Who knew bail was so expensive?

My mailbox spilleth over from my legions of fans wondering where I've been. Listen, legions of fans, I'm not cleaning up your spills. If you'd read my blog at all this summer, you wouldn't need to pester me incessantly about my lack of blogging and posting.

Clearly memories are short. To recap: Jiggy and I crossed the country in our tricked-out Lanie camper on a corporately sponsored Summer of Love tour. I can't reveal the identities of the corporate sponsors (thereby building upon my allure as an international doll of mystery) but they are related to national security, international drug cartels and Peach Snapple. That's all you need to know.

Jiggy and I finished up the tour at Burning Man about a week or so ago. Things took an unexpected turn when Jiggy set out to register the tricked-out Lanie camper with the Black Rock City Department of Mutant Vehicles. Seems the camper wasn't mutant enough to qualify, but Jiggy was. He was immediately granted a license as an art car for reasons unknown but likely having to do with the quantity, variety, and laser illumination of his body piercings. However, he was later booted and hauled away for seven years worth of unpaid parking tickets. Here's his mug shot:



Who knew bail for this kind of thing would be so expensive? I need to sell the camper to recoup my losses on this. But it's time for that thing to go because after the various autopsies, parties, and crop harvesting, it's pretty much trashed. I stripped it of the sound system, warp drive and other accoutrements. But it will still make an extra special holiday gift for someone's little girl, especially once this sucker sells out at AG.

So yeah, if you see this ad on Craigslist, it's totally mine:

FOR SALE: 26 inch tall institutional green custom American Girl camper. Less than a year old with mileage, but runs on ethanol so your expenses will be low. Full disclosure: soiled bench cushion (may or may not be bodily fluids); shower does not work but custom platinum bidet is functional; dart and bullet holes in wall; lingering unidentifiable odors. Message board pulls down to create an autopsy table; medical instruments not included. Comes with early experimental edition of Warren Cash; rare and one of a kind (do not feed after midnight). Custom art decor of pretend loaf of bread, jars of peanut butter and jelly, pasta box and jar of sauce, juice cans and drink cartons decoupaged to walls. Due to its size, this item cannot be shipped USPS or to APO, FPO, the American Territories or Canada. Serious inquiries only.

Lamie.

So an advance American Girl catalogue arrived at the Playthings offices last week with Lanie Holland and her camperload of crap plastered all over it. I could have posted photos from it onto the forum, but suck it, I already did my community service bit by posting the announcement about that Julie: An American Girl Musical. So yeah, I took the catalogue into the back room, ripped the Lanie centerfold out for my dart board (Chrissa was in shreds anyway) and decoupaged the trash can with the rest of the photos. Then I kicked the can into the windows a couple times and threw it at that one mod for good measure.

Listen up, AG. You need to go do unspeakable things to your corporate self with a gardening hoe.

BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY TOSHI????

The hell? You touched my monkey? You dipped him in carrot juice and pumped him up with steroids? I'm going to fucking kill whomever did this to my monkey. Monkeying around with my monkey, not cool. No one touches my monkey unless I say they can my touch my monkey, do you hear me?

FFS, Lanie's collection is nothing but an ugly blonde version of what mine should have been. She got the premium accessories because AG failed with my collection and I'm here to haunt them about it for the rest of their unnatural days. Such dickweeds. Need I remind you people that my motif was butterflies? That's right, and my color palette was orange and pink with outdoorsy green leaf accents.

So that sundress Lanie has on, it belongs to me. And her camping gear? You bastards, AG, I needed that stuff out on the archaeological dig site in Belize. Tree hammock, my muslin ass. And I see you gave Lanie a goddamn hat but left me to cook my brains out in the hot Central American sun! But apparently it's okay for Lanie to get skin cancer elsewhere on her vinyl torso, since bitch has no sunscreen. I like to fantasize that Lanie won't last a whole year because she'll be retired early for the chemo treatments. Hell, she already has the wig.

Whatever, sure, Lanie has a lot of stuff. But she has no common sense so far as I can tell, what with cavorting with rabies-prone wild animals. Seriously, who the hell is going to pay $28 for canned raccoon? Yeah, right, the same chumps who will shell out $34 for plushie animals whose genetic origins have something to do with the radioactive waste from Pennsylvania's Three Mile Island. AG tried to keep the random plushie animal theme going but nothing is going to top random llamas, nothing. And Lanie, yeah, we get that she loves nature. But I already told you that sheep fear her for her nature-loving ways. You mark my words about that.

However, the irony of the non-biodegradable plastic recycling bin never fails to amuse me. And I do have dibs on Lanie's stash, so all is not lost here.

And let me tell you about that camper. Yeah, the Entourage is tricking it out right now for Jess and Jiggy's Incredible Adventure. When we're done with it that thing will have a wet bar; waterbed; state-of-the-art subwoofers; home theater with 5.1 surround sound; kickass ground effects, spinners, and hydraulics; a Dominatrix-inspired roof rack; a priest hole for when the cops come; mirrored shower stall with pulsating adjustable shower sprays and nozzles; 24 hour catering service on call (I will need a George Foreman grill, and by that I mean George will travel with us and do my grilling); sidecar for Toshi; greenhouse on the roof for growing herb/s; and optional warp drive. And no matter what they cost, I want railroad air horns and a military spot.

Because that's how I roll, bitch.