Friends Without Money

Jen Aniston texts me this morning for mochas at Uurth Cafe at 9 am. I arrived at 8:58, and waited a full two minutes outside hissing off autograph hounds who mistook me for Katie Moss. I said, "Phot-hog's, look I have an 'adam's apple' and I shave my armpits. Google image my pics, and leave me alone. If not, I'm going to shove Aniston's new puggle up your ass."

Just then, Jennifer arrived with her ugly puggle, Stanley, or as I call it , Sir Unemployed Actress' Puppy. We sat outside in the blinding lights of the paparazzi bulbs. I had my soy, two splenda Matcha latte while Jennifer drank decaf Lipton. I shivered in the heat of the spotlight. Lipton? Neither, of us consumed mochas after all, and we had a silly laugh over it as I pryed. "Jenny. Money's tight, huh? You need a cash lift? I'll spot you a cappucino." She slowly shrunk in her chair. "With a shot of vanilla?" I urged. She shook her head, and I shook my head to Manuel, my new assistant, who then stood in line. Jennifer, then, reached inside her rattan tote bag, and handed me a script. I was circumspect in taking the script - she was drinking Lipton, afterall.

The script must have been inked in quill, or worse an inkjet, because by the middle of reading it the ink had rolled off the paper, and onto my D&G speedos. Did I mention that I was reading the script poolside, and Manuel threw me in? Him and R. Phillipe. They just know my tickle regions.

Anyway, I loved the comedic tone of the script, and texted Jen Aniston immediately. She was so excited, called, and trumpeted, "I can't wait to work with you, and be on camera again."

I abruptly hung up.

I just wanted the script, and a look at her divorce settlement papers.

Oh, Jen, how brazen of you to assume I'd hire you. I think Jay Leno is funnier. Jen, call Zwick, I think he has a TNT project for you.

Meanwhile, I haven't written to all my lovely fans for so long, and I want to send out an apology. I have still been terribly upset since the loss of Brokeback Mountain to "Trash". Jake, Heath and I have grown beards in defiance to the Academy's blatant discrimininsce. I haven't talked to Don Cheadle since. He is incredibly over-rated. He's like the Lindsay Lohan of the Denzel Washington's. That's not racist, by the way. I'm just an opinionated, humble, genius cat.

I'm back everyone.

Be well, and drink lots of water. Amen.

Becekett Boo, esq.
Cat Blogger Extraordinaire

The Butcher, The Baker, and the INS

Today I, accidently, put my red tube top in with my whites. Everything turned pink. My wicked housekeeper, Marisol, came crying to me and apologized profusely. She had no idea that I threw the taut chest piece in the was. It was a last minute instinct after a brief water balloon war with Maddox and Zahara. But I let the blame rest heavy on Marisol's shoulders, and I slept wonderfully - guilt free.

I docked Marisol's pay for two weeks, and after returning from my sojourn to Khazikstan I fired her. Life without Marisol will never be the same. She knew how to organize my shoehorns, ascots and butterfly pins. She knew when to leave a room, when to do her highly entertaining ping pong routine, and when to take out the roasted red peppers so they are perfect.

I will miss her. Always.