Her saucy nature was unquestionable and refreshing, and the Captain Morgan delivered didn’t undermine our progress. I began having fleeting thoughts of making a smooth assault, one without any remorse, precondition or worse. I ended up getting beaten to the punch.
I was flattered and needed to act upon it. To efficiently expedite the process past the rolls of red tape, it was mandatory to perform preliminary qualification exercises. I had Cliff oversee the obligatory Bash examinations, to ensure she could truly be a possible candidate for First Lady.
This was all happening, of course, under zero detection from her end. To protect the vetting process, Cliff was the control. To my jovial surprise, Harper mastered existential balance and began racking up bonus points for extra credit.
With her alluring talents comparable to a ruthless conqueror, one floor trick was spoiled by Cliff’s naïve concentration in spectacular fashion.
Moments later, after minor injuries and insecurities were brushed away, there was a triumphant attempt. Ronda would’ve loved scrutinizing the exhibition of these advanced techniques.
Without a doubt, the most bewildering files are of photos taken while blackout drunk.
Elder Chen once said, “To marry a girl, you have to know it’ll last at least two years.”
The pictures obviously became more lurid and risqué, echoing that shady wintry night near Keith’s BBQ pit. Memories captured in digital form never lie.
Nothing could be closer to the truth, and this truth was curiously jaded by mystifying riddles wrapped in timeless questions. Harper’s high score has led to significant movement on the board.
Being an advocate for full disclosure is something all presidential candidates should champion, so I challenge all my worthy opponents to do the same. We, as a people, must leave behind the slash and burn politics of the past; we must regain our optimistic vision of hope. With your help, the politics of personal destruction can finally come to an end. Lovely Harper agrees.
If Harper becomes First Lady, she’ll have been the best of the nominees.
It was there where I was able to reflect on the art of dressing properly while balancing the ideals of impression and conversational virtuism. The forum of friendly females was spectacular.
I knew most of them already, from past Bash adventures to stories of relevance told by others. When you’re surrounded by welcome company and endearment reigns supreme, it means you can take a lot of photos and you can drink a lot of Captain Morgan and Cokes.
Bernadette Bender, Crystal and Dani Devlin had no problem mixing it up on the dance floor with all, probably because they're top-form Bashers. Prior to arriving I had already participated in a variety of events, some of which involved consumption on the scale of rampaging elephants. I had arrived more than ready, the light sprinkle of cologne masking the scent of rum and smoke. My disheveled hair from hat problem was solved in seconds by Roxie’s inventive styling methods. The results were impressive.
I’m usually equipped with insurmountable amounts of resilience towards temptation, a badge of courage I carry among the weak. Being led into the Den of Beauticians by female species often entails dabbling in the wonder of the vortex of sensory overload.
Aside from the head-spinning bouts of unbound attraction, which became uncontrollable in the tail end, everyone there was dazzling, accommodating, humorous, and above rest, fun. Nothing that could be described as catty appeared before my eyes, a revelation considering what I’ve seen in a primarily female work environment (when we were once outnumbered 32 to 4). From that interesting experience, my good friend The Doctor suggested I write a book called “Hell in the Pink Ghetto,” perhaps because I became an expert in the field after three years in it. But at The Canyon Salon, disparaging looks and snide remarks were notably absent from view. Love was in the air.
Maybe it’s hidden well. There was one aimless remark from a nameless source, especially since the comment had arisen late into the night. “That girl has zero, nothing at all. Did you try talking to her?” Then it broke out into whatever. It wasn’t in reference to Vicky Vale, who was happily in attendance, definite nominee for "Basher of the Year."
She also ended up winning company wide raffle, and it’s too bad she didn’t win me.
Sadly, nobody won first prize for the splits. One random guy, whose cleverness could certainly be questioned and scrutinized, decided to take it upon himself to entertain us before Hyper Crush’s performance with a painful looking rip. Some suspected, and justifiably so, that he must, somehow, have very little in the middle.
Or he’s incredibly flexible like very bendable acrobats. The worst kind of tools are the ones that strive too greatly in their quest to impress, yet they miscalculate something along the way, instead invoking negatively targeted insults among the minions. Some people are too easy to bag on, and this dude was asking for it. Holly Valentine and I had a field day of the marvel.
Hyper Crush put on another great performance, firmly staking claim as my favorite live act in Los Angeles.
Roxie's sister Rita was there with her fiancé Nick, a fine young chap whose love runs deep.
I’ll be at their wedding this Saturday, and it will also mark my debut as official wedding photographer. I like making people look good, even when they’re involved in some serious action. As an example, Rita and the lovely Jill always look good in photos.
One guy was trying to make some moves on Jill, but I could tell she was blowing off his amateur advances.
She certainly seemed a lot more at ease when Uncle Bob came around, and I couldn't think of a better way to spend valuable time. Although I would've relished the opportunity to rescue such a fine young lady, she was in good hands the moment Uncle Bob swooped in.
It was at this particular point I was unresponsive to any more alcohol. I had also been adorned with pantyhose over my neck, the owner of which remained a mystery to all, a sort of Sunday punch.
I garnered laughs for it, but eventually it was removed by Bernadette and tossed into fire. I also continued my penchant for walking into ladies restrooms on accident. A girl who was in there, witnessing me washing my hands after finishing, claimed that my "stupid" stunt deserved her a cold beverage on my tab. I agreed, but never gave her squat, instead scorning due to annoying voice and unflattering scent. My Bashers helped me ignore the broad, so our focus returned to Bashing. At this point, the showcase of debauchery began surfacing through many causes. Dani Devlin couldn't even keep her hands off this rock-solid beefcake!
She's irresistable, and quite frankly, I was getting a little bit jealous from the drink. My silence on the matter of pantyhose brought about the air of intrigue, that something had indeed happened, that it was better left unsaid. Plus a gentleman never tells, and that always remains; I was one in the beginning of the night and I left the same way.
There was also one glaring example of “what’s a nice girl like you doing with swine like that.” Lack of better judgment baffles, blinders on, unable to cognitively come up with better options. Some just don’t know any better. Then you have the couples that are innately made for each other. Their bond, from beginning to end, shines throughout and gives off a crazy energy. No questions are asked, what's given is what is. Those are everything.
Aside from first hand experience regarding how good my hair always looks, The Canyon Salon is clearly a goldmine in Westlake Village, even the world. 
According to Roxie, "The visionary Sharon Perry is my hero!"
