Rebecca Riots

Welcome to the prologue of my super mini-series in the style of Amanda Brunker. Stay tuned for the first installment, when we find out if Pat ever called Sharon forra date….

The Blanchardstown Blondes

Prologue

The sun creeped over the horizon, the vast and imposing façade of the Blanchardstown Centre threatening to obscure its ultra-violet beauty. Somewhere nearby, Sharon Rashers stirred in her squishy, comfortable bed, the smooth sheets from Harvey Norman tantalisingly covering her porcelain skin.

“Ah Jaaaaaayzus wha bleedin time is ih?” she mumbled as the day began to strain through her Atlantic Homecare dusky pink curtains.

“Aw nowah, I ave to be in wurk in half-a-bleedin-howar, stupeh alarm clock wha..”

As Sharon grabbed her uniform and ran a GHD through her wild, untamed hair, she allowed her mind the guilty pleasure of drifting off back to the previous weekend, where she enjoyed the company of none other than Pat Parsnips, the owner of the local night-spot, Sizzles.

They met in the dark corner of the crowded dance floor, her eyes dancing along to the unce unce unce music, while he expertly produced a cool Bacardi and coke from his portable mini-bar.

She couldn’t keep her eyes off his muscular arms, vainly disguised beneath a pastel coloured shirt.

“Mmmmmmmmmmm” said Sharon, thinking out loud”

“I wonder if he’ll call me forra date, den I’ll let ‘im see me fanjo.”

But for now, all Sharon could do was dream, and make her way towards the Blanch Centre, where she would begin her shift in Spice Burger, a popular fast food joint in the heart of the retail mecca, where the hard work and grease was off-set by the brilliant company of her two co-workers and best friends, Sandra Sausage and Maggie Mash.

Sometimes, in the height of my fever, I will momentarily forget that Amanda Brunker wrote a buke. But then as it comes flooding back in tandem with a wave of nausea, I try and look on the bright side- the potential for hilarity as a result of her tappity tapping on that shiny new Dell.

As such, I have decided to include a weekly sexy time serial on this very blog.

It will have its very own category, and will feature the lives of sexy, sassy women from Blanchardstown who fall prey to the trappings of a glamorous west Dublin life…..stay tuned…

But in the mean time, here are a few quotes from Brunker’s Champagne Kisses, just to remind everyone why the publishing world is a load of old cum.

AS the plastic baton made its way towards me, I could feel myself getting caught up in the naughtiness of the game.

So far there had been boys locking lips with other boys as they sucked the piece of plastic off their neighbour – all of them announcing how ’secure’ they were in their sexuality.

Then came my turn to be passed the cellophane. As my new acquaintance turned to me with her glossy long chestnut brown wavy hair and twinkling doe eyes, she arched one eyebrow and gave me a devilishly cheeky wink before leaning forwards and pressing her full lips against mine.

Closing my eyes as if we were sharing a proper kiss, I pushed my lips against hers, and was temporarily lost in the smell of her sweet perfume.

I had never been this close to a woman before, yet it didn’t feel strange or weird. In fact it felt perfectly normal, and wonderfully enjoyable. Actually it was better than that. It was fantastically erotic……………..

As Neil automatically reached for his bottle, my new girlfriend wasted no time. Saying ‘Let me fish that out for you’, she softly slid her dainty fingers under the fold of my dress and retrieved the nearly invisible piece of plastic from my right boob. ‘Here it is,’ she said, then bit her bottom lip suggestively……..

Instantly a look of disappointment shot across her face, which was pretty amazing as her regular Botox injections rarely allowed such emotions to be shown.

Looking like one of those latex sex dolls with her mouth gaping open as she tried to suck in the piece of plastic, she threw me an evil eye as if to say who the f**k does your boyfriend think he’s snubbing?

PS: Thanks www.currychips.com

I’m waiting in line at the little Asian café beside my office today when this douchebag places an order.

“This coffee totally better be good because I’m a total starbucks freak” he said, every inch of his wankerness glistening in the afternoon sunshine.

An occasion such as the above requires a set of these within easy reach:

I can scarcely believe that hump-backed, litigious fake doctor Gillian McKeith still receives airtime.

The weasel-faced aduki bean freak reacts poorly to criticism and often wheels in her lawyer husband to wave around some scary looking lawsuits in the general direction of anyone who dares step up and say ‘hang on a minute McKeith, you’re talking bullshit.

Her show, You Are What You Eat, is now syndicated on both Australian and American television and her ill-informed, ludicrous advice is thrust upon two more countries.

But McKeith, a vexatious litigant who claims scientific qualifications (she’s no longer allowed to call herself Dr, given that she’s…um….not a Dr) harangues/threatens anyone who dares question her so-called advice.

It is widely accepted and encouraged within the scientific community to refute and argue the evidence and research of peers, not slap anyone in a white coat with some legal threats.

Dr Ben Goldacre of www.badscience.net sums it up better than I ever could:

She talks endlessly about chlorophyll, for example: how it’s “high in oxygen” and will “oxygenate your blood” – but chlorophyll will only make oxygen in the presence of light. It’s dark in your intestines, and even if you stuck a searchlight up your bum to prove a point, you probably wouldn’t absorb much oxygen in there, because you don’t have gills in your gut. In fact, neither do fish. In fact, forgive me, but I don’t think you really want oxygen up there, because methane fart gas mixed with oxygen is a potentially explosive combination.

Indeed.

But what troubles me is the likes of McKeith is allowed to go on national television and broadcast her erroneous claims in a high octane and convincing manner. Let me assure you, dear blogees, a diet rich in aduki beans, lentils, broccoli and seaweed might make your hair a bit shiny, but you’ll probably drop dead from boredom and depression before too long. On another note, take a long, hard look at McKeith (if you dare) and ask yourself, if I eat all that, will I look like her? I bet the fear alone will have you reaching for the Danish pastry.

She’s even attempted to sue a little known blogger. Bring it on.

On second thoughts, I will have some chips