Sup guys? Enjoy the fuckery.

South Park isn't mine.

Hello there again, whoever's watching this vlog. By listening to my side, you've already done more than my real friends ever did.

Sometimes I scold myself for things I've done. I watch myself in the past, like thinking about it now can somehow stop it from happening way back when. Is that pathetic? I think we're all allowed our pathetic moments.

No, I'm not a tough girl. But I'm tougher than you. Goodnight.

Bebe was always everything I wasn't. She has huge tits, for one thing. BMT, we call them (that's: Bebe's Monster Tits). If my boobs were Texas, hers are frikkin Sherpa. That's the most mountainous region in the world, and even the Sherpians would yodel at the size of Bebe's boobs.

She also says whatever the fuck comes into her head. Bebe doesn't understand the meaning of the term "discretion," nor does she bother with silly things like "privacy."

I remember this one time freshman year where she wanted to go to the bathroom to tend to her…girl business, but the teacher wouldn't let her.

So instead of subtly hinting at her bleeding vagina, the way any normal girl would do if she wanted to use the bathroom (males fear bleeding vaginas like they fear death itself), Bebe goes,

"Hey douche-master, unless you want to pay for the drycleaning to get the bloodstain out of my new white jeans, and believe me—I WILL bill you—you better get over the inferiority complex your tiny cock is causing you and let me go to the fucking bathroom."

And the thing is, he let her go.

I hadn't seen her in years, but I wondered about her sometimes. Mostly, about how pissed she was at me for leaving without saying goodbye.

Well once upon a time, I woke up and just wanted to watch some TV. I was stressing about the tabloid business, and I wanted to unwind a little. Maybe catch a marathon of Lost or something. Let my brain numb out for a few hours; it's reasonable, right?

But once again, my case of life-hates-you-just-give-up strikes again. Because sitting in the living room like a bad case of deja-vù, was Bebe Stevens. I rubbed my eyes, blinked twice, rubbed them again.

"Don't do that, Wendy," she goes without even turning around, "if you rub your eyes like that, you're going to get premature wrinkles."

Any doubt that I had that it was really Bebe and I wasn't just see things disappeared right then. Bebe doesn't fuck around when it comes to premature wrinkles.

"Hey, Bebe," I said slowly, still trying to take this new information in, "now…don't take this the wrong way…I mean, I'm really glad to see you and all…but…why are you here?"

"I'm here to help you," she smiled.

"Right," I replied. Fuck me, she looked like a shark—all glistening white teeth pointed straight at me. I swallowed dryly and prayed she hasn't smelled my fear yet.

After a few moments, I muttered, "excuse me," and got the hell out. As I went, I heard her chuckle.

And I swear to god, she switched the TV to Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.

Eric Cartman was a complete and utter dick. He's a cocksucking douchebag dillweed, and I was going to murder him.

"ERIC!" I yelled as I stomped into his office (which, just FYI, is decorated with various tasteful indoor plants, modest office furniture, and a huge flag with a swastika on it hanging behind his desk).

"Why, hello there Wendy, it's so nice to see you on this fine day," Cartman said in an overly pleasant tone. It's utter bullshit, because he only uses that "I'm innocent, don't kill me slowly and painfully" voice when he is busy pissing people off.

"Fuck you," I slammed my palms down on his desk and glowered into his beady little eyes, "why is Bebe Stevens watching TV in the living room?"

"Because the TV in the den doesn't have as many channels?"

"ERIC!"

"You're totally going to thank me for that if you let me explain," he said defensively, "it's one of my most awesome ideas ever."

"Bringing Bebe into this mess is the WORST idea ever!"

"Nuh uh!" Eric retorted defiantly, "It's a totally tits idea! Bebe's perfect!"

Oh, just FYI, the tits thing he does to annoy me. And also just FYI, it works.

"I haven't spoken to Bebe since high school!" I cried, "what in the ever loving name of Jesus's toaster possessed you to bring her here, tell her my career crushing secret, and ask for her HELP?"

"She WANTED to help!"

"Bebe Stevens doesn't help people, Eric! Didn't you figure that out after she tricked you into paying for her college?"

Eric's face visibly darkened at the memory.

"…after she used your own contract against you, took nearly forty thousand dollars straight out of your pocket and got your MOM to pay the rest with the money she was going to use to buy your birthday presen—"

"ALRIGHT ALRIGHT! JESUS!" Eric's face was red and puffy as a balloon.

"Now explain to me why you trusted the same girl who nearly cost you your career and turned your own mother against you with the single biggest risk to the well being of Fingerbang and my reputation! Because I'm not understanding how you can even BE a big enough of a DUMBASS FUCKTARD to get to that level!"

"It was HER idea!" he said, voice whiny. Typical, isn't it? Eric only steals bad ideas.

I was feeling low after my little talk with Eric, so I went to find Kyle. When I walked into the dance studio and found him at the ballet bar. He was deep in concentration, his leg gracefully outstretched over he wooden bar his arms floating artistically over it.

What a fruit.

"Sup, Kyle?" I interrupted loudly. Surprised by this, he tripped, falls forward and smashed his crotch against the protruding lip of the bar.

I suppose Jews really can't dance.

Because I'm kind of a douchebag, when I stopped laughing long enough to speak, I said, "practicing for the Nutcracker ballet?"

"Go fuck yourself, Wendy," Kyle gritted out, clutching himself painfully and rolling around on the floor. He groaned and coughed, and I, personally, felt astoundingly grateful for once for my lady parts.

As he settled down, I crouched beside him, stifling the last of my effort and valiantly attempting to look contrite for causing him ball-crunching agony.

"Ouch," I said sympathetically, "sorry 'bout your balls." But instead of acceptibg my apology, Kyle continued to moan like the drama king he is. So, I patiently waited for him to finish feeling sorry for himself.

Then he opened his eyes just enough to glare at me. "Do you have ANY idea how much that hurts?" he spat venomously.

Clearly, someone needed a chill pill. "Nope," I replied, "it's one of the only perks of my being an actual girl. Speaking of which, I actually came down here because I needed to talk to you about something."

"Seriously?" he asked, like it was a bad time of something. I just nodded.

After lying there for a few more moments, he sat up and sighed. "What."

I decide to continue despite his baffling lack of enthusiasm (some people are so self centered). "Cartman hired Bebe to pretend to be my girlfriend for the press," I explained, a crease forming between my eyes, "I think its bullshit."

"Why?" Kyle asked, still annoyingly unruffled. Damn it, why did no one see what a fucking landmine this is but me?

"He says it was Bebe's idea."

"And…that's a bad thing?" he looked perplexed, and I gave him my most exasperated look. Had her boobs actually caused all the males within a ten-mile radius to have brain failure?

"You don't know her like I do!"

"Wendy," Kyle put his hand on my shoulder. You'd think it was to comfort me, but he just used it for support as he hoisted himself to his feet, "Bebe was your best friend in high school, right? So maybe she's just trying to help you out now. Out of solidarity or something."

"Kyle! Bebe isn't…you don't KNOW what she's like! Look, Bebe only does things for two reasons: to get her way, or to get even," I waved my hands around like a conductor having a seizure for dramatic effect, "she's going to screw us, I just know it!"

"You're overreacting," Kyle decided with a roll of his eyes, "besides, this works out good for her, too you know." He got that smart aleck-y gleam in his eye, and I had to pause when I saw it flash in his slanted green eyes.

"How?" I asked carefully.

"She's getting a free ride to fame," he shrugged like it was soooo obvious, "The press is going to be all over that shit. She's going to have more free publicity than Miley Cyrus with a boob job scar."

"Oh." That particular fact hadn't occurred to me till just then. Kyle's a pretty smart guy, gotta hand it to him.

"Dude, I can't wait to tell Kenny. He's gonna love this," he commented as he gathers his things and heads for the door, "he's gonna have a stroke I tell him! Man, he spent all of high school drooling over BMTs. It'll be like Christmas when he learns they're gonna be hanging around here!"

Fuck. I looked down at my own tiny titties mournfully, and noted that I didn't even have rack to hide my broken heart behind.