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February 2, 2023

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Big snow. No shows. Employees blow
By: Chica Lishis

It's a winter wonderland here in my colder-than-a-witch's-tittie part of the world. There's about as much snow outside as there is littering the top of the toilet tanks in the bathroom here at In Music We Trust. Hey, maybe that's why the publication dates have been a little, uh, flexible as of late? Nah, it couldn't just be the... weather. Let's dream up some other scapegoat, shall we?

Last week I called my staff of personal assistants, physical trainers, psychiatrist, psychics and paid friends together for a little shakedown. In the plush interiors of the IMWT conference room, I watched my team attempt to get comfortable in over stuffed bean bag chairs of ghastly hot pinks and garish greens (an amazing feat if you take into account that they didn't spill a drop of their hot cocoas laced with Absinthe). I had collected them en masse 'cause I was pissed. My prolific output of substandard journalism was at an all time low. If I had subject, I had no matter. If I had matter, I had no interest in the subject (and we all know if I don't have an article to publish, it ain't even worth doing a new issue). Instead of looking inward, and acknowledging that I had nothing to say about anything noteworthy, I choose to lash out and blame others who, due to the current state of the economy, could hardly afford to defend themselves. I started the meeting thus: "Look, underlings, the holiday season has come and gone and my always perfect month of celebrations sucked major ass. What do I have to write about, eh? This year the party invitations were nil, my calendar was practically empty, the exciting shows came and went without my knowledge, I ate too much too often, my mother set me back about 20 therapy years with her incessant carping, my skin's breaking out, and I haven't bought a new pair of shoes all month. I've got no adventures to exaggerate and parlay into a fascinating article of big-fat-liar proportions, and I'd like to take this opportunity to blame all of YOU for my dry spell. Ridiculous leap of logic? Yes. But, Fu Manchu! Paris Hilton's having more fun than me on the internet. What the fuck is going on?"

Blank faces, that suddenly found the ceiling simply fascinating was all I got in return. The shrink opened his trap to offer what was sure to be some quack explanation; I shut it with a barrage of fury. "What," I screeched, "happened to the fabulous Stereo Total New Year's Eve party I was suppose to be hosting that was gonna make me the talk of this two-bit scenester town? Did anyone even try to contact them? Were there calls made? Or did you just blow it off after the planning meeting? And who was responsible for all those boxes of chocolates being delivered to IMWT headquarters that I ate all in one sitting on a Saturday night, when the phone didn't ring a single time? And speaking of phones, which one of you jackasses dropped the ball on the call screening that resulted in me having to speak to Mummie 23 times prior to Baby Jesus' High Holy Day? And why don't my red latex pants, circa Def Leppard 1983, fit over my ass anymore? If I eat too much, someone here is responsible for dangling a carton of smokes over the treadmill until I collapse in a heap of deflated lungs and clogged arteries trying to catch it. Furthermore, what is this fucking Godzilla sized zit doing on my chin? I believe one of you is a cosmetologist - on staff to ensure that my cheeks and nose will maintain their alcoholic glow; not grow volcanic eruptions in highly visible areas. And how in the hell did The Makers play TWO SHOWS, on TWO DIFFERENT NIGHTS, without so much as a heads up for me? There was a blow-out sale at Ross, a party on the patio, the roof, the roof, the roof was on fire, and I was no where near ANY OF IT!"

With droplets of spittled fury sprayed across the lower half of my face, I paused to pant audibly and glare vehemently at the waste of perfectly good paychecks before me. In an apparent attempt at ergonomics, they had completed their examination of the ceiling and were now giving the shit-brown shag carpet their avid attention. "Listen! People! If you don't take care of me, who will? I PAY you to invite me out for exciting nights, to shield me from as yet un-whacked relatives, to keep me trim and sorta, kinda fit, to make sure I'm in the right place at the right time wearing the wrong thing, and you all let me down."

"I was in rehab" squeaked Gigi Galore, my personal fashion designer who has yet to come up with an outfit that does not involve masking tape seams and gaping holes in the cooch area. That doesn't stop me from wearing them, but sheesh, a needle and thread wouldn't be such a tragedy, now would it?

"We've all been in rehab, Gigi, but that does not mean we can't get our damn jobs done!" I bellowed. Gazing down at my normally beloved subordinates, some looking back in fear, some looking back in irritation, some face down on the floor snoring loudly, I attempted a more soothing vocal inflection and asked the freckle-faced indie-geek to my right, "My dear Herbie Hotcha, do I not fork over a substantial salary for you to notify me of the hottest shows, and arrange my free admission into said shows, so that all the world thinks I'm onto the latest and greatest thing?"

"I don't like to book the shows" he whined, pathetically.

I exploded in sarcastic derision, "Herbie doesn't like to book shows! Herbie doesn't like to book shows!"

"I want to be a dentist," he mumbled under his chocolate tainted breath, with great pools of tears welling up in his beady eyes. I spat in his general direction. Missed him, but nailed Miss Sweetmeat, the make-up "artist", right between the breasts.

I predict a busy year for you in 2004!" my psychic, Madame Divining, shouted enthusiastically.

I shot back, "Oh shut UP! You couldn't predict my last lover's wife coming home from Thanksgiving vacation a day early. Getting caught by the wife? That's so amateur!"

On a roll of rage I veered to the left side of the room, "And you, little Dickie Diamond..."

"I'm just an intern" Dickie countered, before I could hiss out another syllable.


"I'm just an intern. You don't pay me to do nothing."

Another muffled voice came from the depths of the bean bag sofa, "Yeah, lady, who are you anyway?

At this point, a marvelous thing happened; in utter frustration, my head spun round 45 times, fiery flames shooting from my mouth, lasers blasting from my nostrils. It scared the hell out of 'em. Scared the hell out of me too, but I'm excited at the prospect of future uses for this new talent.

Once the rotations had ceased, and I picked my dizzy self up off the floor where I had twisted into a heap, I continued, "Look, there are two, three, possibly five people out there waiting to get the low down on the show downs and thanks to you all, I've got squat to give 'em. If you'd like to keep your jobs... and internships, I suggest you focus all your January efforts on making me the busiest Chica on the planet." I then withdrew from my Gucci-like handbag (where I had earlier hidden these sought after gems) a couple of handfuls of mini-marshmallows, and threw them into their faces as I stormed out of the room in a huff. As I watched the rabble madly scramble for those squishy treats of dee-lishisness, I knew I had triumphed over their weak spirits of slothfulness and drug induced indolence. Now, if only I could get this gold sequined mini to cease it's game of poontang-a-peeky...

Rockatomicon 'ya next month!

Chica Lishis

Have you already broken all your New Year's resolutions by "accidentally" guzzling a bottle of Nyquil because you thought you had a bad cough but it turns out it was just a chicken-bone lodged in your throat, and when you realized your mistake you went ahead and had sex with that guy upstairs you swore not to have sex with anymore and then joined him in a smoke afterwards in hopes that it would keep him from talking, talking, talking... Me too! You can share the rest of the sordid details here: [email protected]

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