© Magnus Hastings
Dedication
To all of those people out there who desperately need my advice . . . but won’t get it because:
I’m just one woman.
I’m out there trying to make a living, taping my dick to my ass and stuffing my balls in a dress so I can “entertain” people who can’t entertain themselves.
I don’t give a fuck.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: I Found a Lump (Health & Grooming)
Chapter 2: Love Is a Long and Slender Thing (Romance)
Chapter 3: People Who Hold Your Hair When You Vomit (Friendship)
Chapter 4: You’re the Top! (Sex)
Chapter 5: Fuck Foster Care! (Family)
Chapter 6: Chew with Your Legs Closed (Manners & Style)
Chapter 7: Work It, Girl! (Paychecks & Pantyhose)
Chapter 8: Hit the Road, Bitch! (Travel & Vacation)
Chapter 9: TMZ or TMI? (Fame, Fortune & Fuckups)
Chapter 10: It’s All About Me (Me)
Disclaimer
Author’s Note
Another Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Shocking! Appalling! Horrifying! Her bags don’t MATCH!
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
Chapter 1
I Found a Lump
Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
Early to bed and early to rise makes a man ready for hospice care.
BIANCA DEL RIO
He said, “Open wide.” Old habits die hard.
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
I’m not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. In fact, other than the fact that I once blew an OB-GYN in a parking lot, I have no connections to health and well-being whatsoever. Yes, I go to a gym, and yes, I work out, but not for health reasons. I have to squeeze my ass and balls into a size-six muumuu, I can’t afford to gain weight or it’ll cost me a fortune at Lane Bryant. I received quite a few questions on this subject, including a half-written letter from an anorexic, who ran out of energy and died when she tried to conjugate the verb purge.
Bianca:
Being disabled and having a hearing and sight impairment, I find it so difficult in nightclub settings to see my absolute favourite queens which include you. What advice could you give me to make it easier for people like me to enjoy a gig or event? I always find it hard to ask event organisers for help because I don’t know what help to ask for. When I went to your event in Belfast I got VIP tickets in the third row but it was so hard to see you and lip read. I wish I could enjoy the full experience like a “normal person.” Any advice would be appreciated.
Love you always and forever.
Danielle
Dear Danielle:
So, you’re disabled, half deaf, AND half blind? Why not add cradle cap and spina bifida to the mix? How ’bout tuberculosis or shingles? Maybe you could get a job as the Elephant Man’s girlfriend? I don’t mean to be callous, Danielle, but I think easy-access entertainment is the least of your problems. BUT, I do have a solution for you! Have a celebrity (other than me—I’m waaaaay too busy—and cripples annoy me ☺) hold a telethon for you on TV. (Look how great it worked out for comedian/scumbag Jerry Lewis!) You’ll be onstage, on camera as the poster child/sidekick for the entire time. If you do well (look the wrong way, drool on cue, strain to hear the band, etc.), you could become not only the poster child for ALL TV telethons, you could turn out to be the face of disease in Europe. Think of the endorsement deals, the public service ads, the promotional tours!!! You’ll be so busy you won’t have time to be wheeled in and out of drag shows!
Good luck, Danielle; time to get the ball rolling. So have some undercooked shellfish for lunch and go outside in the rain without a hat. ☺
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I am an 18-year-old lesbian. I have been out as a lesbian for the last five years, however I have recently developed a bit of a crush on a woman who is technically a man. She’s a drag queen. Am I straight or bi or gay or what?
Irene
London, UK
Dear Irene,
Irene, forgive me; I’m American and you’re English, so there may be a language barrier. What you are is fucked. No, really fucked. Even I’m confused by your situation. I’ve heard this story a thousand times . . . usually from a relative/prisoner, so your question is bothering me a bit . . . hey, wait a minute! Dad? You were worried no one was going to write in. Thanks for your support. FYI, count me in for the next conjugal visit. ♥
* * *
Dear Bianca,
After six months of dating, my boyfriend Tim and I finally slept together. He now says he wants to break up because my vagina smells awful. (I’d only slept with one boy before Tim and he said the same thing.) I don’t know what to do. I’m clean—I shower, bathe, douche . . . all the things I can to stay fresh. I don’t have any infections or anything. Any advice? I’m only twenty—is this going to be an issue for the rest of my life?
Jenny
Sante Fe, New Mexico
Dear Stinky,
I’m so sorry you have funky junky. Nothing kills the mood like having to whisper sweet nothings through a hazmat mask. (No matter how many times I ask, it’s not kinky.) Although I haven’t spent much time in Cooz County, I’ve done some research in an effort to help you. (And by research, I mean I tied my assistant, Jamie, to the computer, and said, “Google vajayjay!”)
Turns out, a stinky snatch is not all that uncommon, and some women are simply cursed with a garden of garbage. A hetero friend of mine (yes, I have some . . . one) once went out with a beautiful, sexy fashion model. On a scale of one to ten, she was a twelve (like me). Unfortunately, her vagina made him call 911 . . . OUT THE WINDOW. He said that the moment she took off her panties, a noxious smell enveloped the room and he started having flashbacks to his days getting napalmed in Nam. In less time than it takes to say, “What died in your vag?” his evening went from foxy to foxhole. And as gorgeous as she was, and as nice as she was, he couldn’t go out with her again. He said, “I’d rather stick my dick in Betty White.” I said, “What about Barry White?” He said, “Him too.” I said, “I agree! You know that famous saying, ‘Once you go black, you lose your jewelry.’”
So, what to do about your putrid puss? I don’t know if you can completely kill the smell, but I have a couple of ideas that might minimize the musk and maybe save your relationship.
Instead of perfume, put dog shit behind your ears and on your wrists. It’ll smell so bad Tim will happily go south for a refreshing trip into Crusty Canyon.
Reassure him that it’s perfectly safe for him to have sex with you. Before you coax/plead/beg him to put his fingers, face, or phallus into your she-cave, send in a canary first . . . and wait for the bird or a Chilean miner to return. One will tell you the conditions down there.
Attach a Stick Up Air Freshener deep inside one of your vaginal walls. Unless you’re dating an Asian man, in which case an inch or two ought to suffice.
Learn to swallow; you’ll be able to keep your pants on.
Fuck the homeless. They won’t mind, you’ll just have to find a place for the shopping cart.
Muah!
* * *
Hi Bianca,
I have a disease that causes me to have no hair on my head. Growing up female with
no hair is a fuckery. I wear shitty wigs and hair pieces but they are super expensive if you want them to look good, which I do because I just want to blend in or even look good with my hair. But I can’t afford Beyoncé hair.
Do you have any everyday-wear hair that you would suggest? Or advice on lace fronts?
Thanks,
Chrissy V
Chrissy,
When I started reading your letter, I thought, “Oh, great, another cancer victim looking for help. Bor-ring!” The cunty part of me wants to say, “If you won’t tell me what disease you have then I won’t give you any advice.” But I’m in a giving mood today (drunk), so here goes . . .
Milk the bald thing for all it’s worth. It’s very chic, especially among the fashion, style, and artsy types. If you wear dramatic earrings, people will think it’s a look, not a disability. (I hope your disease doesn’t prevent you from having the strength to put on the earrings.) Plus, you’ll save a fortune on wigs, glue, tape, shampoo, and conditioner. And if people DO think you have cancer, milk that, too. Cut the lines, take the good parking spots, be the first one in the triage tent during a disaster. And finally, when you’re giving your boyfriend head, all you have to worry about is getting it in your eyes! (Unless your secret disease has taken your eyes, too, in which case, tattoo a bull’s-eye between your boobs, and yell, “Fire away” when he gets close.)
God bless the Jews. They want 10 percent off everything.
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
* * *
Dear Bianca,
We have three children, as do our neighbors, who we like quite a bit. The issue is that our neighbors are very heavy and their children are becoming morbidly obese. We don’t want our children going over to their house for dinner, because we know they will not eat healthily. We’re also worried about their children’s health. Can we say or do anything?
Donna & James
Midland, Texas
Dear D&J,
Aren’t fat people fun? There’s no end to the problems they have! First thing to remember is that the tubby trio are not YOUR children, and while they’re disgusting to look at, and probably won’t live past thirty, they’re not your responsibility. If Massive Mommy and Dirigible Daddy don’t see a problem with their obese offspring, why should you? (I’m guessing they don’t see the problem because they can’t see them over the piles of potato chips and pizza boxes on the table.)
I think it’s perfectly fine to let your children go over to their house to play—either before or after dinner, not during. Although I’m guessing that even snack time might be a challenge, and could involve fifty loaves of bread and a Guernsey cow.
Saying something to Mr. & Mrs. Fatass might ruin a friendship, so I suggest you let go of your revulsion concern, and make their hideous appearances work for you! Spend time with them in public. Go to the beach, the swim club, or all-you-can-eat buffets. Wear slim-fit clothing and dark colors, and stand as close to them as you can. As passersby call 911 to arrange for “preemptive strikes,” your family will look truly fabulous. And isn’t that what really matters? Let’s be real here.
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I had acne when I was a teenager, and it has left me with pockmarks and scars. I’m starting college in the fall and I’m afraid boys won’t go out with me because of my skin. (It’s not awful, just noticeable.) I find you’d know more about concealment than anyone. ☺ Any suggestions?
Sandie
Batavia, New York
Hey, Crater Face,
What’s up? How bad are your craters? Did Neil Armstrong plant a flag on your chin and say, “One small step for man . . .”? There are a few things you can do to conceal the scars. I’m assuming you can’t afford dermabrasion, or you would have done it already. So let’s go the more conventional route. (And by conventional I mean “Instagram filters.”) Try foundation and base and use so much you have to put it on with a trowel. (As long as it doesn’t rain and you don’t sweat, you’ll be fine.) If you want something slightly more permanent, try spackle or bathtub grout. They’re not as firm as makeup, but they’re waterproof.
But the long-term solution has nothing to do with makeup or skin treatment. It has to do with perspective. Forget “fixing yourself” so you can get a cute guy. Just lower your standards and go out with ugly or disfigured boys. I’ll bet there are plenty of burn victims who would LOVE to toss you a hump! So embrace your face and head on down to the Hospital for Reconstructive Surgery! The other option is a veil . . . made of lead.
Xoxo
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I recently found out I can no longer rely on Depend undergarments for an undisclosed reason. Can you recommend an alternative?
JPW
Dallas, Texas
Dear JPW,
Undisclosed reason? Seriously? How many options could there be? The problem is either brown or yellow (or gray, if you have liver issues). The alternative to Depends is staying home. If you need company, bring in someone who has a diaper fetish, and let the fun begin.
BDR
P.S. Does “JPW” stand for Just Plain Wet?
* * *
Bianca:
My wife Helen and I have been married for fifty-one years. She’s five years older than I am and her health is starting to fail. It seems as though I’m going to outlive her. How can I prepare myself for that?
Arnold
Hallandale, Florida
Arnold,
I’m sorry to hear about Helen, but we all die. (I died last Tuesday night in Oklahoma City. Audience full of old, white Christians. It was a horror. Daniel had a better time in the lions’ den.)
Since there’s no way to prepare yourself for the loss of your wife of fifty-one years (especially if she liked anal), why not prepare HER? Let Helen prepare for the upcoming event; after all, she’s the one heading down the tracks. Simple, unspoken acts of kindness might ease her into a gentle good-bye. For example, when she gets in bed at night shine a flashlight on her face and say, “Follow the light, Helen, follow the white light!” (I don’t want to sound racist . . . Black Lights Matter. Happy now, Leroy?) When she’s sleeping put pennies on her eyes. In the bedroom corner, replace the crutches she leaves standing there with a shovel. “Accidentally” mix up her orange juice with formaldehyde. Maybe buy her an expensive silk nightgown, and when you take the tag off, tie it around her toe? FYI, take off the sales sticker so she doesn’t feel cheap in her final hours. Little things matter. And finally, whisper sweet nothings into her good ear, things like, “You’ll always be my girl, Helen,” or “I will love you forever and always,” or “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ve been fucking your caregiver since July so she can become a citizen before they build that fucking wall.”
I hope that helps. Muah!
* * *
Bianca,
Hello! I recently underwent surgery for colon cancer & am am currently on chemotherapy. I’m doing great, but not feeling very sexy at the moment. You always look fab in and out of drag, so any suggestions to make myself feel a bit more desirable?
Love you!
Rebecca
Atlanta, Georgia
I feel like Anderson Cooper on New Year’s Eve—waiting for the ball to drop.
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
Dear Rebecca,
Sorry you’re going through such a tough time; allow me to make it better!
Here are a few things to pretty up your look, lift your spirits, and help your sex life (as you know, I’m dealing with a terminal disease as well; it’s called ugly):
If you’ve lost your hair, get a tattoo on your head. Something like, “Not too sick to suck.”
If you have chunks of hair, dye each of them a different color and be the Rainbow Coalition of people with three weeks to live.
Get a Louis Vuitton colostomy bag. Dress for Success!
Write a diet book: Eat Anything and Waste Away!
Write a fashion blog. You can call it
Jaundice Is the New Black.
Bedazzle your catheter.
Wear a push-up hospital gown.
Start your own fashion line: “My Mom Went to Sloan-Kettering and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt.”
* * *
Bianca:
My boyfriend and I moved in together a few months ago. I have a nine-year-old daughter who lives with us. Yesterday I was cleaning and I came upon a couple of prescription pill bottles my boyfriend had in his desk drawers. They’re very strong mind/mood-altering drugs. I don’t know what to do.
Mimi
Miami, Florida
Dear Mimi from Miami,
I LOVELOVELOVE that you’re Mimi from Miami. A human anagram! Just think, if you drive from Miami to Tampa, you’ll be Mimi from Miami on the Tamiami Trail. Sounds like a new Carrie Underwood song, no? (I think I see music royalties in my future. Kaching!) I’m only talking about your name because it’s funnier than your actual story.
Seriously, Mimi, there are a couple of issues here, but only one solution. Either the boyfriend, the daughter, or the pills have to go. Considering that the daughter is in your will, and the boyfriend is in your vagina, you need to get rid of the pills. Immediately!
My address is:
Bianca Del Rio
PO Box 6969
Sissyville, USA
* * *
Bianca:
My husband’s brother Bill died last month after a long battle with smallpox. My husband wants to bury his remains in our garden. I’m uncomfortable with this; not just for health reasons, but the thought of having someone’s remains buried in our yard feels icky. Any suggestions?
Blame It on Bianca Del Rio_The Expert on Nothing With an Opinion on Everything Page 1
