I Wish I Was A Little Bit Taller, I Wish I Was A Baller…


This post is an ode to my friend Jen. Because Jen is a baller. She has more game than Xbox, gets more ass, as Ken sez, than a toilet seat, etc. etc. etc. In short, she’s everything, as Bette Midler caterwauled, I wish I could beeeee. But am not.

Yes, Jen is hot. Blonde, athletic but with dangerous curves in all the proper places. But this is LA. Everyone is hot. My mail carrier is hot. That school crossing guard is hot. In this town, kiddo, you gotta be more than just a pretty face with a boob job. And she is. She is.

First of all, she carries herself with confidence. Not that pigeon-toed, clompy walking in Louboutins nonsense that Paris Hilton incorporated. Not that ice-princess-on-the-red-carpet glare when, hellooooo, you’re in a dive bar in Reseda. No, she walks in with happy, contagious energy, like, “Hey! Here I am. Oh, and you’re here too! Cool.” And everyone takes it in. When people look at her, she gives them a friendly smile. When people look at me, I tend to look vaguely aghast and then scuttle away like las cucarachas when you turn on the lights.

If she’s interested in someone, she looks, looks again, and turns on her 1000-watt smile. The one where the teeth sparkle and rainbows and Carebears tumble out of her hair. And you, the lucky object of such an affectionate gaze, are momentarily, possibly permanently, stunned. And then she’ll say, as if you’re a cupcake or a filet mignon, “Oh wow. Hey. yummy.” And you don’t care that you are akin to an inanimate, edible object, in fact you’re beyond thrilled to fall under the same category as “dessert” or, even better, “main course.”

Sadly, my selfsame efforts yield less rewarding results. Perhaps because my look of love is considered the same look you give to dirty laundry or an errant poo left in the lav. My come-hither glance is considered grounds for possible harassment/stalking in several states, and, being far too impatient to allow things to run its course, I charge over, spill PBR on his shirt, and demand thusly: “SO, YOU GONNA BUY ME A DRINK OR WHAT?!? I’VE BEEN STARING AT YOU ALL EVENING.” Nay, not a baller, not even a shot-caller.

So Jen, if I can get a frontal lobotomy instead of this bottle in front of me, I’ll ask that they use you as their personality model. And yeah, throw in sommedat hotness for good measure. Can’t hurt.

2 Comments

  1. Chappy Peach

    December 20, 2012 at 11:12 am

    Wow! I bet she is equally honored to be around you too Miss Ariel! Your pizazz is contagious you know! ;o She is a proud friend through and through.

    • Ken

      December 22, 2012 at 2:14 pm

      I have no idea who Jen is, but I totally want her to sit on my face. is that wrong?

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