Aftermath of a Gig

So I did my singing thing last night.

You remember that scene in "Carrie," when she gets the prom queen crown and everything's all happy and shiny and then all of a sudden the bucket of blood is dumped on her head and everything goes to hell pretty damn quick?

Yeah. It was like that. Well...almost. If I wasn't so damn crafty, it would've been that bad.

I went up after some bimbo who thought she was the next Shania Twain--a real cowgirl type who puts the "c*nt" in country. She was decked out in an American flag bikini top (that was only big enough to mostly cover her nips) and a g-string under a pair of leather chaps. Oh, yeah...and she had cowboy boots and a shit-kicker cowboy hat, too. Total tool. But that cowgirl had big udders and that's what everybody was paying attention to.

Her name was Trixie--yeah, just Trixie, no last name--and she sang a medley of Loretta Lynn/Tanya Tucker/Tammy Wynette/Dolly Parton songs. God, just the memory of it makes me want to drive knitting needles through my eardrums! Her voice sounded like a cat being tortured, slowly skinned alive and killed, then brought back to life by some reanimation serum and tortured again. But did any of the men in the audience notice? No! Not once she started swinging those funbags around.

I watched from backstage and felt really stupid. There I was, in my sparkly mini-dress, with my boobs pushed up to my chin and my best black fishnets and spike heels on, and this stupid little twit was upstaging me! ME! I knew that nobody would even notice me when I went out there because they'd still be hypnotized by the cowgirl's tits. Men are like that. You show them a pair of boobs and they're useless for at least twenty minutes afterwards. It's like in their mind they're still plastering tits on everything they look at.

So Trixie finishes up and prances off stage and looks at me with a smirk on her face that I was just itching to slap the hell off her. She said, "Follow that!" and went backstage. I was pissed off, and not just because it looked like she was going to win the $500 bucks (did I mention it was a talent contest?).

I had a few seconds to try to figure out what to do. Obviously, I have a tremendous God-given talent in my singing voice, as well as my smokin' bod and my flawless face...but how could I use all that to my advantage to make Trixie look like dogmeat?

By the time they called my name and announced me on stage, I knew what I could do. My music started--an old 70s song called "Feelings"--and I blew the audience's minds. Ever seen anybody do a strip tease and sing at the same time? Neither had they. By the time I got down to my g-string and fishnets, that crowd forgot that Trixie had even HAD a pair of tits. Of course, mine are incomparable to any other woman's, so I'm not surprised.. But the men in the audience enjoyed the show.

So now I'm $500 richer and Trixie learned the hard way that you don't mess with Bambi-Lyn. There's a reason why I'm the ultimate scream queen, you know.