Where do we start? When are folks gonna realize that blowin' out your brain cells with booze, dope and doofus doings ain't exactly the best way to go? Prolly never. But what the hell, that's not gonna stop me from tellin' on Whore-tense Past-tense, the country's latest glossy victim in chemically enhanced career descent.
Whore-hon—such the doll. Well, I never thought she was, but lotsa other folks sure did. Always found W.T. to be a bit o' a fake onscreen, not to mention in real life. I mean, who else would date a gay man for years just to get herself more in the tabloids? I know, I know, half of Hollywood's female population, but you get my point. Also, forgive moi, but I never really found Ms. P., with all of her kooky outfits, to be all that attractive—and I think that's largely because, deep down inside, Whorey was projecting nothing but a desperation to find the next heroin fix.
Which she always has found—much to the chagrin of Whore-baby's current group o' hangers-on. And, trust, when a bunch of nobody poseurs who leech on to a star's fading wattage just to get attention start worrying for their so-called friend's welfare, that amiga's gotta be in pretty pitiful shape. And Past-tense sure is.
So much so, in W.'s increasingly notorious state of euphoric Hell-Ay horniness, she's screwing busboys here, waiters there, car parkers, too—and she never stops to think that these (almost always skinny) dudes just might talk. 'Course, they haven't (yet), but W.T.'s buds sure as ef have. And the only other thing that's got these ultraclassy hangers-on—not to mention W.T. watchers—gabbing as much would be Ms. Pee's skeletal frame. For your next meal, hon, you might try a noodle, not a needle.