Eds. Note: This is the second installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights.
My name is Delilah, and Holy Mary mother of all that is sacred, I don't think I can do this anymore.
Yes, I understand that I make enough green cheese at my gig to build your sickly mother that guest suite on the back of your house that she so badly needs. But it's not enough anymore. Not even close. And it's all your fault.
If you could feel the white-hot bile rising in my trachea each time you lay your selfish, vapid excuse for a life at my silken feet, surely you'd understand.
You tell me that your Cocker Spaniel got run over. I slap in My Heart Will Go On, as I laugh wickedly at your misfortune into my engineer's earpiece. I just hope that the smelly little piece of pound-trash suffered. Just like I do here. Each night. Because of you. Fucker.
Oh, poor, sweet Danielle. What? You went back to your husband after he bumped uglies for the forty-sixth time with your gruesomely hairlipped sister Melinda? You know what? I'm glad. In fact, the non-Reptilian side of me is quivering with glee. Because it got him away from your dry chicken, exposed roots and glacier-cold, methodical lovemaking. Godspeed, Garrett! And if you want to step out with a classy temptress of the dark airwaves, drop my producer Elliot a text and he'll make sure I'm there to sex you right.
What? I'm a bitch? No, 2.4 million American women in the 35-49 demographic that make my very existence a tortuous Hades on Earth, you're the bitch. And I'll cut each of your hearts out with my festering indifference. That's right. You heard Delilah.
Oh, hold on, let me take a call from Molly in Alabama, who really wants to get back into contact with the baby she gave up as an 18 year old Lot Lizard. News flash, Mols, your baby's gone now and never wants to see you again, you know--being a well-adjusted college biology major at Clemson with Pantene hair, a gorgeous boyfriend and the kind of self-confidence that you only see in PG-13 movies.
But here's a cliche-ridden, tear duct draining pile of shit from Richard Marx that should validate all of the pent up sadness that you're dragging around each day, Molly. You're welcome.
Oh dear, sweet Lord, if you're out there please make me a downsizing casualty. Or a soon to be dead member of a doomsday cult. Or the amnesiac victim of a car accident--I'd remember my life as night shift produce-jockey at Kroger's and I would never be happier. In fact, I'd embrace anything that whisks me away from this hellish life. Please. I'll do anything. Anything.
Hold on a sec.
Hello, it's Delilah. What's on your mind tonight?