Last night I was having an intellectual (yep, you'll see) conversation with Husband. Whatever mindless TV show we had on was profiling Hugh Hefner (The Hef, Heffster, Heffmeister, blech F'n Old Guy is what I call him). Anyway, ( I digress) the show was taking "Hef" and his "Bunnies" back to his hometown-wherever, back to the sweet little humble home where he was (probably) born (without electricity and/or running water) and raised, etc. During this arousing (hehe) piece "Hef" referred to "Millie". Now, who "Millie" is - I have no idea. But, apparently I am much wiser than I perceive myself to be as Husband questioned, "Who's Millie"? To which I spewed, "Well, I'm sure she Hef's first wife. You know, the one who sacrificed to get him to the top, birthed his offspring, gained nothing for herself, and was thrown crudely to the side like a sack of garbage, only to be replaced by a younger, blonder, taller, silicone infused, version of the Barbie-wannabes we see him with now"! OK, those weren't my EXACT words, but, pretty close. THEN, Husband has the utmost desire to make me feel better by retorting, " But they are all fake". Ah, yes. At that point I realized I am in no way "Barbie Doll" enough. I guess fortunately for me, when we are all dead and gone to a much happier place, well - some of us will think hell is happy - I know...I'll be rotting away, while parts of the fake Barbies will be perfectly preserved in their coffins like plastic containers with life-spans of 10 billion years accumulating in rubbage heaps! Open them up like a long-awaited time capsule and you will find blob remnants of silicone baggies, artificial facial implants and a pair of plumped up lips so succulent and fleshy you could taste their last meal.
Alas, Diva Envy.
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