(Beware of Thursday the 12th)

Sans Limo this season, I’ve been crusing Hollywood in my totally hot ’93 escort. Christina Marie Sanchez-Ford has always done pretty well by me, but girlfriend is starting to show her age. Then last Thursday (the 12th), she overheated and completely shut down in the left turn lane between four lanes of traffic at 5:20 PM on Pico Blvd. I was almost killed by the insane, road raging, SUV driving motherfuckers that populate LA’s streets. They almost got Mr. Tow Truck Guy, too. The third time involved a near miss by a Metro bus. Naturally preceding an event worthy of such device, I’d forgotten my cell at home, requiring the use of a nasty public payphone. I held the receiver three inches from my ear during the entire call to AAA.

Talk about a deglamourizing scene.

I’ll Show You Mine

GlitterQueen would be first in line to wreck my shit if I tried to fake the size of 'it'

GlitterQueen: I can vouch for the penis size! Oh shit...was that supposed to be a secret? Oops. Thank Goddess for windows and the Canadian drinking age!

Thanks babe! Those were good times. Readers, take note: if in question about actual measurements vs. online fantasy inches, he won’t need to brag if everyone else is doing it for him

Oh, how fun it is to sin..
..as I recall (although admittedly, even sober memories are a bit spotty), the tinted material shading the hotel windows (thus obscuring my nakedness from Canada at large), had a thin, silvery reflective backing, which allowed you to sneak a peek at my privates. Although I never suspected you turned away during costume changes for the sake of modesty on MY behalf, I would have gladly given you the Full Monty – had I only known you were, in fact, adjusting your line of vision for a better gander at my goodies.

FYI, the offer still stands. Something to keep in mind next time we’re together. Just ask, I’ll show you mine.

To: Fergie
From: Donald
What is this website all about? Are you trying to be Angelyne? Do you sing? Act? Model? None of the above it seems, so I'm not sure why you have all this narcissism...

RE: Who do you think you are, Angelyne?
Howdy Donald! As you may have noticed, my site is chock full of satire, poking fun of online culture, politics, life in gay Hollywood, and mainly myself. I may be an egotist, but it’s all tongue-in-cheek. You hit the nail on the head with the Angelyne comment - except that I'm aware the image I project is a joke. Instead of a billboard campaign, I write short, satirical posts, which - while farce - have a deeper meaning behind them. In real life, I’m a published writer, develop content for online destinations, and openly admit I’m an immature ass. WesFerguson.com is my personal play space, where I get to be silly & funny [at lest that’s my approach]. Hope you get it, or at least had a laugh or two at my expense.

Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to embrace "technology" that ultimately makes us stupidly dependent upon it.

Software is designed to perform most of the work associated with a specific task. It doesn’t mean it’s intended to think for you. Yet, in terms of 'memory,' it does. How many phone numbers do you have committed to memory?

In college, I remember being amazed at the phonebook in Glitter Queen’s head. She could produce any random cute boy's digits or birthday without pause. Point is, with the increase of numbers per individual, website passwords, account and screen names, I can barely keep track of my own contact information. Plus, I just don’t have the energy/motivation. There’s a website for that.

[..if you googled here, this pages references a single-entry from my monthly weblog]

...i'm planning to use this services to archive specific entries from my sardonic adventures in Fergie's weblog, which i'm unable to do when using the monthly format...reading this page will be like a chaotic journey through time & space in my mind, as i bounce forward & back through what currently amounts to over 4-yrs of online shenanigans...

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I’ve been forced to work for a living.

Like, one of those full-time job things. To top it off, thanks to some blind, idiot old woman who walked out in front of the limo, I actually have to get behind the wheel of my old deadbeat Ford and drive myself to the office. Daily.

I’ve been de-glamorized!

So that’s the deal for the new year, punching a time clock and putting my special skills to use at Condomania while writing articles about safer-sex issues. I’m a professional slut! Again.

Working.. IT

The biggest improvement to the new Condomania HQ is the addition of a second bathroom on the other side of the building. A small leak in the basin created a cesspool in the expanded office, causing the entire shipping department to smell like dead fish. While I’m fortunate enough to have a suite on the corporate side, this means everyone is forced to use the facilities located in my division. After some questionable Chinese food for lunch, a line soon formed.

"They totally need to fix the bathroom in the slave quarters." I said to Ernie in disgust. "Everybody’s taken a dump in this one already."

"Oh, I know." He said. "I did."

"Me too."

The toilet is officially on lockdown for the remainder of the day. Since I really have to wee, this means I get to leave early and go back to the apartment so I can use my own potty. Hopefully I won’t soil myself on the way home.

Today I stopped by the office to practice exaggerated facial expressions. Plus, I have some bitchy new catchphrases I’m trying out this summer and had to make sure they resonate. What's being said isn't as important as the tone in which it is expressed. Consider the following...

I mean, come on! [I meeeeen.. Com-Ow-n! -- blank stare, then snapping head forward, eyes blinking heavily]

Okay, this is like, totally freaking me out. [in Valley Girl accent: Uh-K, this-is-like, TOTALLY Freaking. Me. Out. -- eyes locked on the ceiling while giving The Hand]

Do you have any idea..! [Do-You.. Have.. ANY-IDE-AHhh! -- seizure-type eye roll, hands poised to strangle]
Obviously inspired by Faye Dunaway as Mommie Dearest

It’s out of control! [Its.. OUTTACONT-RAAAAL! -- intense head shaking, eyes wide with panic]

Oh no she didn’t – (Ohnoshe deh-iiint)


* nouns can be changed to fit any situation, i.e. – you’re out of control, does she have any idea, etc.. also important to note that phrases can be joined for a complete epileptic fit.
I meeeeen.. Com-Ow-n! Do-You.. Have.. ANY-IDE-AHhh how OUTTACONT-RAAAAL I'm going to be this summer?! Just the thought of it is, like, TOTALLY Freaking. Me. Out.

"Wes.. Wes Ferguson? You’re Fergie!"

Why yes, yes I am. Would you like an autograph?

I admit it; I’m a self-centered bitch. This is not breaking news, like the death of former President Ronald Regan was on Saturday. After a quick stop by the agency so my roomy could scan & email an approved photo to various media outlets, we cracked open the limo's mini-bar and toasted to ol’ Ron.

This, after rolling out of bed at 3pm and downing a screwdriver for brunch. I was told it was a protein shake. Never trust a smiling drunk.*
* Or for that matter, a gay lesbian with super-glue.

By the time we’d finished our toast, we were more than fashionably late and tipsy enough to be thankful for driver as we made our way to G:LAB II, the second annual Gay LA Blogger’s meet-up at the newly remodeled, ever expanding Abbey.

Which, incidentally, now looks like a cross between one of Cher’s stage sets and a Disney attraction. If they install animatronic go-go boys I swear I’m never setting foot in that place again. Unless there’s a ride which features dark tunnels. In that case I might even pay a cover.

Now, it’s only fitting that I’d invited a few people to G:LAB for purely selfish reasons. I wanted someone there besides The Whore who’d actually seen my website. Even though he’d read my blog long before we met and subsequently moved in together, I get the feeling he’s rather sick of looking at this page after he redesigned my entire site earlier this year. *
* I’m the lazy ass that hasn’t applied the template to all the pages. As I said in my previous post, I’m very busy.

Anyway, my plan backfired, but in a good way. Turns out I didn’t need to bring my own fan club. Of course I won’t say I was the star of the event, but we all know that’s just being modest.

What's that, dear reader? You're right, the "modest" act doesn’t work for me either. I’m always the star. Saturday was no exception.

Maybe Mr. Bernard is right, maybe there's an "I-List" ..not enough concentrated media attention to be a Hollywood star, too few insanely obsessed fans to be a cult icon, but just enough egomaniacal drive and daily page hits to be an Internet celebrity. All, I must note, without the use of pornography. Only half-naked pictures with super-hero themes.

After a grand entrance, I held court at the bar so I could flirt with the cute cocktail waiter. Thankfully he’d tipped a heavy hand of vodka into my martini, which left me far too buzzed to act like a fucking snob. I worry my alter ego has spilled over, just a bit. It’s important to keep it in check, because I sincerely endeavor to be gracious and polite, even show restraint, unlike those pathetic media sluts who draw unnecessary and unflattering attention to themselves or look completely bored when they’re not the center of attention.

Anyone can take a more classy approach to life, even if they're not an Internet celebrity. For as casually as I admit to being a bitch, it doesn’t mean I always act like one. Only when provoked. Mama Fergie taught us to always show the sweet side first. If you have to get nasty, at least you put your best, perfectly manicured foot forward. If someone decides to step on your toes, the other foot is free to kick their ass.

I’d rather smile pretty and sign autographs.

Perhaps I should start my own dictionary project. I learned to read at a very early age, thanks to intelligent parents who read to me in the womb and limited television viewing to The Muppets, Sesame Street, and other educational programs. I began creating my own words around four or five, when I started writing and illustrating original stories. While my first illustrated novella The Happy Heart People will not be a project in development at Fergstudios any time soon, my mother has the original 3-D work in crayon & construction paper on 10x4 note cards strung together at the seems with yarn (Mama Fergie is quite a crafty lady). It was during this time that I began ‘borking’ on the stairs. These respites between creative endeavors would later become my now toxic smoke breaks.

Borking was basically spacing out, or planning my next move. Would I return to the He-Man battle scene in my bedroom, continue working on my drag act (I did a mean spirited and generally disastrous Julia Childs cooking show spoof), or put more time into the Happy Heart People artwork? Perhaps none of the above. I was a child after all, the attention span is fickle. Once I sat by myself on the stairs, all kinds of things would pop into my furry little brain. During one of these breaks, my mother asked me what I was doing. Without missing a beat I replied “Oh, just borking.”

If memory serves, the Muppet’s Swedish Chef inspired the term. The character spoke in a terribly imitated Swedish accent, something like "Vergoofin der flicke stoobin! Mit der børk-børk yubetcha!" He was always throwing stuff around and trashing the kitchen while doing his business, totally out of it and most likely on some kind of Muppet speed.

I’ve continued to occasionally create my own vocabulary or modify existing words, like ‘oldfentimer’ & ‘Canaydea.’

It would be fun to collect these unique words and phrases into a single volume. What sucks about writing this post is that I can’t think of a single additional entry for the collection, with the exception my newest word, ‘cuntheiress.’ A cuntheiress is someone whose family tree is the living definition of every obscene word in history.

This is a very recent addition to my vernacular, because I was tired of calling everyone a filthy chavster. After awhile, insults loose their significance and snap, so it’s important to keep a good rotation. Cuntheiress is the very worst thing you can call anyone, ever.

..i guess this means more to come as memory/time serves.. in the meantime, send me your made up words for inclusion in the independent dictionary project. You'll receive full credit, and whenever applicable, a like to your site.

Urban Dictionary | Define Your World

Definitions by Wes Ferguson

6.		Borking Jul 12, 2005 Boor-king (state of being) Messing around, wasting time, fucking off, having a...
5.		Guestimating Jul 8, 2005 Best guess, using formulated approach to vaguely reference any particular set...
4.		Supérflujà vu Jul 8, 2005 (super-flu-jà voo): Knowledge déjà vu, feeling as though a certain learning...
3.		Wanker Jun 27, 2005 Term for someone who has no accomplishments to speak of, wastes time or is not...
2.		Clickablest Jun 26, 2005 Refers to high traffic links, pics, and creative banner ads that are impossible...
1.		Netidiot Jun 26, 2005 Classification for people who incessantly post heated and insulting rebuttal...

I’ve really been thinking about this diet thing. I could totally start a new food-trend called Chocolate for Breakfast™ and go on Oprah. Everyone across the country will suddenly be completely wild about Chocolate for Breakfast™ and I’ll cash in on the sensation.

All I need is an ‘expert’ medical type to sign off on the deal. If some senile old quack can stop a nation from eating bread, then clearly the playing field is wide open.

Chocolate is good for breakfast.

This morning I had two Reeces Sticks and a bottle of Nestle's chocolate moo juice on the way into the office. I feel amazing!

Usually I suck down a mountain dew and a couple marlboro lights to get my day started. And even then I'm awake but still want to kill people. Today I feel fabulous. I seriously recommend a diet consisting of chocolate for breakfast to those prone to bitchiness.

This afternoon I decided to stop by the office for lunch. Instead of the usual take-out order, we agreed we all wanted chicken whoppers. It was so white trash, I had to be the one to suggest it. I’m a bit of a fast food junkie. It’s sick! For the nutrients I'm getting, I might as well be eating decent food and purging it.

Weezy offered to pick-up the order and volunteered me to go with her. We zipped through the streets of LA in style in her little sports car. I admire anyone that can drive over fifty miles an hour on surface streets. I also like to run stop signs.

Weezy is a So Cal girl through and through. She’s a red blur in her convertible, long blond hair flowing in the wind, Gucci shades, and Juicy sweats. There are a lot of imposters in LA, all these girls move out here and try to be surfing cool, but they’re just weak wannabes. Give me a hot blond firecracker over Daisy May dressed as Barbie any day.

We drove up to the window and placed an order for the two of us, and four co-workers that also wanted chicken whoppers. Nothing complicated, just six sandwitches made our way. As we pulled around to pay and get our food, the guy behind us honked and cursed at us.

"What’s that buddy?" I give Weezy props for actually sounding concerned, as though she may have done something in error.

"I said you should go inside for a big order! It’s called being considerate!"

People don’t understand the meaning of the word 'considerate.' It does not mean everyone else in the world is expected to go out of the way to open doors for you, that friends should pay your way into a movie, offer to drive your ass all around town when your car is in the shop, or that complete strangers should let you skip ahead of them in line because you don't feel like waiting. Being considerate is letting someone know you’re running late, pulling over to the side of the road rather than blocking traffic to let someone out of the car, offering everyone at the table another drink instead of just pouring for yourself, shouting "FIRE" when exiting a burning building, etc.

We were already halfway through our order when the rude dude in the pickup pulled in behind us. It was raining. It never rains in LA, glamorous people just aren't built for precipitation and/or wind. This particular Burger King doesn’t have it’s own parking lot and is squeezed into a tight corner at one of LA’s over abundant mini-strip malls that has huge 5 MINUTE PARKING signs posted over each space in the twelve car lot. Like most things in this city, it’s a fucking pain in the ass just to get lunch at some fast food slop house. For everyone.

The guy behind us honked again to emphasize his hissy fit. Honk!

Weezy flipped the bird into her review mirror but wasn't satisfied with the results. As she rolled her window down, I knew her rage had eclipsed vanity and that whatever happened next was going to be totally awesome. She leaned the top half of her body over the door to maxamize eye contact, getting soaking wet as she shot back each word like a bullet, "There's no fucking limit on the drive through, asshole! Anyone can use it, you’re just pissy because I’m in front of you!" Though I thought she'd made her point and would be freezing cold, she continued. "Ohh, Boo-fucking-hoo, you can’t have your burger right this fucking second! Waa! aww...FUCKING CRY! BABY!!”

The imbecile shut up and waited his turn.

Weezy’s my frickin' idol. For today.

I admit that I'm less and less forthcoming in this weblog, literally talking in code sometimes. There is truth to every story, a message in each post. I've detailed the exit of both Whitney and Mr. Bill, but I haven't mentioned my other roommate, the whore.

I got home the other night a very late, a little stoned, and totally hungry but ready for bed. Once inside my apartment I noticed something was different about the living room, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Hm, what could it be, maybe the clothes thrown all over the floor?

Two pairs of pants, multiple sox, a t-shirt, and some shoes next to a bucket of lube. My glass table had been moved way over to the wall on the other side of the apartment, the video camera tripod was set up in the corner, and there was a wet spot on the couch.. Some freaky shit was going on in my living room last night.

When Glitter Queen and I lived together back in Ohio, I had the ultimate bad judgement to date someone from the mid-west. He was a nice boy, or so it seemed, with piercing blue eyes and an affinity for Madonna, marijuana, and excessive sex. I, of course, immediately fell in love and he soon took up residence within our humble abode.</p>

It turned out he was also a compulsive liar, and after a few too many incidents involving the deaths of family members, his credibility came into question.

One night when The Liar was at work, his father, who had passed away two months prior, called the apartment and asked to speak with him. I found this rather odd, as I don't channel spirits through the telephone. They come to me over the radio. Suffice it to say I jumped to the immediate conclusion that the person on the other end of the line was a faux phantom.

I hung up with the pseudo-spirit and dialed Glitter Queen's cell. She answered from our headquarters, the local mall. Quicker than the kids from Scooby Doo, we deduced that the person behind the ghost was old man Liar. And he would have gotten away with it too, it if weren't for that darned thing called reality.

That very night, reality came crashing down upon The Liar's shoulders by way of a good old fashion banishment from our home. In full white trash glory, we threw a suitcase at him, followed by clothes strewn over the balcony to fetch and fill it with. Glitter Queen and I belly laughed for hours afterwards as we destroyed his vinyl Madonna records over a cold bottle of White Zinfandel.

Sometimes I miss that crazy son of a bitch, we had such good times.

Boot on a limousine.

There are many things that force a laugh out of my mouth in Los Angeles. There is such a rich contrast between the high rolling industry world and reality. Fabulous is simply perception, the rich and powerful take a shit and wipe their ass just like everybody else. Today, I saw a parking enforcement officer putting a wheel boot on a shiny black stretch limousine.

Now clearly this wasn't the first ticket on the limo, parking enforcement only gets that serious when someone has pissed them off to the tune of about $500 dollars. Either that or so many tickets unpaid, some crap like that. They have the ability to boot a car and tow it if all fines aren't paid within twenty-four hours. The car then becomes property of the city after thirty days. Of course, dear reader, you can imagine that at this point, simply paying the fines isn't enough to get the car returned, since there is tow fee and a twenty-five dollar a day impound fee. For parking enforcement, it's the last straw they're tired of fucking with you the end. You will pay ticket or no drive for you. The driver's troubles, however, are only just beginning, and they can kiss a nice chuck of cash goodbye. It can get rather serious, and it all begins and ends with the boot.

I'm contemplating all this at the stop sign where I'm watching the limo get the boot. As I rolled through the intersection doing a true California stop (which, by the way, means not stopping), the only thing I could think to do was roll down my window and yell "you can't do that! Don't you know who I am?!?"

Further, and what really made me laugh aside from the shocked look on the meter maid's face, was that I realized there was no threat I could follow up with. Normally I'd say, "you're career is over," but the bitch is driving around, in a full uniform, writing up tickets for parked cars. There's no career trajectory for a meter maid. Even threatening to kill her would be a step up.

So I ran her over. It was my good deed for the year.

Thankful and running shirtless over to me, the driver made his way on the scene. He told me he gets tickets for taking up more than once space, and that if he parks in his driveway he gets tickets for blocking the sidewalk. Since I helped him, he feels he's indebted to me. We've worked out a schedule and I never have to drive again. I'm actually writing this entry from my laptop in the back of my new limo as I ride around town. I have a lot of errands to run today.

On three seperate occasions, I had another driver honk at me today for merging - well, technically, pulling in font of them. I signaled. Sad thing is I know this morning's total is not a personal record. I have had several run-ins with inanimate objects in addition to a few incidents involving people on bikes.

I'm beginning to think I'm not a very good driver.