Boom bitches.
It's me.
But this ain't about me, nuh-uh Sista, but I bet y'all wish it was.
The typing stops for a moment to a brief fit of laughter, cause this Author can't sass for shit and needs to work on her introductions.
Back to the story, right, ok, SO, it's Easter, right? And that was a painfully excessive amount of commas there, right? Well, how's our Kylie-boo holdin' up?
He ain't great. Y'know why? It's Easter – so all his friends are doing that goddamn Catholic thing or whatever, with their chocolate shit and bunnies and Messiah dying and the hands of his people and all that shit. I mean, it's ok because he's over that Messiah melodrama, but still, Passover isn't for another month and that's just kinda lame.
I also want you all to know I just googled when's Passover this year cause I'm a good lil Author who does her research.
So now, if that's all the fuss, then why's our Kylie-boo feelin' down? WELL, it all started last Wednesday night, when he was lying on the couch – with the TV on and the remote nowhere in sight. The true plight of the 21st Century.
Alas, this convenient and previously used plot-setup would set in motion a chain of events that no one could see coming. No one. Cause I most certainly do not use over-used and clichéd plot devices to make my writing easier or whatever.
After dozing off for a while, Kylie-boo-boo awoke to find the latest episode of Ru-Paul's Drag Race – something that both of us did not know was not a show about Drag Queens box-car racing until recently. Of course, everyone's favourite Ginger ain't gonna get up for no remote – so he's gonna watch the Drag Queens; because he was expecting box-car racing that neither of us received.
No box-car racing for you, Kylie-boo.
Instead, he got Drag Queens with no actual racing, much to the disappointment of everyone ever. Despite that, he couldn't find himself to not watch. The glitz, the glam, the absolute fucking bitchiness –maybe it was the Jersey in him but dammit, he liked it.
He liked it a lot.
But the one thing that gets him, more than anything else, is the transformations! How regular dudes become sexy, sexy ladies eludes him, and suddenly he believes the power of make-up may be stronger than the God he believes in.
And fuck, does he want to try.
'It's not like I'm gay or anything', he tried to defend himself; but we all know that's a big ass lie. Kyle is gay af for some Stanley action. He'd fuckin' swim in that Marsh, I'm tellin' ya.
He's hella gay. Mega gay. There's so many rainbows in that closet it's a fucking scientific anomaly.
But of course, he's playin that whole 'I'm not gay' card even though darnit honey, you don't need to be gay to indulge in traditionally feminine pleasures. Nonetheless, here he is – lying on his couch wrapped in some criminally ugly blanket, with the intense desire to wear false lashes so long they weigh his eyes shut.
It's not your regular Easter, but is it ever?
He gets his ass up, and finds he was sitting on the remote the whole time – could it have prevented this change of fate? Who fuckin knows man, I'm making this up as I go along.
Going upstairs, he finds his old Britney look stashed away – and boy oh boy, is he glad he's kept this from what, 2007? Oh yeah. Briefly he wonders how in the fuck did he get his hair into the wig, but it appears to be another unsolved mystery of South Park.
His parents are out and Ike's at some friends house – yet another convenient plot device, oh my, how did that get in here? Still, it gives him the perfect excuse to rummage through his momma's make-up bag. He's dabbled in make-up before when he was younger, but this? Well, this is different.
A bit of foundation, well, everywhere, and enough mascara to paint a goddamn house but still – he isn't happy. Kyle needs more – he needs to look so damn sexy Stanley Marsh will throw himself at him and they'll do it like they do in the fanfictions he most certainly does not read.
Suddenly, Kyle looks into the distance like he's Raven Symone and he's just had a vision – a vision of gay and a year's supply of Anastasia Beverly Hills cosmetics. Kylie-boo knows what he's gotta do – he's gotta enter and win Ru-Paul's Drag Race, bag the expensive make-up to look ULTRA-SEXY and climb Stanley Marsh like he's Mount Kila-man-fuckin-jaro.
Specifically in that order.
And so, Kylie-boo got to work getting' his sexy on like he's Justin Timberlake in 2006. He's gonna werk his thang like Brian Boitano, and get his man despite the fact that he's totes not gay or anything.
Now this, dear children, is where the story ends – mainly because I don't know how much more of this I can pull outta my ass and you've probably tortured yourself enough reading this much. Does Kylie become the Ultimate Drag Queen and get his freak on with Stan or whatever?
God I hope so.
I RETURN FROM THE ABYSS! So, what happens when I login to after binge-watching Drag Race and gorging on discounted Easter chocolate? This, baby.
Do I regret it? Never.
Let's hope I get off my lazy ass and write more shit in 2k16, ok hun-buns? This is your ever-beloved Cookie, off to eat more chocolate and regret in in the morning.
Love, Cookie.