of Football Date with Jacks: Part II.

11:48 a.m.

Either that or I desperately need to grow a pair of balls and start contemplating suicide.

11:51 a.m.

I wonder what effects Viagra would have on a woman…

12:08 p.m.

Finally some action! Jewels just phoned and invited me lingerie shopping with her and Nat. What could be better than sniffing out the frilliest, most transparent knickers with Aesop and Gnat-Attack?

6:24 p.m.

Holy garbanzo beans sautéed in a delicate fish sauce! Who knew lingerie shopping could be so eventful? I must say that if God or Merlin—or whoever the hell’s in charge up there—ever makes me a lesbian I’ll look no further than Jewels and Nat to brush my shaggy mullet deep into the Elton John accompanied night.

No really.

Anyway, it all began around one when me mum’s shrill voice rang up from downstairs. “Philadelphia. You’ve got friends. They’re on our doorstep.”

Quaint Mum. Real quaint.

Despite me mum’s bluntness, I heeded her announcement and shimmied down the stairs to greet my mates in an over enthusiastic shower of French-esque kisses.

What? Someone’s got to make me mum jealous.

We were driven to El Centro Commercial by Nat Senior, a man that not only makes old look dashing, in a Clive Owen sort of way, but also proves that ordinary fathers really do exist (i.e. patresfamilias that aren’t so beardy and keen on living with dairy queens down south).

“Au revoir, papas an,” I said casually to Nat Senior as I clambered out of his car, feeling no shame in adopting such a handsome man as my new father.

“Sayonara, mon cherie,” Nat Senior replied in his gorgey older bloke voice.

Eek gads! The man even speaks my language! I wonder if Mrs. Nat would notice is I came round for dinner more often? It could be like Audrey Hepburn and that old guy that tames her in My Fair Lady. It could work, I swear! Oh how I yearn to be tamed—

“Are you done flirting with my dad yet?” Nat asked as Nat Senior drove off in the Nat Mobile, leaving us, a gaggle of awkwardly tall girls, standing at the threshold of the center of commercials.

“Have you seen the cleft in his chin!?” I cried as we turned and made our way towards the city’s snotty-teen-paragon. “He’s the model image of manliness!”

“Well, I guess I’ve never fully appreciated that ginanimous cleft…” Jewels said. “Every time I’ve eaten with The Nat’s and a spot of salad dressing’s dribbled down his chin I had to seriously restrain myself from saying, ‘Garsh Mr. Nat! Wipe your arse!’”

My mates are so immature.

Although I must admit that that one gave even me, priestess of all things mature and sophisticated, a good couple of snorts and cackles.

At this time we finally entered the cow hunters’ shooting range (in which we were instantly immersed in cow hunter stares, thanks to our long legs, perky busts, and Jewel’s eyebrows) and headed straight for Knobs and Envelopes, an expensive boutique that, despite the seemingly innocent title, was famous for selling products that—if used properly—could grant you a night of hot sex.

So far, I haven’t used any of their products properly.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Jewels said as we entered the shop and walked past a display of handcuffs. “For today’s undie-excursion our theme is Middle Earth.”

“Just call me Gandalf!” Nat cried, tipping her invisible hat.

This is why Jewels and Nat are first in line to be my lesbian lovers when I finally waltz my way out of the closet. You see, panty-scouting is a tradition for us. Ever since we were old enough to realize that thongs weren’t just worn on some old fogie’s feet, we’ve been in the knicker-knacking business. And with each underwear shopping trip comes a hearty round of role play that we stick to until the very last pair of boxer shorts are bought and paid for. On our last adventure, we perused the aisles of lace and satin as Lucille Ball, Ricky, and Ethel. Another time we went as Japanese tourists.

We wore Hello Kitty joggerbums and everything.

“Aw piss! We always have to be Frodo and Sam!” Jewels whined.

But as we got down on our knees and began to shuffle after Nat, we couldn’t have been more pleased with ourselves.

“Look Mr. Frodo!” Jewels cried. “Over yonder, past the two towers of stain-resistant nylons. There it is, the one G-string to rule them all!”

“Oh Sam,” I cooed in a voice just opposite my usually uncharacteristically deep and sardonic man voice, as I opened my eyes as wide as Papa Smurf’s will be once Smurfette finally admits to being the village whore.

“Silence you fools!” Nat bellowed, immediately grabbing the attention of the swotty blonde girl who worked the cash register. “Bite your quarter-of-an-inch tongues lest you wish to feel the wrath of my gastronomically long beard!”

By this time, we were chuckling so hard I was worried that Jewels might have another one of her accidents, when all of a sudden hobbitty hysterics were cut short by new laughter—man laughter.

“Quick! Act natural!” Jewels practically screamed, as she tried to climb to her feet, whipping off her imaginary cape in the process.

Unfortunately, because Jewels is a coot and she’s never been gifted in the multitasking department, the feet-climbing, cape-whipping failed miserably, and the next thing I knew, 115 pounds of woman was trodding on my face, practically dismembering my already nonexistent nose and giving new meaning to the internet quote, “Foot in mouth.”

But the spectacle didn’t end there. Jewels even went so far as to grab Nat round the “knob” in an act of desperation, thereby adding a second innocent victim to the dog pile.

When the dust had finally settled, we looked like a Cirque du Soleil act gone sinuously wrong.

That’s when the owner of the Man Laugh turned the corner and spotted us.

I nearly died of irony right then and there.

“Philadelphia?”

It was David. David Next Door, the perverted little thirteen year old who’d already explored my mouth more thoroughly than my dentist had. David and two of his little oik mates.

“Wow,” David said, grinning down at me as my head protruded from Nat’s armpit. “I guess your brother really wasn’t kidding when he said you were a lesbo.”

I tried to convince myself that David’s smile wasn’t actually ABSOBLOODYLUTELYPHENOMENAL, just pretty, while desperately raking my brain for something witty to say when out of the blue, Jewels beat me to it.

“Caution Frodo,” she said in her best impression of Samwise Gamgee (one that included a lot of scratching herself). “These be Uruk-hai.”

David and his gormless mates were suddenly so taken aback by this that their jaws just sort of dropped, goldfish-style.

“Yes, young hobbits,” Nat piped in. “Just don’t make any sudden movements and you might go unnoticed.”

“What the—” David mouthed, taking a step backward as if Nat had just grown antlers.

“The power of the one G-string is too strong,” I cried in one hell of an orgasmic moan. “Can’t… resist… MOVEMENT!”

Without even planning it, I lashed out at the three boys standing terrified before us. Like cousin Myrtle might have done if you took a pair of tweezers to her eyebrow, the boys—or little girly men—jumped in fright.

“Your lot’s fucking bonkers!” David muttered, clinging to his last thread of dignity as he flat-footed it out of Knobs and Envelopes after his two womanescent mates.

The laughter the ensued nearly gave me a six-pack.

“Well lads, I must admit, we are one cruel bunch,” Jewels said as we untangled ourselves.

“Never under estimate the power of two midgets and facial hair,” Nat sighed, leaning against a rack of glow in the dark dildos.