Returning to Buenos Aires? Miss Cybil did that!

Argentina, I want my money back. First, I had to deal with the inanity that was the “south” of Argentina, just because I was politely asked to leave my hotel. (And Jimmy suggested I leave the city for a while, even though those nuns had it coming, I tell you!) But then I decided to come back to Buenos Aires.

So Lois, I went to the park. And you know what I saw? A couple that seemed to be on the verge of divorce.

Photo credit of impending doom: Cybil Blaine

Granted, you might not be able to tell from the photo. But I can. Just look at how resigned to a life of despair they both seemed to be!

And then, you know what? Some guy came up to the cars while they were at the stoplight!

Photo credit of impending chaos: Cybil Blaine

In New York, when you were at a stoplight, they just pissed on the cars. But this guy, he was playing the trumpet. I liked it better when they pissed on the cars. At least the world wasn’t pretending to be nice for a minute.

So I tried to decompress by going to this paseo part of the park with marble something-or-other and lots of trees and roses. Sounds nice, right? Well, just take a looksie:

Yeah, that’s right. This random, anonymous girl just got all up in my face at the park! Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

People, I tried to have a nice day, but disaster was all around me. So then I left the park and went back downtown. Could I get a second of peace and quiet? Not so much. I mean, really. Like the weather wasn’t bad enough!

(But they were still cute!)

What I’m trying to say is that this city, it needs help. Not me, I swear.

Non-Buenos Aires Argentina? Miss Blaine’s had enough!

Gladys, sometimes life gives you lemons, but you really just want to do an Anna Nicole Smith and lie in bed, popping pills and donut holes. But on account of fear of both the New Jersey Department of Child Welfare and your lawyer, Jimmy, you soldier on. (I mean, Jimmy, why did I have to swallow all of those condoms before heading here??? You’re lucky that’s not the first time Miss Cybil’s swallowed a condom in her day!)

I know I’ve got a black belt in making life fabulous, but when you’re banished to South America, sometimes…

…well, what I’m trying to say is that I miss my rabbit slippers. And I’m sick of Argentina. It’s ugly.

Lois, trust me on this one: if someone ever asks you, “where do you want to go? What do you want to do? What do you want to do with your life?,” tell them you want to stay home.

Tell ‘em you want to keep doing what you’re doing because you don’t want to see the rest of the world. Don’t bother skimping on new clothes or food or cable for a bit (you only live once, and it might not be for very long, so think short-term!), ’cause it ain’t pretty out here. Scenic world, my ass!
Nope, you’re not going to meet great people or see beauty that’ll renew your vigor for life. You sure as hell ain’t gonna learn about yourself. You ain’t gonna be reminded of the fact that even though you already seen so many pictures of these places, there ain’t never gonna be any substitute for actual experience.

Know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna get the sniffles, maybe, and miss all of those reruns of Friends and Matlock. Granted, you’ll do stuff you couldn’t have even known about or planned for, but whatever. Just don’t leave the states or ever think, “is the rest of the world worth seeing?“

Because it ain’t. It’s a dump, the world, so just finish that Mai Tai and call it a day.

Miss Cybil votes… for pie at 2pm!

Okay kids, I’ve gotta get a load off of my chest. No, not the time I set fire to a monastery just to get back at God for that time I had to go to a church on Easter! Fine, near a church. My mother made me go near a church, because there was one on the way to the liquor store. But I was still scarred for life.

No, kids, what Miss Cybil wants to get off of her much bally-hooed “killer rack “is that her lawyer, Jimmy, didn’t tell her that Argentina is a democracy. It’s maybe going to be an election year, soon-ish,  so it seems you can’t go more than five feet without seeing the face of some guy. Now, I’m not bitter because I was just divorced by Voldemort, who I incidentally just put through dental school. Really! I’m just bitter because I have a hard enough time deciding what shoes to wear.

Much less what dude’s face I’ll want to ignore for the next four years. Besides, I haven’t been sober enough to vote since the Nixon administration. So I’m voting for Nacho.

And you know what? He’s got my vote. I say: let a Mexican into the White House! I mean, why not?

Although I probably shouldn’t, on account of my having eaten so many carbs since I got to Buenos Aires, or Peru, or wherever the hell I am! I’m getting a little rump in the roast, if you know what I mean (my butt’s getting big!), you’d really think that the black guys would be lining up to get a piece. So after I decided to go Atkins style, and I walked through Gaiman.

Yes, that’s Gaiman, also known as some random Welsh settlement, in the middle of the day. And no, I’m not making the footbridge bit up. Like, do hobbits live there? I mean, really. But now like I didn’t have enough enemies in the world–Lois, I’m looking at you, dear, I know you’ve been snatching my TV Guide–the hobbit people heard my Atkins pleas. And you know what they gave me for lunch? Get a load of this: 
See, while I wanted food, the rest of Argentina was sleeping–in other words, no other place was open while I was fucking starving–so I had to get tea. And Welsh tea service, as Miss Cybil discovered, is merely an excuse to have a smorgasbord of desserts in the middle of the day.

But you know what? I found something else out about myself: pie at 2 pm? I’m okay with that!