Diamond Vixen, Ivy League Porn Star, has entered the building

When I go out at night, I like to lie. It’s fun and it provides me with some amusement! So when I was out with my friend this weekend, I decided to be Ivy League porn star Diamond Vixen, an up and coming porn star from Van Nuys. I don’t have big boobs or bleach blonde hair. I’m short and look like a Superficklepickle. So in other words, I’m a bit funny looking. So, naturally I thought, that no one would believe my porn star act. Boy was I super duper wrong.

So, I decided to try my luck on these two military men. I thought since they were in the army, they could read through my bullshit. Obviously I was wrong. They wondered what channel Ivy League porn star Diamond Vixen I had been on. They asked where they could buy my videos. When I told them, my footage was on you tube, they got especially excited. Afterall, on you tube, they could see me for free.

They even asked if my friend was also a Ivy League porn star. I told them that she was my apprentice and I was teaching her the ropes to be fickle pickle super duper Ivy League porn star (but between me and you, she doesn’t have the talent to be a top notch porn star).

Then I tried my luck with this goofy bartender. I told him I wanted him to be one of the contestants in this new porn game show I was going to be starring in. He asked me how much the gig paid. I told him it paid minimum wage plus a keg of stale beer. He agreed! I guess, everyone is trying to find their way into Hollywood.

But the end of the night surpised me greatly. At my hotel, I asked the manager where I could get a tub of wipped cream, eight gross of cherries, some hot fudge and cookie crumbs, for a “video shoot” to be done in his hotel. He perked up a bit. He said he could drop off the items for free, if he could watch the filming and provide constructive feedback. I told him, it was a closed set, until he slipped me a fifty dollar bill. Then it became a closed set, with a budget of 50 dollars.

So, my question is, do I look like a Ivy League porn star or is it enough that I just said I was a Ivy League porn star. Are men that incredibly gullible? After all, I am just a Superficklepickle. Fickle pickles are usually not Ivy League porn stars. Fickle pickles don’t have jobs.

Sure Obama is sexy but my eyes are on Dick

Sure Obama is hot...in a classic pretty boy way but the Super Fickle Pickle has always liked the rugged unpredictable type. This is the reason why the Super Fickle Pickle has been setting her sights on Dick Cheney. He is like so hard core, kind of like a neighborhood gangster. Maybe I would call him OG Dick. I think its really hot how he can profit off other peoples misery. Maybe he could use some of that misery money and buy me a diamond necklace. From Africa of course.

If we were to get together, I'd move him into my swanky Hollywood apartment which has a breathtaking view of an overflowing dumpster, dead skunk and random piles of urine. We could take walks hand in hand together past the many homeless that live on the streets of Hollywood. On Saturdays we could even taunt them by walking by them while chopping on big juicy hamburgers. It would be a match made in heaven.

We could open up a business with our exploitation money and pay more people minimum wage so that they can't afford to live anywhere and thus live below the poverty line. We could even pay a select chosen few below the minimum wage just for shits and giggles and never offer them benefits or raises. We can offer creative incentives to entice high school students to drop out of school, such as a free hamburger, or free weed for a month. I have such plans for us. Let's leave all children behind.

The Super Fickle Pickle thinks that Dick Cheney is the man for her. She thinks he has some qualities that would make him the perfect companion. OG Dick, if you are out there, give the Pickle a call. For 5000 a night, we can have some fun.

Leave your Buketheaded, Divorced Friends At Home!

This Saturday some friends and I decided to go out in Hollywood. Last minute, my friend said she was going to bring her recently divorced highly critical, snobby cousin Bianca with us. Oh boy!

Bianca came into my house, complaining the entire time. She complained that there was no adequate parking for her BMW so I apologized. She claimed my apartment was drafty so I gave her a blanket. Then, she claimed the blanket was itchy and that it had lice in it. I then took it away from her and told her to take a few shots. She needed to calm down. I brought out the bottle of vodka. She said she didn’t drink cheap vodka. Then I politely told her that she could walk down to the local CVS and buy us all a bottle of Grey Goose. We would drink it! She shut up.

I was thinking, gosh it’s so strange that this train wretch is recently divorced. To me, she seemed like the perfect wife. So, the story doesn’t end here. So, what happened next? Bianca is a mess.

Next we went out to a bar and she continued to take shot after shot after shot. Toward the end of the night, she even started taking other peoples drinks when they weren't drinking. She even took a dollar out of the bartenders tip jar. Then, suddenly, she yanked off her shirt and began to unbutton her skirt, giving the patrons a strip tease. We ran to her to prevent her from stripping even more and took her drunk ass to my apartment to sleep off her drunkness. The next day, she woke up and screamed out that she was leaving. She needed to get ready for work. After asking a few questions, she informed me of her occupation. Little miss Bianca is a therapist!

No wonder crazy people never get better.

Go Ahead and Let Out the April Fool in You!

Today began like any other day for the Super Fickle Pickle. I woke up, scraped the crust from my eye, burnt a frozen waffle and stepped on a sewing needle. Everything was going well until I walked out of my house and saw a man with no shirt climbing up a palm tree. Apparently he was trying to get a coconut, in a palm tree… in Los Angeles. And then I thought about it. Maybe he is climbing up this dead palm tree because it’s April Fools Day. Maybe he feels like today is the day where he can act like a total utter fool.

So, since I am a Super Fickle Pickle I decide that I too will act like a fool today. I could decide to not match today. But then I thought about it. My clothes never match. I could cartwheel down the street…if only I knew how to cartwheel. I could throw ice cream balls at people out my window. I could send a roast beef sandwich to my vegetarian friends… and a tofu sandwich to all my meat eating friends. I could find my imaginary friend an imaginary friend. Of course that’s something I could do any other day.

And then I thought about it. I’m the Super Fickle Pickle! Without even trying I am an April Fool Year around. This a day when the world honors me and all the fickle pickles that have some “fool” in them. So, the Super Fickle Pickle wishes you and your fool friends a happy Fickle Pickle April Fool’s day. Go ahead and let your inner fool out!

Light Traffic on St. Patrick's Day?

In rush hour, normally it takes the Super Fickle Pickle like two hours to go from snooty ass Brentwood to dirty ass Hollywood. When the Super Fickle Pickle hopped in her dirty car to prepare for the long journey and she was amazed. It took her fifteen minutes to get through Beverly Hills and Bel Aire and twenty minutes to drive all the way to Hollywood.

So, I had to wonder, why was there light traffic that day? What was so special about today? And then I thought about it? It’s St. Patrick’s Day.

So did people actually skip work on St Patrick’s Day or did they leave early? And are there that many Irish people in LA or are there just a bunch of people who like to drink, no matter the occasion? And, those who left work early, what were the excuses they gave to their bosses? Did they say they had the flu? A cold? Malaria?

It’s interesting because I understand light traffic on Veterans Day or Memorial Day but light traffic on St. Patrick’s Day is certainly odd.

No More Talking to Myself...I Now Have Ernie

Apparently everyone has a problem with me talking to myself. Apparently, my friends think that sort of behavior is peculiar. Since clearly I am one who succumbs to peer pressure, I decided to break my addiction and stop talking to myself. And how has it been? Difficult! Impossible actually.

I tried talking to random strangers but that can be dangerous, especially since I live in Hollywood. And, I tried talking to my family but all they want to talk about is how I need to commit myself to the Hollywood Mental Institution. That’s not fun to talk about. I tried talking to the wall but it didn’t really respond back very often.

So, I decided to go to the store and get a plant. Plants are living things so technically I am talking to something that breathes. Plus, no matter what I talk about, the plant can never move. We had great conversations about everything such as current events, food, and fashion. He even helped resolve a few disputes I was having with my feuding imaginary friends. We talked about everything.

So, I decided that since my plant and I were becoming such good friends, he needed a super duper special name. So after careful consideration, I decided to name it Ernie, after of course my favorite Sesame Street character. Hours after naming it Ernie, my plant wilted up and died. So now I’m stuck talking to the wall, wishing that I had named the high maintenance plant Elmo.

Life is hard.

Tomatoes and Weddings Don't Mix

My friend is getting married and I promised to sit in the front row and cause a ruckus during the ceremony. During the entire wedding I was thinking I could do a bunch of stuff like sexually harass her future husband, bring a bottle of vodka into the church and have a few shots. I could steal the flowers from the flower girl, hide the ring from the ring bearer. I could even throw darts at her brides maids. She laughed. I guess the thought of me tormenting her wedding party was funny to her.

Then I said I could bring a few extremely ripe tomatoes and throw them at her instead of rice. For some reason, the thought of me doing that seriously upset her. She even asked for her invitation back.

So I can apparently torment her entire wedding party but I can’t torment her? That seems a bit unfair doesn’t it? Who wouldn’t want to have a white dress with tomato juice all over it? It would make for a great story to tell the kids. I don’t understand why she was being so unreasonable.

Oh well, I’ll probably show up and bring the tomatoes anyways.