Listen up, punks - oops, I mean, dear readers -
because today's column could very easily consist of
three words: NOTHING WORTH MENTIONING. This week has
made me very cranky. But because I dearly love each
and every one of you, I'll reach to come up with
something for your entertainment. I will remind you,
however, that as the saying goes, you can't get
blood from a turnip. Especially a cranky turnip. So
here goes.
Readers, I used to wait tables at an independent
chef-driven restaurant in St. Paul where we were
allowed to wear our own clothes instead of white
shirts and black ties. One of my closest friends, a
fellow server I'll call Mookie, had - to put it
delicately - really big knockers. And being the Free
Spirit that she was, she often wore long batiked
sarong skirts (from the head shop) and low-cut
fitted tops - which, when she leaned forward over
the tables to serve, would give the customers a
front-row seat to an aggressive view of her Girls.
It bugged the hell out of me since I am, as we all
know, prone to fits of the vapors and such. I used
to rag on her about it, but she refused to listen to
my strident arguments in favor of covering up her
cleavage, so one day I got fed up and dropped a
pencil down her front to make my point. Which I have
to tell you was not appreciated.
I share this with you because all week, my
pencil-dropping hand has been itching whenever
Phyllis and her Twins were around. My God, woman, it
is really necessary to wear V-necks that plunge down
to your nethers on a regular basis? I've said it
before and I'll say it again: WE UNDERSTAND THAT YOU
IN FACT HAVE BREASTS. YOU DO NOT NEED TO CONVINCE
ANYBODY. No wonder Adam "Self-Proclaimed Stupid
Horny Jerk" Wilson is drooling over her - he's still
of an age where as a male of the species, he's
utterly incapable of fixating on anything else when
boobs are front and center. Well, enjoy it while you
can, Junior McFly, because once you hit your late
thirties you will become more interested in, say,
college basketball tournaments than carnal relations
- and I know you don't believe me now, but it's
true. Call it God's Little Joke. Women become
voracious nymphos around the same time that men
develop various hobbies like Scratching Their Balls
Absentmindedly, Picking Their Earwax Using Car Keys,
and Farting In Public.
So, there Phyllis was in yet another skin-tight
black Boob Display on Tuesday, chatting up her
weaselly brother-in-law, whose resentment and sour
grapes are not proving to be an effective means of
seduction. On Friday, lounging around the Tackyhouse
having giggle-fits with her hunky husband, she had
on yet another black short-sleeved top with
lace trim at the neckline and yes, miles of
cleavage. I swear to God, the amount of chest that
woman shows is roughly akin to the acreage of your
local Target parking lot. And I'm taking about
SuperTarget at that.
But enough about the Phyllis and her rack. I've been
enjoying J.T. in his Big Boy Work Suits lately. He
looks much less like a Lesbian Lumberjack now, and
more like a regular old pussy-whipped husband.
Apparently his salary isn't too hot, though, as he
and Victoria appear to live on pizza and leftover
pizza, and they had to furnish the Tool Shed with
Grandma's old pee-colored flowery couch from
Salvation Army.
Victoria's hair is finally presentable again and
looks like she bothered to wash it and style it, but
Sharon had a little too much time on her hands in
LA, it appears. The Flappy Stripper returned home
looking like she spent all of one coked-up night
using the curling iron obsessively in her hotel
bathroom while her elderly husband Jack snored like
a chainsaw as the TV droned on in the background. "I
can make this strand of hair a little tighter... now
I have to make that section curlier to match... oh
my God it's 4 a.m., I need to do another line before
Gramps wakes up with his geriatric morning wood...
Holy Crap, when did I grow this much hair?!"
Speaking of curling irons, Karen finally did
something I'd been hoping she would do with her
hair: she curled it so it had more body and even
some fetching waves framing her face - though all in
all, it was a little too bouffy. This is what I
didn't understand, though: she very often wears
retro-style dresses, with which that hairstyle would
be very complementary. But on Thursday at IndiBlow,
she had on a very sleek silver sequined
one-shouldered tank. I think straightened hair would
have made a lot more sense with a clean-lined top
like that. But I have to give Karen a pass because
Good Lord, could Neal "Pushypants" Winters have been
laying it on any thicker?! Moving in with somebody
isn't something you take lightly. Give the girl two
inches of personal space, yo. And for Christ sakes,
that moldy old line about "your face being the first
thing I see in the morning and the last thing I want
to see before I go to bed at night" was officially
put out to pasture years ago along with "You
had me at hello" and anything uttered by Meg Ryan in
any romantic comedy, ever.
The only truly positive thing I have to say this
week is that baby Reed looks adorable in his snuggly
little light-blue cap and blankie. I just want to
sniff his downy little baby head when I see that
shit. Speaking of babies, where the hell has Summer
been? I haven't seen that glassy-eyed beanbag in
weeks. Is she in Switzerland turning 16? Is she
going to return next week and marry the suddenly
teenaged Porterhouse Fen? I hope so, because it's
been a dull week for style in Genoa City, and I'd
like to see Summer asking Auntie Worrywart if she
can wear the dress that her grandmother wore the
fiftieth time she married Grandpa. Because that
would totally make sense - well, as much as anything
that's been going on lately!
Editor's note: Liza is a struggling freelance writer
who gives her talent at no cost to the Genoa City
News. If you like her work and would like to
contribute to her cause, please send a donation
directly to Liza by clicking the PayPal button
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