We hesitate to approach you in your current fragile state, as you seem a teensy bit discombobulated.
We understand. Traipsing about on the Great Wall of China, one can be suddenly overtaken by the heady aroma of pollution mixed with labrador chow mein. So let's have a seat, sprinkle a little Carpet Fresh in our immediate environs, enjoy a Diet Peach Snapple and have ourselves a chit-chat, what do ya say?
We totally dug it when, as Sandy Dumbrowski, you taught little girls everywhere that if they want John Travolta to like them they need to tart themselves up, pick up smoking and act like a slut. And we felt your pain when you roller-boogied right past the end of your career in your portrayal of a radioactive disco muse. When you desperately clung to your relevance by opting for a butch hairdo, going bi and "getting animal," we died inside. And when your boy toy faked his death so he could escape your clutches and move to Tijuana, well...that had to suck. In spite of it all, however, we're hopelessly devoted to toi.
You see, there was a time when we were in a hurry as you are. We were...like you. But we've got something to tell you, that we never thought we would. And we believe you really ought to know. We're not trying to make you feel uncomfortable. We're not trying to make you anything at all. But this feeling doesn't come along every day...and we shan't f*ck up the chance when we've got the chance to say: bitch, you're a hot steaming pile of "oops."
You look like (pick one):
- A beached flounder
- Loretta Swit performing her dazzling one-woman show "Oh, Leona! (the Helmsley Monologues)"
- You've unwittingly entered a spiritual vortex and have spontaneously begun channeling the spirit of a transsexual bullfrog
- In an unforeseen spasm of cultural empathy, you're giving an impromptu performance of the Traditional Chinese Opera "On the Hoof: the Dog Meat Musical"
- Your agent just phoned you and said "two words: Xanadu Two! Hey, we'll call it Xana-Deux!!")
- Bloody hell.