Fugson and Fugshaw


“Gee, thanks for getting dressed today, Rita. Who the hell does she think she is?” Kate Capshaw snarled to herself, unable to stop glaring at her former friend’s bodacious rack. “She should have TOLD me. I ASKED her if she thought I should still wear my Ellen DeGeneres suit, even though it had fallen off the hanger and sat in a crumpled heap at the bottom of my closet. And all that ho said was, ‘Sure, why not?  I mean, I’m gonna be casual — I’m mostly trying to wear something that draws attention away from Tom’s serial-rapist Da Vinci Code hair.’ I thought that meant a loud color or something, but nooooo, apparently what Rita was thinking was, ‘I’m going to throw on something that’s essentially without a front and that makes me look like an aging milkmaid, in the hope that some horny boy executive looks at me and says, “Hmm, milkmaid… MILF-maid, more like,” and then gets all hot and bothered to make me the new Anne Bancroft.’ HOW DARE SHE upstage me. I wonder how she’d feel if she knew that I totally lied when I told her that she looked better than Julia did in Runaway Bride. And big goddamn deal if she produced My Big Fat Greek Asspile. I was in Space Camp, goddammit! That is some serious emotional shit! I was in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom! All she really has is that scene in Sleepless in Seattle where she cries about a frickin’ movie. TRY CARRYING THE MOVIE, RITA. Oh, sorry, you can’t, you’re too busy fluffing and plumping your breasts for their next close-up. HA HA HA HA HA I hate her SO MUCH. Just WAIT until the Oscars, Wilson. It’s ON. And I am NOT introducing her to Leafquin Phoenix.”

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