So I installed a strobe light and a mini fridge in my kids playhouse in the back yard, and opened Flipside, my own high end, ultra-exclusive nightclub. I floated a rumor on twitter that Miley Cyrus was seen canoodling with Justin Beiber (is that MilTin or BeiRus?) at Flipside, and before you know it I had A-Listers lining up outside Flipside's tiny plastic door, to get into the hottest club on the planet. They didn't seem to mind that the bathroom was a coffee can or that bottle service consisted of Safeway Generic Vodka. I handed out glow sticks and played bad 80's music off of my iPhone.
Everybody was happy. The A-Listers were partying sans paparazzi, and I was making money hand over fist. Then things began to take a turn for the dark, as professional party people started making the short thirteen hour journey from Hollywood to Flipside for a night of revelry. Tara Reid, Paris Hilton, and the Kardashians, started showing up at all hours of the night, sneaking into my cool little club and telling people that they had done blow with the owner and had slept with the bartender. Which obviously upset my wife a little bit, since I am in fact both. Plus my kids were getting tired of their playhouse smelling like vomit, boob glitter and cigarette smoke. So I shut down Flipside.
But it was too late. I already had a Lindsay Lohan problem. She moved in, even though the club closed and now I have spent my entire fortune trying to get rid of her. I find her sleeping on my couch, in the shower, under the kid's beds. She borrows my kids bikes to ride down to the liquor store and then comes back without the bike, she uses all our hot water and eats all of our breakfast cereals. I lock her out and the next morning find her draped over the toilet. For some reason, known only to her, she keeps shaving our cats.
I am at a loss. Restraining orders have no effect on her. New age healers and shaman take my money and give me trite cliche's and useless crystals, to which she is apparently immune. Exterminators run in fear. All I can hope at this point is that somewhere, somebody opens up the new "it" club and she relocates. Please, in the name of all that is good and holy, open up a club, I beg you.
Everybody was happy. The A-Listers were partying sans paparazzi, and I was making money hand over fist. Then things began to take a turn for the dark, as professional party people started making the short thirteen hour journey from Hollywood to Flipside for a night of revelry. Tara Reid, Paris Hilton, and the Kardashians, started showing up at all hours of the night, sneaking into my cool little club and telling people that they had done blow with the owner and had slept with the bartender. Which obviously upset my wife a little bit, since I am in fact both. Plus my kids were getting tired of their playhouse smelling like vomit, boob glitter and cigarette smoke. So I shut down Flipside.
But it was too late. I already had a Lindsay Lohan problem. She moved in, even though the club closed and now I have spent my entire fortune trying to get rid of her. I find her sleeping on my couch, in the shower, under the kid's beds. She borrows my kids bikes to ride down to the liquor store and then comes back without the bike, she uses all our hot water and eats all of our breakfast cereals. I lock her out and the next morning find her draped over the toilet. For some reason, known only to her, she keeps shaving our cats.
I am at a loss. Restraining orders have no effect on her. New age healers and shaman take my money and give me trite cliche's and useless crystals, to which she is apparently immune. Exterminators run in fear. All I can hope at this point is that somewhere, somebody opens up the new "it" club and she relocates. Please, in the name of all that is good and holy, open up a club, I beg you.
