by Skott McGrath
This is fictional nonsense©
That's right, trendsetters, it was party time again. The year's be-there-or-be-square celebrity soiree was taking place at the palatial home of Hollywood producer (and extremely vocal supporter of canine faeces body wraps) Linda Korzowski. The crème de la crème of Hollywood, London, Paris, Rome, New York and Baja California were present, attempting to eat Linda out of house and home just for kicks. So monumentally huge was this gathering of all the favourite people, Canadian screen legend Jeanie Crawford had rushed out to buy a $498 g-string (that she hoped to remove sometime during the celebrations, in part to titillate the partygoers, but to also encourage an international dialogue on the plight of Kurdish refugees in southern Turkey (?)).
Many of the lucky bastards and bastettes who had been invited to partake in all that La Linda was offering had avoided speaking to the paparazzi gathered outside Linda's estate, but Gordon Joseph Hewitt, reality TV whore-about-town, had given several news channels an eyeful by unzipping his jeans to ... spank the monkey. (Late news presenters were at pains to explain that an actual monkey had popped out of Hewitt's jeans, and that the monkey was physically unharmed but rushed to an animal hospital for immediate counselling.)
****
Inside the spacious living area with panoramic views of the Hollywood sign, several celebs were hoeing into the camel tongue pâté with almost orgasmic abandon. Some were sipping wine by the fire to the strains of of an Acker Bilk and Dannii Minogue mashup, while others sat chatting about film projects and breast augmentations. Inexplicably, Nonnie Lynley was covered head-to-toe in mashed potato — nobody seemed to care — while Sissy Smythe, referred to as Sissy Succubus Smythe by her many detractors, was deep throating a cantaloupe.
Just then voices were raised — and not in a good way.
“Oh my God!” screamed 103-year-old Canadian screen legend Myrtle St John, staring across the room at her arch nemesis in the Hollywood glamour stakes, equally ancient Lila Van Horne. “That bitch has turned up wearing my one-of-a-kind Harry Centaur gown — and what's more, she looks better in it than I do!”
She turned to her Ethiopian confidante (and regular showering companion), Shu Shu Bombomzi, and stated matter-of-factly:
“I'm gonna get that bitch if it's the last thing I do!”
Shu Shu was nonplussed — and constipated.
“Are you sure it's the same dress? It looks different to me.”
“Oh, who died and made you the editor of Ethiopian Vogue, hmmm?” She gave Shu Shu the evil eye, and then snapped: “Look, I know what I know. And what I know is that dress is the one Harry said was mine and mine only. Do you know what I mean?”
“Not really, no.”
****
Across the room, Dame Filly Mistrel's glass was almost empty. The dipsy British ex-pat was knocking back the champagne like there was no tomorrow. Filly's friends, noting a considerable change in her temperament, and disturbed by her recollections of days gone by — she was ranting about her years as a sex slave in Nepal — attempted a change of topic, but this only fuelled the dame's efforts to reveal all.
She added, somewhat slurringly:
“Then, the bastards made me get down on my hands and suck—”
“Um, I need to visit the loo,” interrupted a visibly shaken Lady Celia Buttstrangler, on the verge of bayoneting that nerdy daughter from 1980s hit Growing Pains, who happened to be slumped up against a wall. “Dame Filly, lovely story, dear, but perhaps not the most appropriate anecdote for a glamorous Bel-Air soiree, hmm? Girls, shall we?”
Lady Celia and her galpals got up and trampled Dame Filly — she had slid down the leather chaise lounge and was curled up in a foetal position — but were stopped in their tracks by a huge explosion.
“What the fuck was that?” screamed Penny Ann Harber, LA socialite/Hollywood producer/slut, hitting the floor so suddenly that she burst one of her saline implants.
“I think it came from the mezzanine,” said studio chief John-Derek St James, saddened by Penny Ann's loss of cleavage.
It had come from the mezzanine.
And now everyone assembled at the party was staring at toilet seat scion Harry Thrushton (and all-round social embarrassment), who had let out a thunderous fart.
“Sorry, y'all. I suppose I shouldn't have had that second helping of baked beans,” he chuckled, all the while fending off the advances of Yang Lee, a Chinese fashion designer whose fetish was flatulence ... and lots of it!
As Penny Ann ran off to the bathroom, not only cupping her oozing bosom, but also screaming blue murder at the top of her lungs, Dame Filly awoke from her comatose state just long enough to spray vomit on the tray of Bangladeshi finger food directly in front of her.
“Oh, just lovely, you old hag!” cried party hostess Linda Korzowski, fearful that the vomit would be accepted more willingly than the foetid foreign finger food she had so 'lovingly' ordered in. “Somebody grab me a bucket, a rag and some absorbent paper towels, NOW!”
“Can I be of any assistance?” asked suave Dan Druph-McGill, star of TV's hit medical drama General Anaesthetic, as he stepped in to give Linda a backrub and to caress her thigh with a rusted scalpel.
“Um, Dan, that's not the kind of help I'm looking for, but thanks all the same.”
She shooed Dan away with a blowtorch and then threatened:
“If somebody doesn't bring me the stuff I need, I'm gonna force everyone to watch Beverly Hills Cop III!”
****
Out on the balcony, several stoned members of General Anaesthetic's supporting cast, Jeff Goldworthy, Babs Blush, and Normie “Crazy Legs” Yates, were comparing pay cheques — and liposuction scars.
“I can't believe this!” growled Babs, staring at Jeff's most recent payslip. “Why the hell do you make $15,000 more per week than me?!?!”
“Dunno, Babs,” he responded, sipping a piña colada with considerable difficulty. “Could it have anything to do with the fact that I slept with all seven of the network chiefs?”
“You did what?” she continued, snot gushing out of her nostrils.
“You look shocked.” Jeff patted the couch he was presently sitting on and added: “You never heard of the casting couch?”
“Hahaha, you're so funny I wanna shit,” added Norman, until now sullen over the cancellation of his platinum credit card due to insufficient funds. “Oh, scratch that. I just did.”
Just then, celebrity astrologist Velma von Winkle dived into the conversation — literally — to inform the three actors that their careers would soon end.
“I rubbed my crystal ball, and to be perfectly frank, guys, it ain't pretty,” she said, finding their collective fates almost as funny as the recent debreasting by claw hammer of TV's Changing Husbands' Holly-Lyn Franken outside a KFC in Wichita, Kansas.
Before the nutty astrologist/bitch could utter any other fortune telling, all three actors grabbed the gangly gal by her pasty pins and threw her over the balcony.
“Did you foresee that in your future, bitch?” yelled Norman to Velma, as she fell 100 metres to her death.
****
Back at the buffet, fellow Canadians Jeanie Crawford and Myrtle St John were deep in conversation. They had hatched a plan so ingenious it would embarrass bitch rival Lila Van Horne into the next millennium and bring down the government of Zimbabwe.
“Are you sure it's going to work?” whispered Jeanie, piling her plate high with delicacies banned, incidentally, in thirty-five states.
“Trust me,” responded an equally furtive Myrtle, her wizened frame no match for her foxlike mind. “Lila's gonna wish she never set foot in Linda Kozlowski's home!”
“Korzowski, you old prune!” snapped Linda, struggling to contain Dame Filly's vomit in a zip-lock bag. “Linda Kozlowski is that skank that married Crocodile Dundee!”
Myrtle rolled her eyes at Linda and then sashayed over to the bar with Jeanie in tow.
“Give me a Sex on the Beach with a twist of tangerine!”
****
At 8:03pm on the dot, Felicity F. Fluffmann, Fairview's foxy faeces flinger, rammed the gates of Linda's palatial home with her 2008 Hummer. Felicity was hell-bent on making a grand entrance. And an entrance she certainly made!
“What the hell?” screamed Linda jumping sofas, coffee tables and the entire cast of Midgets Do Melbourne. “Who the fuck is that?”
“It's Felicity!” gasped one ageing partygoer, whose one claim to fame was that she'd given Lassie a blowjob in the back of a Buick in 1956. “She's here! She's here!”
With that, all assembled scrambled for a view of the drive directly below the living room. Some over enthusiastic guests decided to press their exposed breasts up against the wall.
La Fluffmann allighted from her car and made her way up the steps, fully aware that she had achieved what she'd set out to do: Stealing Linda Korzowski's thunder.
“Who the hell invited you, you flamin' mongrel?” screamed Linda to Felicty, as Fel hopped, skipped and jumped all the way to the front door. “I don't remember givin' you an invitation to my lil soiree.”
La Fluffmann brushed past Linda – who failed in her attempt to block the front entrance with TNT, landmines and copies of Danielle Steel's latest novel – and announced that she would be putting a little more “oomph” into the evening's proceedings.
“Coh, look at her tits,” drooled Sid James lookalike Barry Dykes to constant companion, the leggy – and busty - Busty Bambini.
[to be continued]
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