Kallay goes west. And east and south and north…

Hello?? Is there anyone in here?

*crickets*

Oh good, she’s gone.

*door slams*

Oomph!

Salt! Shhh!!! You’re going to wake up Hercules!

Sorry…I tripped.

On WHAT?

Um…it looks like Oliver? It’s OK, Ally…he’s wrapped up all burrito baby in her Snuggie  and clutching the Les Miserables soundtrack. *sniff* And he smells like cotton candy martinis. I think he’s down for the count.

Alright, well let’s just make this fast. I know she’s posting diary entries to her WordPress account. She’s going to die when she finds out we’ve posted them. This is going to be hysterical!

Can we change all of her passwords to flibbertigibbet while we’re here?

*snort* No.

Do you think she’s there yet?

Oh peaches and herb, I hope so! She left on Monday…if she’s not there yet, she should have taken the train. More romantic.

Not for a single girl…unless she’s shopping for boxcar hobos.

And who says train conductors can’t be sexy? Once you get past the hat, I mean…although they say pinstripe is the new black.

Odd you should mention that…my friend used to date a train conductor…and he was hot. So, OK.

OK! Found it! She should really not use Kallayisonesmokinhotbitch for her password. Way too easy to hack.

What did you find?

Oh jackpot…are you ready for this? She’s got pictures.

OK…let’s post ‘em now…run for our lives later.

Here goes….

Dear Diary,

I finally boarded the plane and am on my way to layover #1, Minneapolis, MN. Only one bloody altercation so far. Apparently, cake pans are the new underwear bomb and carrying on a fifth of rum is against airline policy. Even when equally divided into 8 Ziploc baggies. Twenty bucks says those ticket jockeys are swigging my Captain right now. I hope they get drunk, get naked and wake up to find themselves on CNN. To further complicate matters, my bag was overweight. I don’t understand how that can be. I’m not even packing a winter coat or a vibrator. But I tossed out something satiny and blue, which knocked it back down to 49.5 lbs. Cleared for take-off! See ya in Minnesota!

xoxo,

K

Dear Diary,

Minnesota is the bee’s knees! Since I was held up by the Baggage Bitches of Skidway, I was last to board and, consequently, got sandwiched between The Muffin Man and Sir-Smells-A-Lot. But SSAL looked really familiar..like ESPN familiar. Holy balls, batman! I was rubbing flaked skin cells with Brett Favrvrvre (we had a nice come-to-Jesus talk about how “r” comes before “v”, except after “c”). He laughed at all of my Packers jokes and invited me to the Vikings game last night. He even let me borrow some of his chain mail for the occasion. It had a short ‘n’ curly stuck in it, but it’s Brett’s so…totally OK. It was a great game, although for the life of me I can’t remember who won. I remember beer and a helmet horn getting stuck in a not so awful place, and then…black…I’ll have to send him a thank you card.

xoxo,

K

Dear Diary,

I’m in VEGAS, baby!! What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas…which includes me wearing another girl’s thong just so I can dance on the big stage. This is my calling…my one true talent…meant to share with all who can part with $49.99! My kicks were arrow-straight and defied all angles commonly found on a protractor. And I’m getting used to wearing chains. After the show, the girls and I were shooting tequila and trading bras when in walked my most favorite 2 girls of all!

Siegfried and Roy!!! Shut the front door!! Could this layover get any more ridiculous? First I receive standing ovations for covering my asscrack and nipples (which was traditionally frowned upon…I love this town) and then I’m asked to perform with the only guys I know who admit to stuffing their pants. Even if it is with each other. I’m such a lucky bitch. Roy was even cool when I accidentally mauled him. What can I say? He was holding a plate of French toast. We all know it couldn’t be helped….I should send him a get-well-soon-and-hope-they-recover-your-right-pinkie card.

xoxo,

K

Dear Diary,

I thought Vegas was smashing, but it doesn’t hold a 2-balled chastity cage to San Fran! I was sad to leave Vegas, but the DA thought it best. Besides, Roy made me all weepy when he gave me “high 4’s”. So, here I am in The City. I am learning all sorts of new words for my blog…apparently, a Jbizzle will cost me $25 to give and $50 to receive…and I should always refuse a kiwi enema. Always. I did have an unfortunate run-in with a cougar on Mission Street. She tried to heist my new Versace bikini bottoms…although she kept moaning something about Otter Pops. I am not about to let some coffin-dodger drag her acrylics down my thigh without payback, so off I marched…straight to the SFPD. They didn’t like my Versace bikini bottoms…or my pleather shrug…and they couldn’t care less about my flesh wound. They stripped me, searched me, fingerprinted me, and stuck me in here…

Bitch, puleaze…a straight jacket?? I know long sleeves are all the rage this spring but I found these a bit excessive. Save it for the Snuggie, prison edition (which is preceded by the Catholic priest edition).

Besides…the biting thing was so Vegas. I’m over it. You can remove the mouth guard, before I start to flash back to 8th grade sleepovers. The guards wanted to know what I was doing on Mission Street, why I was wearing 2 pieces of cloth in January…all the typical interrogation. Lame. I had a cake to bake and a dress to rock. So, I paid each $50 and told them where to find the most excellent Jbizzle this side of the Rocky Mountains and high-tailed it to Gate 9. Those guys should be sending me a thank you card.

xoxo,

K

Dear Diary,

Getting here has been more than half the battle, but I finally landed in Oregon! And I have to say…I picked up more than a handful of Facebook friends along the way (and really, more than a handful is just greedy. Hey Trixie and Pixie, I will totally hit you girls back when I find Wi-Fi. Roy, glad to hear you didn’t really need that pinkie after all. It’s the thumb that gives us the ability to strangle, anyway). It’s colder than brass-monkey-balls fresh-from-the-freezer-here!

Dear Oregon, It’s called global warming. I’ll fax over the memo.

Love, Kallasicle.

The bad news is…that little blue satiny number I jettisoned at the airport in Michigan? Was actually my bridesmaid’s dress. I thought it looked familiar. The good news is…when I turn my brand new off-brand shoes inside out, they morph into the perfect wedding attire. Nothing says classy like genuine goat fur. A bit warm, but when you’re stuck in a climate that causes you to cry ice, can you really be too warm? I can’t wait to ROCK this onesie at the wedding. I’m sure to snag a groomsman or a BFF. At the very least, I’ll score something to munch on. Off to bake a wedding cake! Because buttercream begs to be my bitch!

xoxo,

K

OMG…this is fantastical! We’re going to have to change our names and delete our blogs, but SOOO worth it.

That was a pretty sweet fur onesie.

I know, right? Color me jealous.

*stirring from the corner*

Crap! I think Oliver is waking up.

Alright, we’re out. Grab that Les Mis CD on your way. I’ve been meaning to burn On My Own.

Hellz no…I know a deathgrip when I see one. I’ll burn it from M’s copy.

Saweet! I’ll burn you a copy of Neal’s Best of Abba CD.

Does he have any Cher?

There’s always Cher.

*door slams*

Note: In case you didn’t catch on, comments from Allyson are written in purple. Salt is green. With envy because Kallay got to meet Siegfried & Roy.

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