I am wondering if any of you would consider reviewing the book. It will be released on Amazon/Kindle on October 18th. I need reviews from regular folks posted to amazon on the release day, if possible. You get a FREE pdf, word.doc or .mobi (Kindle ebook file) copy and plenty of time between now and mid-October to read it. Let me know, friends!
Well, here we go--from the sublime violin playing last chapter to the ridiculous chapter seventeen where Khail has rewritten a lingerie commercial that Dimi's about to shoot, without telling the director what Khail was up to! Hey friends, a reminder-- this is satire--the crazy stuff Dimi and Khail say (and frankly, all the crass things the reality TV characters say in the book) are not how I feel about people in general or women and their bodies, in particular.
By the way, by now you may have guessed who Khail and Dimi are loosely modeled after. Demetria-nicknamed Dimi--nicknamed Dim- rhymes with...?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Skinny girl? We got you covered, too. We all mothers.”
“Cut! Dimi, the line is ‘we all sisters.’ That’s what I’m reading here,” Bryce McClanahan shouted, suffering through a commercial shoot for Dimi Konstantos’s lingerie company, Saturday Night Sexsations.
“Sisters, mothers—whatever, Bryce honey,” Dimi said. “Damn, I got a chipped nail, we can’t shoot this now.”
“Dim, you’ve always got a chipped nail. And I’m sorry I was late to the set. Traffic was ridiculous all the way here from Santa Monica. But that’s why we have assistants, right? We have it under control. So let’s get that nail fixed. Everybody take five. Makeup, touch-up that pinkie for Dim. And somebody needs to tell me what the hell is going on with this ridiculous new script. This is totally not the script Jonni e-mailed me. So fess up. You don’t just hand me a new script without any warning when I walk in the door. That’s not professional.”
“Excuse me, Bryce. Khail pumped up Jonni’s script,” Dimi explained, sloppily popping an enormous wad of blue raspberry bubblegum while grabbing and shifting her two-or-more-sizes-too-small bra in a doomed attempt to get her giant breasts to fit. She finally gave up on the bra issue when the nail artist came over to fix her chipped nail.
“What? He did what?” Bryce said, grimacing.
“Pumped it up. He said Jonni’s script was flat. How can we be talking about curves and have a flat script? That’s what he said. It’s logical.” Pop went the gum.
“Jesus, Dimi, we’re aiming at a new demographic here. Women with actual money to spend on high-end merchandise, not the trailer park high school dropout gurlies who are using their kids’ lunch money to buy the cheap stuff. There’s a whole new set of classier customers your marketing team has decided to tap. Khail scripting for that? Are you kidding?”
“Well, Khail did what he wanted. And now you see how good it is, right?” Dimi said, all bright-eyed. Pop.
“Well yes, of course, I see it now. It all makes sense.” Bryce skimmed all the way through the script, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, this crap sounds like Khail talking—his own very special take on the English language. And obviously that’s why this script says you’re supposed to say ‘cleavage is a man’s best friend’ at the end. That’s a Khail thing, too, right? Jesus.” Bryce tossed the renegade script on the floor. “This crap will not get shot today!”
“It’s not crap, Bryce. It’s from a real man’s perspective,” Dimi said. “I love it. And people like the word ‘cleavage.’ It’s sexy. It makes people get all hot.”
“If these are Khail’s words have him say them. He should be on camera with his finely crafted script. I mean it’s a masterpiece, isn’t it? And I’m not sure making skinny girls, as you and he call them, feel like you’re sorry for them is going to help your business. But hell, I’m just the director. What else do you want to change? The lighting? The set design? What?” Bryce bellowed, getting even hotter under the collar.
“What we’re saying—” Dimi was playing with her extensions and blithely ignoring Bryce’s brusqueness, “—is that Sexsations bras and panties can even make a skinny, tired old non-MILF look great. Even when her husband is sober he’ll think she looks smokin’ hot in our lingerie. They both’ll get some. That’s how Khail explained it. He’s pretty damn smart now, don’t you think? See the logic? You know, coming from a real man like my Khail?”
“Non-MILF? Yeah, okay, that totally sounds like something Khail would say.”
“I think everyone here would agree with Khail,” Dimi insisted. “And I can’t imagine what it must feel like not to be hot. Think about it, if you’re all worn out and got five kids to watch and no time for your looks, you better be praying that some of the men out there will still look you over and call you a MILF. Pad up those tiny titties with our amazing bras and you’re a hit on the street.”
“Jesus, Dimi, you set women’s rights back thirty years saying that stuff,” said Shontae Bridgewater, assistant producer of the Dimi & Khail show. “Not to mention you saying, ‘we all sisters’ instead of ‘we’re all sisters.’ Not every black person talks like Khail. I sure as hell don’t.”
“Shontae, don’t you go all Black History Month on me.” Dimi pushed the nail artist away, then walked over to Shontae and got in her face. “Some women got curves. We’re the real deal. Skinny women like you are losers, but I’m gonna help you all if I can. Sexsations will rescue you.”
“Seriously, Dimi? Or should I say Dim? That’s right—your precious little nickname fits you perfectly—dim.” Shontae sneered. “And you’re going to help them how, exactly? By telling them to be sluts like you? Fancy lingerie is all that matters? Really? You know, Dim, people with a brain haven’t forgotten how you got your start.”
Everyone gasped. Talking about Dimi’s early music-video days of cleavage eruptions and nipslips was taboo. Something had been brewing between Dimi and Shontae for a while now and it looked like they would finally have it out.
“Go to hell, Shontae! You can’t talk to me that way. I can fire your ass, like that,” Dimi barked, snapping her fingers.
“Give it a try, you stupid whore,” Shontae hissed. “I’ve got a multiyear contract. You’ve finally pissed me off so much I can’t keep my mouth shut. I’ve been holding this inside for months, but no more. You’ve been treating me like shit lately. Actually, treating everybody like we don’t matter. All the ridiculous stuff we do to make your life easy and that’s the thanks we get? You and your fancy nails, your ugly bras, your insufferable skanky fake leopard-skin thongs, your obsession with your stupid megabreasts like they’re all that fucking matters in the whole world. You’re a goddamn total embarrassment to women. And you’re a racist, too!”
“All right, ladies,” Bryce yelled, trying to regain control of his studio. “As much as the men in the room would love to see you launch into a full-scale catfight, I’m going to ask you both to back away. Just back away, you hear me, you two? Dimi, you need to put a leash on Khail. Honestly, he can’t be getting in the way of professionals, understand?” Dimi shot Bryce a look, a “don’t you join in and start messing with me” look. Pop-pop-pop went the bubblegum.
“You’re getting all this, right, guys?” asked Moses Smythe, unit director of the Dimi & Khail: You Wish it Wuz U reality show, speaking softly through his mike to the camera crew.
“Oh yeah, Moses. We got it all,” camera one operator Bill Sampson whispered sotto voce. “Isn’t it amazing how easily they forget we have the show cameras on them virtually 24/7? And Shontae? I don’t blame her for blowing up, but I’m pretty sure her contract is standard. It most likely says that any footage she appears in can be aired without any recourse. Booyah! Not a good idea to get caught on camera crossing The Dim—not with how her fans support her.”
“Ratings rule, Bill,” Moses whispered. “Dimi’s stirring things up on purpose. She sure as hell knows we’ve got the cameras rolling! Look, she heard me; she’s winking over this way. See, Bill?”
“Yup. Poor Shontae. Twice the IQ of Dimi, but half the street smarts. Being played for a fool!”
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