I aint sayin’ she’s a Gold Digger…

Her forehead’s too big.

Long teeth.

Too much make-up.

Too little make up.

“This is pointless.”

“How hard is it to just choose some. You only need 20.”

My eyes narrowed, pouting my lips in a way that made even nuns question their faith. (Or so I’ve been told)

“It’s not working.”

My eyebrows quirked up at his nonchalant dissing of my patented puppy face.

His sigh blasted through the rather empty room. “Seriously, do the show, make some money.” Or be disowned by my father. He forgot the part where my father is one of the biggest producers of reality T.V. and my mother is the most doting non-working woman ever to want to see grandchildren out of her only son. She went so far as to even offer to get me a teacher to ‘teach’ me how to ‘be’ with a woman! Way to question my manhood mom, it’s bad enough Dad thinks I’m gay.

Why do I rant this way you ask? Well duh. Because it’s their fault that I’m in this small off-white room. Sitting at this plastic also off-white desk. With haphazardly piled not-off-white paper with bio’s and pictures of about a trillion (at the very least) of girls wanting to marry me. They don’t even know me! How in the big man’s name could they even want to come on a show to marry someone they don’t even know?! Gold-diggers.

But details later on this fiasco. Now I had bigger fish to stick in batter, then bread crumbs and fry…which when you think of it that way it doesn’t seem like such a nice saying… how about potatoes to fry… now wait you gotta cut those…shrimp? Naw, oh wait! Twinkies!

I have bigger Twinkies to fry.

Perfect.

“God, F-“ word I will not repeat for the sake of your fragile innocence “Choose a girl and stop being such a whiney B-“ another word that I choose not to repeat…for my street cred… that I do have, boiiii.

…I think this is the part where I do a weird distorted finger spasm…or gang sign, whatev.

“Gregory!”

I prefer The Big G, kay, thanks…boiii.

“Mitchell!” I yelled back, imitating his tense jaw and cracking knuckles.

“Do. It. Now.” His words were low and deadly, “Or I’ll tell your mother.”

I twisted my mouth in aggravation. He knew where it hurt.

Finally a picked 20 pictures, at complete random, not even glancing to see if they were even penis-less. I refuse to care.

What can I say... my mom’s the Al Capone of Beverly Hills.

So this one isn’t so funny… but I promise they’ll get better! and this is a really fun idea, that I think if I get feedback on (hint hint, nudge nudge, throw in pool…) it will improve over time. Which I like to think my writing does improve… sometimes…maybe…. Not really…

Haha thanks for reading 

-gab