-----Original Message-----
FROM: Helga The Help
SENT: Sep 17 2005 12:00AM
SUBJECT:Newsletter: On Hurrican Katrina and Bowel Movements
Avoiding commitment is only one way of saying, "You aren’t as sexy as my mom"
-- Helga
Dear Generous Readers,
I am Helga The Help, LiquidGeneration’s only uncircumcised, pre-operative transsexual, and I would like to make a plea for your generous donations by telling you a sad story about last night’s dinner.
I went to Chicago’s fine (and only) Cajun restaurant and had an unusually large meal which I chased down with an unusually strong Hurricane. It was probably a category 5 until the moment it made landfall in my bowels. After the meal, I could barely move as I felt a storm brewing in my stomach. Sadly, my machismo got the better of me and ignoring all the warning signs, I went to bed as if nothing happened. Alas, my peaceful slumber would be short-lived.
I awoke as the levee of my sphincter broke and with a mighty leap, was upon my throne. But suffering from the worst Hurricane hangover you can imagine, I neglected to recognize the dangers of such volume without the necessary insurance of multiple flushing. Before I knew what was happening, I was ankle-deep in raw sewage. What to do? It was the dead of night, everything was closed and there was still a Hurricane coursing through my brain.
Normally, I am a law-abiding citizen but such desperate times call for law-bending measures. So, I went and looted my local hardware store. I grabbed the biggest, most industrial-strength plunger I could find and since I was already there, and in the market for a big screen TV and some lawn furniture, I figured there would be no harm in picking those up too. So after my midnight shopping spree I went home to assess the damage and call in the cavalry to help clean it up. Someone had to rescue what was left of my beautiful antique bathroom rugs.
But no one came!
I waited for hours and no one came to help. By this time the Hurricane was gone, having long ago been "processed," but the damage and unfriendly odor remained. This was an emergency on a residential level. Volunteers started spilling in from every corner of the block (who were at least in sniffing distance) but they were forbidden entry by my door which was locked. Oh the outrage! However, being the muscular transsexual that I am, I quickly kicked the door down and stood ready to greet my white knights in shining ArmorAll when the unthinkable happened. Mistaking my temporarily browned complexion for a permanent one, the eager volunteers simply pointed me to the United Center (home of the has-been Chicago Bulls) and went home.
Oh The HORROR! THE HORROR!
SO PLEASE! Send money now and if you’ve ever eaten Cajun food, then I demand your resignation.
Love and Hurricanes,
Helga The Help
Business As Usual/Porn Collector