Al, that bitch, had everything she could possibly want. A pony, a Murphy bed, and a great taste in aesthetics. Fortunate for her, she was one of those Iowa girls who grew up knowing that they were going to move to New York. She left home for the bright lights, the big city, and a cute little tin of strawberry-flavored snuff.
Her dream was to be a Rockette. She had the legs, God knows. She auditioned, and found that Kyle MacLachlan not only corrected her pronunciation of “Versace”, but also would only offer her the job if she performed the dance of the seven veils for him. If you know what I mean.
She gave him the backhand finger as she stomped out the door of Radio City Music Hall (she stomped a lot, because her cowboy boots were a size too big).
“I only show my tits if you ask me NOT to,” Al said to herself.
Using only a little bit of moxie, she wrangled herself a spot in this year’s Chashama Oasis festival.
“I’ve only been here two weeks. If everything goes according to plan, I should either be hosting the MTV Movie Awards, or showing folks how to make their own shoes, by fall,” Al said, as she ate another handful of edamame.