MusingsRandom and not so random thoughts by the author's muse, Domina Clarice Westwater. Prophet, priestess and pimp.

"On The Wings of Lust" -- Rozlyn Papa Sex Tape

Mar 16 2010 11:04 AM

Man's Best Friend - Vienna Girardi

Quote

"She called me right after the engagement on the show to ask me if I'd be her maid of honor," cheered Girardi's best friend and pituitary circus giant, Rachael Todd." There's no wedding date yet but they're like little kids in love." {Miss Florida, Rachel Todd}

Dear Parishioners, ABC dug deep in its cynical cerebrum to concoct the much maligned but hugely popular tripe-fest, The Bachelor, On the Wings of Lust. In this season's offering, the fourteenth in the franchise, twenty-five lovelorn lassies clawed and excreted their way into the elusive heart of Captain Jake Pavelka. And did this Machiavellian mammary melee yield love's bounty? It is with heavy heart that I report true TV love, once again, has been revealed as ruse. Sorority girls across the nation wept as dreamy Jake Pavelka gushed to media hucksters about his bug-eyed betrothed, Vienna Girardi, "I have never had this much heat in a relationship . . . it's like a fairy tale every day." An abridged Grimm's fairy tale.


Cap'n 'Let's Get Physical' Jake

The day after filming wrapped, The Bachelor's newly minted fiancé contacted ex-girlfriend, Tanya Douglas, and (re)pledged his love. This, despite the fact the day prior, Pavelka had proposed to the show's villain-turned-victor, Girardi. Douglas was reportedly relieved to receive the call, as the aviator and Ab-Master spokesman had neglected to inform her that she was an "ex". Douglas and Pavelka had, themselves, made recent marriage plans. And sorority girls across the nation again wept.

How, you ask, could a girlfriend interpret participation in a 'pin-the-vajj-on-the-pilot' love fest as anything other than an exit? Perhaps Douglas saw her beloved's involvement with the show as an attempt to advance a fledgling acting career. After all, this was Pavelka's second foray into the cultural wasteland of reality TV, having previously come out on the losing end of the rose in The Bachelor's slutty-sister-counterpart, The Bachelorette. The Love Commando was a thespian-in-training, having taken acting courses to inspire more creative pickup lines for those long layovers in foreign port of fornication.

Government Issued 'Shock & Awe' Boobs

Cap'n 'Love-you-long-time' swore to Douglas that the gaggle of giggling silicone enhanced carnivores vying for frequent flyer miles "meant nothing" to him. That he "was forced" to propose to Girardi. Snap! Back to the Everglades for Princess Boob-a-Lot?

Like Tanya Douglas, Giardi is also a Florida native. And trouble. Big Double-D trouble. The twenty-three-year-old divorced Florida marketing rep cleaned out her ex-husband's savings while he was deployed to Iraq to pay for new boobs. The other women repeatedly warned Pavelka that Giardi used tits and taunts to divide and conquer. A mongoose in the hen coop.

Hobbit Master, Ryan Callahan - Producer

Quote

"When I'm not pretending to be a former American Gladiator, I enjoy telling strangers intimate details about my life from behind the safety of my computer. In addition, I'm probably better than you. Unless you have won the Heisman or Daddy Trophies, in which case, good on you." {Ryan Callahan, Ex-Producer, ABC's The Bachelor}

Scheming Vienna's pooty politicking paled when sided against the show stopping antics of single mother and aspiring porn star, Rozlyn Papa. During the show, Papa saw fit to keep her vajj fit by practicing Kegel exercises on Hobbit Master and Bachelor night producer, Ryan Callahan. The coochie calisthenics with Callahan violated ABC's talent contract. Each of the fembots contractually commits all happy-bits to an exclusivity clause. All twenty-five vajj's were bound by a non-compete clause for the duration of the chattel challenge. Her ride on the Hobbit Master left Papa's pooty in breach of contract. Rozlyn's poonany was Cap'n Jake's alone to pilot or punt.

Roz 'The Vajj' Papa

As fate would have it, Bachelor host Chris Harrison did the punting. He saw Papa's pooty as problematic early on. The coquettish concubine first flashed her cunny during a group photo shoot. The first of many cooch cameos. Contestant Jessie swore "on her dog's life" that she stumbled upon Rozlyn and Cocksman Callahan swapping spit in a stairway. Fembot Christina cooed she caught The Roz playing pocket pool with the producer's troll treats. Perhaps most damning, Stepford-wife-wannabe Ella told of the night Roz wagged her boyshort clad bum in come-hither fashion and summoned the Hobbit Master to "tuck her in". Or was that, "tuck it in"? Short of the Heimlich maneuver being applied to dislodge Callahan's cock from Papa's trachea, the strumpet's carnal catnip could not have been more conspicuous. Host Harrison showed the harlot the door.

Vienna & BFF, Miss Florida Rachel Todd

Quote

"I had a relationship with someone on the show that didn't benefit them," Rozlyn said, referring to the network and the show's senior producers. "We remained really close but we are not dating now," Rozyln Papa said of the since-fired producer and cocksman, Ryan Callahan.

Not content with one nationally televised indignity, The Roz reportedly staged a "My loins are not chaste?" press release. A Los Angeles porn producer trumpeted the forthcoming debut of not one, but a 'greatest hits' collection of sex tapes. Conspicuously absent were the injunction and attorneys' protestation that routinely follow when a "third party" announces he is brokering a "stolen" *wink wink* celeb sex tape. One of the tapes allegedly features Rozlyn dining on a "well endowed male". Apparently not the Hobbit Master.

Roz Kill - 'On the Wings of Lust Producer, Ryan Callahan

Meanwhile, back in Oz: Where does this leave the Jake-Tanya-Vienna love triangle? It would appear that Douglas' designs and Pavelka's polygamy are both on ice, as Jake, with Vienna in tow, have moved to Los Angeles where America's sweetheart preps for his next network gig -- as contestant on Dancing with the Stars. Circus pituitary giant and Girardi crony, Rachel Todd, is doing her Miss Florida best to perpetuate the charade, "Vienna called me right after the engagement to ask if I would be her maid of honor. There's no wedding date yet but they're like little kids in love!" Ain't love grand?

Yours In Sweet Sin, Mdm Clarice Westwater





John Edwards - Sex Surrogate

Feb 16 2010 01:07 PM

Lil' Bit o' Southern Lovin

"It's just the same as when Rosa Parks decided to sit at the front instead of the back. She was proclaiming her rights as a disadvantaged, African-American older woman. And I'm doing the same. I'm actually standing up now, and hopefully I can be supported by the male community and be understood as a person. This actually isn't about selling my body. This is about changing social norms."
Markus, Sex Surrogate


Dear Parishioners, High Priestess Clarice Westwater here with today's parable:

Sin City's newly minted prosti-dude, "Markus", leads a melancholy and awkward existence, as is often the plight of horse-hung man-hos. Bobbi Davis, proprietor of Nevada's Shady Lady, recently introduced Markus to cougardom, billing him as Vegas' only licensed hetero male prostitute. Patrons must endure a 200 mile trek from city to brothel, located in the dust bowl Netherlands of Ney County.

Female clientele are segregated from the paunchy collection of libidinous Shriners corralled in the double-wide's French Provencal parlor. The women are ushered into a private cabin located behind the cat house, proper. Dodging the dung of free range peacocks, the trixies make their way to the rustic den of inequity to partake in the $500 hr "boyfriend experience". The shirtless gigolo, torso glistening with baby oil to enhance his six pack, explains with gravitas that a "divine plan" brought him to the Shady Lady. Their penis-for-hire does not consider himself a hooker. Markus describes himself as a "sexual surrogate" with the ability to "heal women".

Markus, Sex Surrogate

George Flint, wedding chapel owner and lobbyist for the Nevada Brothel Owners Association, shows less enthusiasm for Markus' healing arts. Rival brothel owners have not warmed to the gigolo concept, fearful that the addition of men to their stable would increase risk of an AIDS outbreak, or public backlash in the conservative outback when male prostitution attracts a homosexual clientele. Nye County Sheriff Tony DeMeo cautioned, "The ramifications are going to be statewide." So to speak.

In a recent interview on my Evangelical Netcast, Messianic Minute, Markus lamented to your High Priestess that politics and bad press have left him exiled from his fellow sex workers. Gone are the weekly Cosmos with veteran she-stallion, Air Force Amy. The red carpet appearances at the annual AVN Adult Video Awards show. The manipedi gossip sessions at Nakisha's House of Nails.

Markus protested, "The games of Go-Fish between tricks are interrupted by the incessant honking of peacocks. Even the birds mock me. It was never like this before. I had the respect of the peacocks. We were in harmony."

Shady Lady Brothel

His head nodded woefully side-to-side with remembrances of these dark days. Then, a slight smile crept across the pool boy's mug, dismissing the malaise. My moribund interview took a welcome and unexpected tangent into sordid tabloid territory, as Markus emerged from his dirge like narrative to announce, "It was during that long, solitary walk through the valley of darkness that my savior appeared to me."

Long John's Rebirth as Sex Surrogate!

Loathe when religious epiphany mucks up my preaching, I was praying for metaphor. It is far easier to justify the haute couture wardrobe and eunuch's salary demands to my accountant when I supply all epiphanies to my cybergation. When I'm upstaged by a guest in the miracle department, tithings suffer. Markus continued, glassy eyed and beaming like a Scientologist after a celestial hand job from Xenu, "The hair. So perfect! The beatific smile and piercing blue peepers. The elegance of a patrician with a commoner's touch."

"We are no longer dishing about Air Force Amy, I take it?" I gently queried.

"Not at all. No," Moonie-faced Markus demurred breathlessly, "John."

"John? You're now batting for both teams?" I pressed, noisily unwrapping the enigma as bon bon.

"John Edwards," mouthed Markus in reverent, hushed tone. Still staring trance like into the void. On the cusp of stigmata, Markus cooed, "My brothel brother."

Out Running the Press Corp

I may not be Edward R. Murrow, but when a scoop slaps me upside my gravity defying titties, I can smell the cash as Netcast bandwidth is gobbled up by the muckraking pious. Nothing separates a Christian from his cash faster than the comfort of knowing his sins are dwarfed by his neighbor's. And as sins go, alley catting around on a wife with stage four cancer is a show stopper.

"John Edwards? North Carolina senator and vice presidential candidate, John Edwards?" I challenged.

Still reliving his moment of ecclesiastical rapture, Markus prattled on like a George Romero zombie on a brain binge, "Who else! He has a stage name now, 'Long John Edwards', and traded in the Savile Row for leather chaps. It's a sort of Ozark beatnik look, but it works for him. Granted his new moniker brings into play a measure of hyperbole. 'Five Inch Edwards' is a closer approximation, but his stagecraft is such . . . a thing of wonder . . . that his charm distracts the most demanding of Janes from any shortcomings."

Love Child

"Markus, are you telling me John Edwards is running the Shady Lady brothel?" My toy pug, Bitsie, awoke from her slumber on the recamier and began to track the inquiry.

Hell Hath No Fury

"No, of course not!" corrected Markus, "That would be silly. Long John is now the number two licensed male hetero prosti . . . I mean sexual surrogate . . . in Nevada. Bobbi added a second pleasure chamber to the prosti-dude cabin. Even Air Force Amy said she has never seen a senator so euphoric and in his element. And Amy has seen her fair share of euphoric senators. Any news junky could see this career move coming. LJ's wife is pushier than a bull dyke at a debutante cotillion. Do you know that after Edward's aide announced his tell-all, Elizabeth began flaming Rielle Hunter on blogs as a gold-digger and, worse, mocked Rielle's psychic, Bob? It's horrid! Elizabeth uses the pseudonym, 'Cherubim', describing herself as an African American Wiccan. The Wiccans are not amused by the ruse. You do not want a pissed-off Wiccan messing around with your chakras. Trust me."

Legend Reborn: 'Long John Edwards, Sex Surrogate'

"You are telling me that John Edwards is your new pleasure partner? A man-whore?" As I fact checked, Bitsie sniffed the air. The pug has an acute nose for money too. The coffers overflowed with online cybergation donations as the sordid story unfolded.

"Priestess, John Edwards has always been a man-whore. These days he is simply more focused and entrepreneurial in his phallic frolics. Elizabeth and Rielle are both gunning for green. That turncoat aide tell-all isn't helping matters."

"The Andrew Young book, The Politician?" I asked.

"Yes. It wasn't all bad. The book helped promote the Rielle-Edwards sex tape. That's been a big hit at the brothel. When Long John is too tired to turn tricks, he hands the Jane a sex toy and throws in the DVD. It's like watching a director's cut. Having LJ provide the commentary and all. The women love it!"

"I can imagine. If nothing else, this turn of events should help jump start the Vegas economy. As a woman of the cloth, I do fear for Edwards' immortal coil. I'll schedule a prayer vigil."

Mdm Clarice Westwater

"The Republican's beat you to that I'm afraid. The GOP is fast on the draw with the holy water. There was far more revelry than penance at that tent revival," quipped the disapproving sex surrogate. They would not have been so quick to throw stones had they seen the unadulterated joy in LJ's eyes when he saw his name up in lights on the Shady Lady marquee. It's an emotional moment witnessing a man realize the joining of profession and passion. John Edwards has found his way. I'm proud to have made my small contribution in showing him the ropes. He's a real shark at Go-Fish. Even the peacocks seem more at peace these days."

Yours In Sweet Sin, Mdm Clarice Westwater


Spiritual Capitialism -- James Ray

Feb 04 2010 11:46 AM


Dear parishioners, there is such a thing as "too much of a God thing." I limit my torture of the faithful with sins of the flesh. Playfully taunting God's children is one thing; I've always felt it imprudent to kill them off. This week in Sedona Arizona, profiteering snake oil salesmen succeeded in just that. As if euthanizing your flock isn't conspicuous enough, these spiritual leaders opted for nouveau medieval and slow-baked their victims to death. Two perfectly healthy New Age practitioners achieved the ultimate spiritual enlightenment as they shed their mortal coil. This unintentional and permanent out-of-body experience was the result of what some are now labeling criminal negligence and unadulterated opportunism.

James Arthur Ray, noted self-help expert and author of the bestselling book, The Secret, hosted a five day "spiritual warrior" workshop at Angel Valley Spiritual Retreat, six miles south of West Sedona. Targeting New Age junkies, the farce was one of the more egregious instances of spiritual capitalism in recent history. Participants paid $9,600 each for a week of self-actualization. The program included a 2 hour sweat lodge session preceded by a 36 hour fast, a ceremonial ritual practiced by many Native Americans. A sweat lodge is essentially a super-heated sauna, with water poured over red hot rocks. 56 people were packed into a 4'6" tall enclosure. By the end of the session, two people were dead, Kirby Brown, 38, of Westtown, N.Y., and James Shore, 40, of Milwaukee. Three others were listed as in critical condition and air lifted to the Flagstaff Medical Center; 16 additional participants were also hospitalized with complications from the experience.


The sweat lodge has been a time honored sacred ceremony amongst Native Americans, but with significant differentiation in execution. Firstly, the ceremony in its true, pure form is free. Native American practitioners of the ceremony maintain that while a 4-6 hour fast prior to entering the sweat lodge is routine, a 36 hour fast does not leave the participants with adequate energy to endure the trying ritual without physical risk. The number of individuals in the lodge is typically 8-12, maximum 20. Length of time spent in the sweat lodge is one hour, not two. This is so the leader can carefully monitor the physical and mental condition of participants. The Angel Valley Retreat's sweat lodge's form factor, 4'6" at its highest point, was less than half that of a typical sweat lodge. Perhaps the greatest risk was posed by covering the lodge in plastic and blankets. Sweat lodges are not intended to be air tight. Traditional lodges are covered in animal skins, willow branches and breathable canvas in order to permit steam to escape.


James Arthur Ray and Angel Valley Retreat owners, Michael and Amayra Hamilton, are under criminal investigation by the Yavapai County Sheriff's Office.

Ray's latest book is appropriately entitled, Harmonic Wealth: The Secret of Attracting the Life You Want.


Like any God-fearing evangelical, I worship at the altar of capitalism. However inspiring the dramatic effect of human sacrifice, it only serves to compromise one's profit margins, foregoing decades of tithings. A church benefits far more from guilting their clergy to death over a life time than it does killing them outright.

Yours In Sweet Sin, Mdm Clarice Westwater


Tiger Woods Girlfriends

Dec 15 2009 06:12 PM

Quote

Men are as faithful as there are options (Anon)

Just ask Old Tom Morris, a pioneer of professional golf and 1861 winner of the storied Open Championship. But Old Tom was much more than a tournament contender. Much more indeed. The father of modern greens-keeping, he devised the concept of top-dressing greens: the precursor to the Brazilian wax. A Scottish lady’s man, the likes of which would make Sean Connery genuflect, Tom also introduced the practice of returning to the club house after each nine holes. Tom’s mistress inspired this innovation, after protesting that Tom spent far too much time top-dressing her greens and not nearly enough time fertilizing them.

Old Tom, you see, was determined to butch up a sport demeaned by dandies and duffers. Abandoning the traditional effete uniform of plaid pantaloons and waistcoats, Tom liberated St Andrews Royal and Ancient Golf Club from staid conventions. In his third Open Championship win in 1864, he introduced his fellow athletes to the body thong.  Sadly, there are no photographic records of the golfer and caddy sporting the historic, matching tangerine hued mankini ensembles.  At the fourteenth hole, overly excited female groupies ambushed the two men, insisting the icon attend to their dew dampened greens. Without so much as a howdoyoudo, the mob stripped Old Tom of his package-enhancing Lycra and took turns waxing the master’s hickory stick. The sport would not see this spirited a female daisy-chain until formation of the LPGA in 1950. Showing true sportsmanship, Tom finished the last three holes to win his third Open Championship, naked as King Lear after a spring shower.


In this first recorded golf-gang-bang, Old Tom’s bravura, finesse and keen fashion sense rehabilitated the much maligned, fey sport. He made virile the impotent game of golf.  Were Tom around today, the game’s image would not be assailed with advertising campaigns for penis pills, colonics and man-Spanks.  As fate would have it, Old Tom passed the mantle to Young Tom Morris. A sad, sad day for golf as the game of cocksmen. Young Tom, whilst a skilled golfer, was an inattentive greens keeper, boorish monogamist and practicing Protestant. ‘Twas the death knoll for the halcyon days of golf as vajj magnet.

Quote

When you sleep with a married man, you’re helping him stay married. (Ashley Dupre 1984 - )




Golf suffered a long, harsh pooty-drought, my dear congregation. The sport hit limp-dick, cardigan-wearing, Buick-driving, beer-belly critical mass.</span> Between fans and pros, it was a tossup who would next stroke out sitting on the john ogling an Architectural Digest, French passementarie centerfold. Golf spent decades as an emasculated, soulless, cursed game. Until the Golf Gods gave us Wood’s Wang. At long last, the LPGA would have some competition for the peekachoo.


Tiger Woods single-phallicly brought the sexy back to golf, the turgid to the turf, the putter to the pooty. Wood’s Wang reunited hickory shaft and gutty balls. Golf’s libidinous savior nearly slept through his own party in an Ambien induced haze, slumbering peacefully alongside his totaled Cadillac SUV. The night Woods was chased from his residence by a club wielding irate Swedish au pair was the game’s proudest moment. It was a watershed event. Golf’s celestial rapture. The epic sucking sound of pudgy plebs exorcised from golf’s greens signaled a new era; one more accommodating to true athletes to real men.


Wang’s women are legion. Boldly reacquainted with their manhood, golf’s acolytes were now emancipated, free to embrace the glory days of Old Tom’s brazen swagger. Flaunting their newfound animus, Tom’s fabled mankini and machismo were again in vogue. First appearing on courses in France, the mankini craze soon enlivened the nouveau riche in Dubai’s most exclusive club houses. Their much neglected phalluses, atrophied from anachronistic, stifling social protocol and propriety, were kissed by warm tendrils of light emanating from the Sun King’s iconic loins; imbued with Tiger Wang’s vitality by proxy.  Golfers would no longer feel obliged to attend their brethren’s flagstaff, pooling erectile dysfunction meds over Gin Gimlets. Fortified by Woods glorious womanizing, the “bump and run” would replace the cut shot as stroke of choice.


Accolades multiplied as Woods’ front nine grew to 13. Sure, his flaxen haired Number One did not immediately share in the collective enthusiasm of his parishioners. Familiar with Tiger’s mastery of the Goldie Bounce, fellow golfers knew Wang would shepherd his lass from rough to fairway. As adept a businessman as he is cocksman, Woods soon arrived at a seven figure détente with his tempestuous Ostkaka.


Golf’s devotees marveled as Wang similarly finessed an “understanding” with outspoken mistress, Rachel Uchitel. Tool Academy reality star, Jaimee Grubbs, has proven more challenging to muzzle, coldly dismissing our hero as “horrible in bed” . . . following a thirty-one month fling. Wang Watchers report the verdict is still out on buxom Vegas baby, Kalika Moquin, and the anonymous Orlando-based caddie cougar. Both have lawyered up.


Woods has reportedly hired private investigators to research respective histories of each companion. This was our prodigal son’s one failing. As any veteran pimp will attest, you vet your hoes before dipping the stick. Not after the ice cream starts to melt.  

Quote

Mary Loomis-Shrier, owner of Las Vegas’ Trashy Lingerie, supplies women in lingerie to accompany high rollers around Sin City for long weekends. Shrier lauded Jamie Jungers, a Trashy Lingerie ‘Trashy Girl’ and Woods’ consort, as ‘one of the best’


A vocal opponent of classicism in the game, Wang’s magnanimity was on display in the egalitarian spirit with which he welcomed “Trashy Girl,” Jamie Jungers, into his chambers. Jungers had worked as a Trashy Girl for Las Vegas’ Trashy Lingerie for two years prior to offering her services as ball-washer. Trashy supplies women outfitted in lingerie to accompany high-rollers around Sin City during weekend events. Each girl commands fees ranging from $5,000 to $50,000 per weekend. Owner, Mary Loomis-Shrier, would decorate VIP casino rooms with thirty models, give or take, to amuse competing whales. Jungers “gave” and Wang “took.”


Then came the two porn stars. Apparently more than once. Holly Sampson, star of fetish films "Girl on Girl Tickle Wards" & "OMG, Stop Tickling Me!", was a bit long of tooth at thirty-six.  Any misgivings amongst golf elders that Wang was settling were allayed by the revelation Sampson had made a cameo in their beloved “Matlock”. When Sampson took respite for her B-12 shots, her understudy, porn Trixie Joslyn James, assumed the helm lubed and loaded.

Wang’s appetite was not sated by cougars, club consorts and porn poonany. There were rumblings in PGA ranks that Tiger’s Wang sought out handsy’s from Britain’s glitterati, including a fetching television presenter skilled in the ten-finger grip.


To coordinate sexytime on this scale demands the stealth efficiency that only an experienced management team can effectively deliver. Tiger Wang knew this. Knew this well. And acted accordingly, assembling a crack team of hoe handlers. Hustling the receptacles to circuit stops.  For years these pimp pros kept Wang’s stable under the radar. In so doing, however, they also did a great disservice to the brotherhood, at large, perpetuating the anathema of golf as the somnambulistic sport of walking dead Necromancy gone horribly wrong. The great soul sleep.


Every golfer owes Woods Wang a debt of gratitude; a showing of reverence for infusing the anemic game with a hot shot of man-juice. For bringing scantily clad spectators to a road weary and dated game. For making Old Tom Morris a proud papa. For bringing back the glory that is the mankini!

Yours in Sweet Sin, Mdm Clarice Westwater



Trump Pimps Prejean

Nov 20 2009 04:22 PM




God gave us our bodies, and it’s perfectly right that we use them in ways where we can give glory to God by making our bodies, our temples of the Holy Spirit, strong and fast.

Carrie Prejean



The king of hyperbole, Donald Trump had run out of spin for Christian Conservative celebutard, Carrie “blessed boobies” Prejean. Prejean, distraught over the recent furor caused by her sex tape, contacted Trump for counsel. Business acumen prevailed over sensitivity training, and Trump advised Prejean to, “Pursue a career in porn.” Not the guidance Miss Ex Cali was hoping for from the comb-over comeback kid.


Trump is intimately familiar with scandal, sexcapades and public scorn. His libido has cost him dearly over the years, but he has spared America the full monty. He has paraded around his playmates and snatched up a few beauty pageants as panacea for male menopause, but we were never invited into the bedroom. Were Trump to extend an invitation, god forbid, it’s highly unlikely he would be performing solo.

Prejean, on the other hand, did not want to be upstaged by a costar. To avoid that risk, all footage features the beauty queen in various acts of sticky autoeroticism. Moaning as the narcissist works her magic button, preening and posing in front of a mirror as she “gives glory to god”. Repeatedly.


Publicly decrying her cinematic debut as “the worst mistake of my life,” the Masturbatrix declared a Jesus jihad on those giving ink to her clitoral calisthenics. She set out on a tour of the lunatic fringe conservative talk shows. When her attempt to explain away the carnal two-step as a new form of Pilates failed to persuade, she copped to the exhibitionism.

Prejean’s pubis pillorying provided endless pooty jokes for late night pundits. They hypocrite-o-meter redlined when it was revealed “the worst mistake of her life” was not a singular error in judgment, but a miniseries. Miss Ex Cali was both auteur and ingénue in no less than eight skin flicks. The lucky recipient claims there are sixteen total. Thirty new nude photos also surfaced.



Clearly, this was not someone giving the new webcam a test run. This was a passionate artist dedicated to her craft. Prejean’s “temple of the Holy Spirit” was fast becoming a brothel for JC and disciples. The pageant phenom had single handedly redefined pooty-porn.

Pageant queen to porn royalty is a natural progression in performance art. Beauty pageants are, after all, little more than Protestant porn light. No one, save for pageant pimp parents, gives a fig leaf about intellect, accomplishments, talent or personality. It’s all about the booty. Were it not for the swimsuit competition, no one would watch these boorish schmaltz-fests. Trump has openly acknowledged this reality when he eliminated the talent portion of the pageants. Contestants with any measure of common sense recognize this fact. They like attention, have exhibitionist tendencies and use the competition as a stepping stone to bigger and better things.


Miss Ex Cali ranks as an overachiever among porn stars. She has undisputedly established herself as attention-whore, exhibitionist extraordinaire and a craven opportunist. A hired gun for the highest bidder, regardless of conflict with her personal social mores. Prejean’s boyfriend asserts the valley girl is about as a pious as a Pez dispenser. No doubt she was politically agnostic too. Then the fundies came knocking after she dismissed the gay population as disenfranchised citizens. The price was right, so she reinvented herself as a conservative Christian, despite the fact she has no past affiliation with fundamentalists or the GOP. An ideologue of convenience and mercenary bigot, Prejean has out-slutted the most veteran porn actresses.


As a porn actress, Carrie Prejean passed the screen test with flying colors without a formal audition. Her duplicitous life has been one big casting call. And her dress rehearsal, passing herself off as talking head for a moral paradigm antithetical to her own. Eclipsed as a personality by her own hypocrisy, Prejean’s speaking engagements are growing scarce. Republicans are accustomed to disingenuous windbags if they promote the party agenda. That tolerance fades when the ruse becomes transparent to the target audience of would be converts. When it is apparent to the proletariat that the empress has no clothes, it is time to recruit another figurehead.


At this juncture, even vacuous Miss Ex Cali can see she is being shown the door by her adoptive family of ditto heads. She realizes she must reinvent herself yet again. Perhaps the leaked sex tape was fortuitous, as this role will only require that Carrie Prejean be herself, a sex object and moral agnostic.

She would be wise to heed the advice of Trump and new Vivid adult starlet, Shauna Sand-Lamas. In an open letter to Prejean, Sand proposes:




I told Steven [Hirsch, Vivid CEO] that I wanted to eliminate any compensation to the third party since it was my movie that I not only starred in, but also directed and added the music to. I also told him that I wanted to be involved in the marketing of the movie as I really cared about it.

I’m really glad I made that decision. I’m proud of my body and of the passion that I felt during the making of the movie which became “Shauna Sand Exposed.”

Why don’t you consider taking control yourself and handle this situation on your own terms so that you are in the driver’s seat. It all starts with a telephone call to Steven to find out what your options are. I’d be happy to talk to you one-on-one about how I did it.



Thus marks the start of a beautiful career . . .

Yours in Sweet Sin,

Mdm Clarice Westwater


© 2009 Jason M. Kays