Conversations With God

I had a very strange experience last night.

Actually, I guess technically it happened this morning. At about...oh... approximately 5:30 A.M., which feels like the middle of the night to me as I don't do early.

I had gotten to bed late as usual, so I was happily snoozing away when a very loud voice thundered in my ear, "PRUNELLA JONES! I COMMAND THEE TO AWAKEN!"

"Okay," I murmured sleepily. "Just give me five more minutes."

Well, the next thing I knew there was a very bright, white light shining in my eyes. I squinted and held up my hands to block it out.

"What the hell?" I thought.

"BEHOLD, PRUNELLA JONES," the voice boomed. "IT IS I, YOUR CREATOR, GOD. I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR YOU."

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling confused and a little pissed. I'd only been sleeping for a few hours and I was in no mood for this kind of bullshit.

"God, huh? Yeah right, I don't believe in any god. Now go away!" And with that I pulled the covers back over my head.

But the voice would not shut up. It went on and on about how he, God, had chosen me to be his prophet, and how he needed me to prepare mankind for the coming apocalypse, blah, blah, blah and etc. I closed my eyes and tried to tune him out and go back to the dream I'd been having. It was a nice sexy dream where I was Snow White and was forced to share a cottage with seven hawt little hobbits, who tended to my every want and need. I was just getting into the part where Frodo was feeding me buttered Triscuts, and undressing me for my bubble bath and warm oil massage, when something the voice said caught my attention.

"......SO I'LL NEED YOU MAKE A SIGN THAT SAYS "REPENT NOW YE SINNERS" AND TAKE IT OVER TO THE KROGER MARKET AND STAND NEXT TO MY OTHER PROPHET, TREMAYNE WILLIAMS, AND JOIN HIM IN YELLING OUT, "THE END IS COMING!" TO EVERYONE WHO PASSES BY."

"Wait a minute," I said, sitting up. "Lemme get this straight. Are you saying that the crazy freak with the three foot long, grimy dreadlocks, who stands outside of Kroger ranting at people all day long is actually your prophet?"

"THAT'S RIGHT."

"So....he's not insane? Are you kidding me? He wears a robe made out of aluminum foil and a blue sock! He uses a goldfish bowl for a hat!"

The voice chuckled. "OF COURSE HE DOES. THAT'S THE OFFICIAL UNIFORM FOR ALL OF MY PROPHETS. THAT REMINDS ME, YOU'LL NEED ONE."

"No way!" I said.

"ALL RIGHT, YOU MAY FASHION A BIKINI OUT OF THE ALUMINUM FOIL IF THAT PLEASES YOU, BUT YOU NEED TO WEAR IT SO PEOPLE WILL TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY."

"That's ridiculous. No one will take me seriously. They'll think I'm a raving lunatic and ignore me, as they should."

The voice let out a loud sigh. "WHY DO I HAVE TO EXPLAIN THIS TO YOU PROPHETS EVERY SINGLE TIME? YOU HAVE TO DRESS THIS WAY AND YELL OUT GIBBERISH AND WAVE YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR IN ORDER TO ATTRACT ATTENTION TO YOUR MESSAGE. WHICH IS THAT THE WORLD WILL BE ENDING SOON, SO ALL SINNERS HAD BETTER REPENT PRONTO. NOW, I ASK YOU, WHO UPON HEARING THAT WOULDN'T WANT TO SIT DOWN AND HAVE A DISCUSSION ABOUT SOMETHING SO CRUCIAL? TRUST ME, IT WILL WORK."

"Yeah, sure....okay," I snickered.

I just wanted God or my diseased brain or whatever it was to shut up so I could go back to sleep, but the voice kept right on blathering out more instructions that I had no intention of following - something about how I should quit bathing and construct a pair of shoes out of duct tape. I was desperate to get rid of him.

"Hey, um...excuse me," I broke in. "Look, I'm very honored to be chosen as your prophet and all, but I really don't think I'm the right person for such an important task. Why don't you get someone else to deliver your message? A minister maybe? Or a politician? Say, how about that John McCain, huh? Seems to me that something like this would be right up his alley."

"DON'T WORRY HE'S ALREADY ON THE TEAM," the voice said. "WHO ELSE DO YOU THINK IS GOING TO GET THIS APOCALYPSE STARTED?"

Ugh, after that bit of information I was done chatting. I needed my beauty sleep! I took an Ambien and thankfully it knocked me out immediately. I woke up hours later feeling fuzzy headed from the sleeping pill, and weirded out from my early morning visit with the Almighty.


Interesting conversation. I'm not sure if it really happened. But if it did, it certainly explains a few things.

Summer Lovin

I don't write much about my love life on this blog - mostly because it isn't very interesting - but while I was on vacation recently that all changed. I met and was romanced by a very, very special man. Our time together was short, only a few days, but I'll never forget it. It was like something out of a Shakespearean play. Or maybe a Robert James Waller novel. Beautiful and passionate and doomed from the beginning.


I was having breakfast at a little restaurant in Morro Bay when I first noticed him busing a nearby table. Well, actually I noticed the other busboy first because that one was wearing purple eyeliner and a little bowler hat that made him a dead ringer for Debbie Gibson in her Electric Youth days. I was intrigued by this and started scribbling a poem called "Sexually Ambiguous Busboy" on my napkin. I had almost finished it when I heard a voice say, "You want some more tea?"

"No," I said, without looking up.

"Sure?"

"Yes," I said, feeling irritated. It's so annoying to be interrupted while trying to think up a word to rhyme with androgynous. "I'm sure."

"O-tay," he said, and then the next thing I knew, ice cold tea was drenching the table and paper napkin I'd been writing on, and dripping down my legs.

"Oh! I sorry, pretty lady! Sorry! It was an accident!" he cried, and began wringing his hands.

"You idiot!" I was peeved. The poem was gone, as the ink was now illegible. I stood up, ready to yell at him some more, and that's when I really saw him for the first time and I was......captivated.



Can you blame me?


Tenderly he wiped me off with the filthy bus towel, all the while looking into my eyes with his intense green gaze. And then he gave me a killer grin that could melt the panties off a nun.

"You're pretty," he said, simply, and grabbed my hand. "Are you my fwiend?"

At his touch, the hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle with lust.

"Sure," I whispered, knowing that, indeed, we would be very good friends. "My name is Prunella, but you can call me Pru. What's yours?"

"I'm called Tom," he said. "Some people say I'm crazy, but I'm not crazy. I'm special!"

"Yes," I agreed, checking him out in his tee shirt and jeans (you can see them in the photo above). From what I could tell as he stood very close, he had a decent bulge going on in those pants. "I bet you are quite special."

"Fwiend," he grinned. "Can I have a hug?"

And with that he pulled me tightly towards him, his tiny hands roving over my back and ass in a way that sent shivers of desire down my spine and straight to my hoohah. I felt a warmth like I had never known, from somewhere deep within my loins swell up and spill between my thighs, and I realized then that I had to have him. Even though I knew it was wrong, that society would frown on a tryst between a mentally challenged man and a brilliant young genius like myself, still I decided to go for it. After all, a love like this only comes along once in a lifetime. Besides, there isn't much to do in San Luis Obispo after the sun goes down, and I hadn't been able to get tickets for the Hearst Castle tour.

"Tom," I murmured as we embraced, rocking back and forth. "Would you like to come back to my hotel with me?"

"Oh! Yes! Hooray!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Let's go! Wheel of Fortune is on at 1:00 and again at 1:30! And then it comes on another time at 7:00!"

I was charmed by his childlike enthusiasm. He was so excited by everything, a nice change for someone like me - a woman who had become a bit jaded by life. He was not a smart man by any means, but under his tutelage I found a new joy in the simple things, like slow, wet, sloppy kisses, frolicking on the beach sand, and walking hand in hand with a lover while searching the night sky for UFOs. I even began to develop an appreciation for the blandness that is Pat Sajak. By the way, did you know that Chuck Woolery was the original host of Wheel of Fortune?





My lover, enjoying the new sunglasses I bought for him at Target. He cleaned up quite nicely. In this picture, I had just asked him how large his penis was and he was estimating. He did a pretty good job. Why else do you think I was kept him around for three days?


In return, I taught Tom about the ways of love - hawt sexual love - between a man and a woman, and also the wonders of a heated toilet seat with oscillating rear cleansing. He enjoyed both, although it sometimes seemed to me that he was a bit too into the rear cleansing. I could barely get him off of that thing!



Tom never seemed to stop smiling. Here he is telling me about aliens from outer space. He gets really excited about them.




The few days we spent together were truly magical. Unfortunately, it had to end when the time came for me to head back down to Riverside.

"Tom," I said that night, after he had watched his TV show and I had crammed all my junk back into my suitcase. "I must leave you now."

"What?" he looked stunned. "You can't go, fwiend!"

"I'm sorry, my darling, but I have to return the rental car soon and go back to my life in Tennessee. Now get dressed and I'll drive you back to the group home."

"No!" he yelled, his face turning red. "Nooooooooo!"

He then leapt on the pink velvet couch we'd been sitting on, and began jumping up and down hysterically.

I felt terrible that he was so upset but I really had to get going. Plus, I had visions of the Madonna Inn charging me big bucks for any damage to the furniture.

"Stop that right now, Tom," I said sharply, "that sofa is an expensive antique. Get down!"

"Noooooooo!" He kept right on jumping. "No, no, no! You complete me! You commmmmpletttte me!"

It took an hour and two Valiums to get him to calm down. Of course, I had to lie and tell him the Valium were Vitamin C pills - someone had convinced him drugs were bad - and I eventually got him back to the handicapable home where he lives. It was hard to say goodbye - mostly because he kept screaming You complete me!

As I drove off, I popped the soundtrack to the movie Grease in the CD player and sang along with the Olivia Newton John parts of the song Summer Nights. Whoever wrote those lyrics was quite wise in the ways of holiday romance. It seemed to be written just for Tom and me.

Summer lovin, had me a blast
Summmer lovin happened so fast

(Other boring lyrics that don't relate to me and Tom)

Shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop,shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop, shoo-bop bop, YEH
Summer fling, don't mean a thing, but uh-oh those summer nights
Summer heat, boy and girl meet, but uh-oh those summer nights
Summer dreams ripped at the seams,
bu-ut oh, those su-ummer nights....





A worker from Tom's group home just emailed me this picture. It seems he's been doing nothing but jumping on the couch since we parted.

The Ballad of Paul and Prunella

Sitting here at my kitchen table
eating oatmeal and wearing a thong,
I think back on my recent trip to England
and wonder how it all went so wrong.

Cripes! Golddigging ain't easy
didn't know how hard it would be
all I wanted was money for a new transmission
and possible sex with Paul McCartney.

Meeting up with Paul was so easy
this is where it helps to be a cute chick.
He was backstage looking for a light for his ganja
so I sidled up to him, smiled, and flicked my Bic.

Paul was so friendly and a gentleman
I liked his crinkly, smiling eyes
As we spoke I hiked my skirt up
so he could get a good look at my creamy thighs.

We talked and laughed and flirted
as we sat back enjoying the pot.
I teasingly called him a total GILF
he winked and said he thought I was hawt.


But it was when he gently kissed my palm
that the flame between us ignited.
And when he asked me to accompany him back to his room
I answered, "Why, I'd be delighted."

And so we strode off hand in hand
into the soft spring night
Blissfully unaware in our giddy lust
that we'd soon be in for a terrible fright.



Paul and me strolling through London before the incident.


She confronted us as we walked through an ally
Paul's looney tunes ex-wife.
There was hate in her eye and crazy spittle on her chin
and in her hands she a held a very large (gulp) butcher knife!

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she snarled.
"Step away from my husband, you skank!
I don't care if the judge says that we are divorced,
I haven't yet finished taking him to the bank!"

Paul got real mad then and yelled back at her
his face turned a bright shade of crimson.
In a shaky voice he urged me to run away fast
just in case she tried to pull an OJ Simpson.




Heather Mills showing her displeasure at seeing me with Paul.



Well, I am not very tough, not by any means
in fact I'm really quite wimpy
my only real weapon is a brazen smart mouth, so I said,
"Why don't you hop your ass on out of here, Gimpy!"

Bellowing with rage, she charged at me then
brandishing the wicked sharp knife
and I thought to myself, "what would MacGuyver do?"
God, I've watched way too much TV in life!

Paul managed just then to take away the knife
but the madwoman just wouldn't quit
quick as a wink she snatched off her peg leg
and began to pummel me with it!

She was quite strong and those blows really hurt
so in order to stop her attack,
I karate kicked her good knee out from under her
causing Heather to fall on her back.

Swooping up the fake leg I held it high above my head
like that guy in The Highlander movie,
and then I quoted the line, "there can be only one!"
because I thought it was funny - you know me.


The next thing I knew there were cops everywhere
and Heather screamed that I'd started the brawl.
They cuffed me and carted my ass off to jail
so I never did get to bang Paul.


Of course, there is a lot more to the story
but for now this is all you can know.
I've saving up all of the juicy details
for my appearance next week on the Dr. Phil show.

In Case You Were Wondering Why the Polygamy Wives Have Such Dopey Looking Hair

C'mon, you know you were. Even Meredith Viera couldn't stop herself from asking such a stupid question during her interview with them. They told her there was no signifigance in their tinny robot voices. Yeah right! They were, of course, lying. Allow me to explain how their hideous hairdos came about. The following story is 100% true! Ish.

It happened a few years ago. You see, I was time traveling back to the year 1969 to visit my groovy hippy lover and attend Woodstock, when something went wrong -- I'm not sure what. Maybe I zigged when I should have zagged -- and the next thing I knew I found myself lying on the ground, surrounded by a bunch of chicks wearing Little House on the Prarie dresses. At first I thought I'd gone waaaaay back to the 1800's or something but no, the women told me it was 1969. I was just at an FLDS compound in Texas instead of the dairy farm in New York.

I slowly sat up, feeling a bit dizzy. Time travel is hard on the body. The women gathered around, fussing over me and made me drink several cups of Mormon tea. My sudden appearance out of thin air had awed them. Between that and the red tee shirt I was wearing (the color reserved for Jesus) they were convinced I was some sort of an angel sent from heaven.

Well, I couldn't resist going along with it. "Of course, I was sent here by Jesus to check up on you people," I said.

Knowing it would take a few hours to reset the coordinates on my time travel thingee (too technical to go into here) and feeling hungry and curious about their beliefs, I said to them, "please bring me some food and tell me what goes on here."

"We are all sister-wives who love each other almost as much as we love our dear husband," said the one in the light blue dress.

"We are modest in dress and thought and do exactly what Dear Husband tells us to do," recited the one in a darker blue dress.

I tried not to be too judgemental, but as they revealed more about their lifestyle I started to get nauseous.

So I took a stab at reasoning with them. I talked until I was blue in the face about how marrying off thirteen year old children to old men was creepy and wrong. I ranted about women's rights, and asked what they thought happened to their sons after the older men drove them off, but you know how hard it is to change people's minds. They simply sat and stared at me, smiling like zombies, till one lady started muttering that maybe I wasn't sent from God after all. Maybe I was an agent of Satan.

The other wives began to look alarmed at this thought. It occured to me that I had better turn things around quickly, since I was going to be stuck there for a few more hours.

"You're right," I said to the disgruntled chick. "I was just testing you all to make sure you were holy. Good job!"

They relaxed then and I breathed a sigh of relief. Who knew what these whack-jobs would do to an agent of the devil? I had visions of being burned at a stake or thrown down a well, while these gentle women threw rocks at me and chanted, "Satan! Satan! Satan!" Thinking about it pissed me off, so I decided to fuck with them a little before I left.

"You know, sisters," I began. "The Lord is very, very pleased with you all. Really, you are doing so well. But there is one little thing.....well, it's your hair. He finds it quite frumpy."

Their eyes grew very big. "But...but we grow it long so that we may wash His feet with with our locks when He comes back, just like we are supposed to," a Laura Ingalls look-alike sputtered.

"Yes, He likes that part." I said. "But He finds those flat braids and buns you wear too boring. He wants you to add a little more ooomph and dazzle. Maybe some poofiness in the front." I thought about giving them some big Bon Jovi type hairdo, but decided that might be a bit too messy for them. They were very tidy and neat. A mohawk would have been cool, but they'd never go for it. I sat and pondered the humiliating hairstyles of my youth till it hit me. Of course! Vanilla Ice!




So I spent the rest of the afternoon puffing and fluffing and getting jiggy with their tresses. The ladies seemed to like their new do's, and I have to admit it gave me tremedous enjoyment to see them sporting lame ass, suburban, wigga hair in the front. Helll yeahhh!

"Word up, yo!" I said. "My work here is done and now I must leave you. Now remember, God himself has given you this hairstyle so you must never, ever change it no matter what your husband says."

"Goodbye, sister-angel," they called, waving until I disappeared into a cloud of sparkling red dust. By the way, time travel is fun but that red dust can really ruin an outfit if you don't watch it.

After that I went to Woodstock and took tons and tons of drugs, so I'd kinda forgotten about those poor, brainwashed FDLS wives and that mean prank I pulled on them, till they showed up on the news two weeks ago. It made me chortle to see their descendants still wearing that goofy style. Even though I do have a bit sympathy for these chicks, I'm glad they are losing their children -- the brainwashing has to end somewhere -- and that creep Warren Jeffs needs to go to jail.

Of course, while watching Larry King interview them (badly, when is that old goat going to retire?) all I could think about was how much I wished I could have convinced the wives to wear a mullet. How rockin would that have been?