Pamela Anderson Meets Nicole Ritchie In The Health Club Shower Room – Part Two

Continued From Yesterday.

Pamela Anderson glanced at Nicole Ritchie’s naked body. Nicole was holding the health club white towel in her left hand. It almost appeared as if the towel had more weight and substance than Nicole. To Pamela, Nicole appeared like a skeleton dangling from a medical school classroom. The only difference between the skeleton and Nicole was that the skeleton is not inherently disgusting. Nicole Ritchie’s body, if that is what you could call it, was so wasted, it was as if someone had spray painted her muscles on, and then spray painted again Nicole’s skin. There was virtually no meat on Nicole Ritchie. The only thing preventing Nicole from getting thinner were the actually bones themselves. Pamela wondered how Nicole could even stand, or her heart pump. There was no room for any internal organs. At that moment Pamela noticed that the veins in Nicole’s neck were filling with blood and then disappearing, and then filling again and then disappearing. Nicole’s inner circulatory system was clearly visible through silk-thin skin. There was no muscle, Pamela concluded, but for the working heart muscle, which Pamela was certain would not survive Nicole Ritchie’s sick starvation diet. She gave Nicole maybe a few months unles she got some kind of intervention. Does anyone love this poor thing?

“Did you say you were doing weights?” asked Pamela.

“Yeah,” said Nicole, whose left leg buckled briefly, causing Nicole to almost stumble. But Nicole was able to recover using the few hidden inner muscles or bones to right herself.

Nicole Ritchie lifting weights, thought Pamela, was not possible. Nicole could hardly hold the bath towel.

“Weights, huh. Like what are you lifting?’ asked Pamela.

“Oh god, I’m not lifting them. I just look at them,” said Nicole as she kept examining herself in the mirror, with this haunting smile, almost dreamlike, the kind of smile you might see on a person who had accepted death and was about to shut their eyes and say goodbye.

Nicole just looks at the weights. Did Pamela Anderson hear that correctly? Wasn’t there anyone at the health club to help this poor sick thing? Nicole was no longer a human female. In fact, Nicole Ritchie had no breasts, no distinguishing characteristics or body parts that would indicate sex or even species at this point. Nicole Ritchie was a specimen for an anthropologist dusting off bones in the desert. Pamela had remembered the cute little Nicole standing next to the Paris Hilton on that TV show back when Nicole was the pudgy one. She was adorable then. Now Nicole Ritchie was harder to look at than the Elephant Man or Michael Jackson. Pamela decided to suggest a late-night snack, but she would tread gingerly.

“You want to go to a Starbucks, Nicole? There’s one right around the corner,” said Pamela.

“Oh, no. No. I ‘m going to take a shower. I need to take a shower and clean off the sweat I have built up. I smell. I have this odor. Sweat odor,” said Nicole in her dream-like state.

Yeah, she had an odor alright, a sickly odor of death, as if the bacteria in what was left of Nicole’s intestines had already started feeding on her innards as death meat. At some point soon Nicole would blow up into a death gas ball caused by the chewing bacteria inside her.

“I have to go. Take care of yourself, Nicole. Take care of yourself,” said Pamela Anderson as she turned and walked out of the shower.

Nicole Anderson did not say goodbye; she did not say anything. But Nicole did drag herself to the shower and struggled to turn the shower knob on. But the force to turn the shower on was too great for her. So Nicole Ritchie just stood in the open shower stall standing under the drip of water that occurred every few seconds from the shower head. But given Nicole Ritchie’s bony existence, that was all that was necessary. At least that is what Nicole thought as she smiled and licked the shower water off her lips, one drip at a time.

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Pamela Anderson Meets Nicole Ritchie In The Health Club Shower Room – Part One

Pamela Anderson stepped out of the shower at the health club in Santa Monica, California. It was almost midnight, and Pamela started to make it a habit to come to the health club in the evening rather than do the party thing. Pamela’s new marriage to Kid Rock re-inspired her to get the body in shape. She was turning forty next year, and this milestone was sitting on the horizon like a looming set of double doors with a butler welcoming her to old age. The thought of “old age,” of being elderly, was a thought she had only when she focused on her liver. Pamela had struggled for many years with the hepatitis C virus she got from sharing a tattoo needle with her former husband Tommy Lee who apparently never told her that he had the dreaded liver virus. The virus had ravaged Pamela’s liver for over a year and a half, but her many medical treatments had seemed to get the virus under control, though Pamela knew it could reveal itself again at anytime. It was the hepatitis C virus that first gave Pamela a glimpse of “old age,” of death, and she worked hard to distract herself from these thoughts. Her many breast enlargement surgeries and re-arrangements had been her primary distraction.

As she stood by herself late at night at the Santa Monica health club with a white towel in her right hand, she faced the floor-to-ceiling mirror and examined her naked body. It was very tan, a tan more pronounced from the stark tan lines formed by the very skimpy bikinis she routinely wore. Her breasts heaved forward, unnaturally to anyone’s eye, but to Pamela they were a thing of youth and beauty. Pamela’s very round honey-dew-melon-sized glands were supported entirely by the latest technological implants medicine could muster. They were bulbous and bursting as if someone had blown them up like balloons, one more blow would make them explode. To many, Pamela’s breasts were more disgusting and an oddity than a thing of female beauty, but to Pamela they translated into adoration and money. Pamela couldn’t act. Pamela did not have any employable skills. All she had was her body. Pamela had been told she was beautiful and her body was nearly perfect, but the early-in-her-life breast surgeries had forced Pamela to return to the plastic surgeon time and time again to re-jigger the aging and sagging bags of flesh, and with each time, the breasts were stuffed with larger and larger implants. But hell, so what, she still looked great for being just shy of forty years old.

As Pamela held her white towel in her right hand, dangling to her side, she examined her five foot seven inch frame, the muscles, the shapely hips, the long blond hair, the biceps and strong legs. She was a thing of beauty. Yeah, OK, so the breasts were more a matter of medical science than hard work at the health club, but Pamela’s mission was to beef up her muscles to balance out the weighty mammary glands that sometimes looked like they dragged Pamela down. It bothered Pamela that she no longer could sleep on her stomach because of her breasts. In fact, she had trouble sleeping on her side. She had to sleep on her back, which, according to Kid Rock, caused her to snore at night with her mouth open. Tommy Lee never told her that, which is probably because Tommy Lee was out cold from all the drinking and drugs. But Kid Rock apparently loved her enough to watch her sleep, even though it horrified Pamela that the beautiful Pamela Anderson snored.

At that moment, Nicole Ritchie walked in, stark naked, holding a towel, ready to take a shower. Nicole was barely more than a skeleton, weighing in at a mere 83 pounds, a number Nicole just read off the scale in the health club. It was a goal of Nicole Ritchie to get down to 80 pounds, and she had a big smile on her face as she walked up to Pamela Anderson, facing the floor-to-ceiling mirror, holding her towel in her left hand. Nicole looked at herself in the mirror as she stood to Pamela’s left. Pamela looked at Nicole’s naked body in the mirror. Both of them standing in the nude, examining each other in the mirror, alone in the Santa Monica health club shower room.

“I didn’t know you belonged to this club,” said Pamela.

“I don’t. I have a guest pass. I am trying out a few weights,” said Nicole.

To Be Continued.

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The Presidents Of Venezuala And Iran Agree That President Bush Is Stupid

Hugo Chavez felt like he was on vacation. Since he had arrived in Tehran, he was greeted personally by several ministers, whisked away in a black Russian limo, and staying at the Hotel Azadi Grand at the corner of Chamran Road and Evin Road. The Government of Iran and reserved the top three floors of the fancy hotel for Hugo which had commanding views of the Tehran. This was a leafy part of the city, see Hugo saw lots of trees and white buildings. It was morning, and he was drinking a cup of hot and very black Venezuelan coffee while he stood in a white thick cotton bathrobe. The President of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, personally promised a little surprise from Venezuela, and when room service arrived, it contained a large pot of Hugo’s personally favorite home-grown coffee. As far as Hugo Chavez was concerned, Mahmoud was a gentlemen, a man who said what he believed, did not mince words, but nevertheless never forgot to be a good host.

Hugo had overslept. It was nearly 11 in the morning, Tehran time, and he was already two hours late for Mahmoud’s personal meeting. Hugo was not about to be rushed on his vacation, and had found it amusing that Mahmoud’s people called and said that the President of Iran would come to the Hotel Azadi Grand to meet with Hugo. It was suggested to meet in one of the hotel conference rooms, but Hugo would have none of it. Hugo wanted to meet in his hotel room and in his bathrobe with nothing underneath, drinking Venezuelan black coffee. To conduct important meetings in his bathrobe had become a personal tradition for Hugo. It made him feel powerful to be wielding power in the buff, or nearly in the buff.

There was a knock at the door, and then it opened, which was a bit of a surprise to Hugo. The door was opened by an Iranian security official and in walked Mahmoud, who spoke Spanish fluently. Hugo was about to protest the minor invasion of privacy, but Mahmoud had a big smile and an out-stretched hand, followed by two young men who closed the door and stood like sentries. Hugo was the only one in a bathrobe, he felt the thick puffy cotton of the bathrobe tickle his naked body as he took Mahmoud’s hand and they both gave each other a strong solid handshake.

“Mr. President, my good friend from the West, I see you are quite casual. Do you wish to get dressed?” asked Mahmoud.

“No. No. I am going to go for a swim in your lovely hotel pool. May I have the pool to myself for laps?” asked Hugo.

“Of course. You are a swimmer?” asked Mahmoud.

“I do the breast stroke. Slow. It is very calming. Have a seat,” said Hugo.

Mahmoud sat in one of two large thickly upholstered white chairs facing the floor to ceiling window facing the city below. Hugo joined him in the other chair as he took a sip of his black coffee.

“Thanks for the Venezuelan coffee. You are a good man,” said Hugo.

“Ah, yes. The coffee. Your country makes two kinds of black gold. Oil and coffee,” said Mahmoud.

Jeez, what a nice guy. This Mahmoud had charm. Hugo never thought of it that way before. Of course, Venezuelan coffee was not necessarily known as a place where great coffee was grown. But Hugo was trying to change that with all the government assistance he had been giving to his coffee growers.

“Unlike Bush, you have a lot of charm and know how to be a gentleman,” said Hugo.

“Thank you, Mr. President. We try here in Iran to be good hosts and to speak with affection and good graces for everyone,” said Mahmoud.

“Bush is an idiot,” said Hugo.

“Well, I must tell you, Mr. President, that I did not have the same opinion. I thought Bush was a very shrewd and smart man. There was time that he used his power wisely. But I am no longer of that opinion. I have come to agree with you,” said Mahmoud.

“Oh, god, I knew Bush was an idiot the first time I saw him on CNN,” said Hugo.

“Think about it, Mr. President, Bush has the most powerful nation in the world and he cannot use any of his power. He has squandered his good will, his moral authority, he is tied up in knots in Iraq, and he has unleashed the voices of millions of Muslims and other oppressed peoples, making America and Israel the new axis of evil. It is astounding that this one man has single-handedly destroyed a great nation,” said Mahmoud.

“Yeah, and look how much power he has given to both of us,” said Hugo.

“Well, Mr. President, I would rather not characterize any power I may have as having been given to me by Bush. Iran has power because we assert what is right and ethical, not because a stupid man has given us power,” said Mahmoud.

“Yes. Yes. Of course. But it is so much fun to poke fun at Bush. It plays so well, and you can do it all day long and the public lets you get away with it. In fact, the public loves it,” said Hugo Chavez as he finished his third cup of black coffee.

“And ever since Iraq, Bush has lost Europe and the rest of the Western world. He only has Israel. America is alone, lost and going bankrupt,” said Mahmoud.

“Yeah, because the Americans are paying three dollars for gasoline and giving the money to us. Boy, this is a very good time,” said Hugo.

“And the truth of the matter is that America and Israel are diminishing in stature because they are afraid to really use all their power. CNN has seen to that,” said Mahmoud.

“How’s that?” asked Hugo.

“Oh, come on, Mr. President. If Bush wanted to, he could flatten Iran and Venezuela into thermonuclear wastelands. It would of course disrupt the world’s economy and everyone’s lives would change. But America could do this and take back the world with victory, a messy victory, but victory nonetheless. You see, what Bush has forgotten, or is too stupid to understand, is that the world wants victors, not losers. If America had success in Iraq, everything would be different. If Israel had destroyed Hezbollah, everything would be different. It is victory that gives a nation power, not bluster and big talk. If you combine bluster and big talk and then not achieve victory, then you are a big loser. And that is what Bush is,” said Mahmoud.

Hugo Chavez had not remembered the President of Iran to be such a big talker. It was almost like Mahmoud ilked to hear himself speak, as if he were a university professor. Hugo had never much cared for the university elite of Caracas, and the slight lecturing mode of Mahmoud’s delivery was a bit irritating to Hugo. But he would let it pass.

“Yeah, well, whatever. I want that swim now. You think I can do my swim and we can continue this conversation over lunch?” asked Hugo.

Mahmoud stood. “Of course. I wish to let you know that the money Iran is investing in Venezuela we have decided will be a loan and not an equity investment. I trust this is OK with you,” said the President of Iran.

“Yeah. I guess. The terms, though. We need to discuss the terms” said Hugo as he remained sitting.

“But of course. But not us. We shall talk about bigger things. We let the discussion of terms be for people who work for us,” said Mahmoud as he walked to the door. “Enjoy your swim,” said Mahmoud as he left the hotel suite and the two Iranian security officials closed the door from behind leaving Hugo alone in his room in his white bathrobe holding an empty coffee cup.

This was a bad start to the day, thought Hugo. But his swim would make him feel better. He had lied to Mahmoud about the breast stroke. He really only did the puppy-dog stroke in the pool, much like a child. But after a swim and a shower, he would be ready to start enjoying this little trip to Tehran.

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President Bush Collects Coke Bottle Caps

Lynn Swann waited for President Bush to finish touring the Harley-Davidson motorcycle plant in Springettsbury, Pennsylvania, a small town in York County. Swann, a former wide receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers football team, was running for governor of the State of Pennsylvania as a Republican candidate, and wanted Bush to assist him with his campaign. Swann did not want Bush to get too involved, but just enough to satisfy the hard-line Republicans in the State. Swann, personally, thought Bush had screwed things up, and wanted to tell him a few things. Swann was waiting in the Harley-Davidson cafeteria, as pre-arranged, because Swann wished to have a few private moments with Bush. Swann sat at the Formica-topped table drinking a Diet Coke from a bottle, and had removed the red cap and placed it in his pocket because of the My Coke Rewards code that he wished to give his nephew who was accumulating these Coca Cola internet points that could be redeemed for God knows what. The door opened and President George W. Bush walked in wearing old-style motorcycle goggles.

“Hey Lynne. These are cool, don’t you think?” asked Bush. Lynne Swann stood, not realizing that he was holding the Coke bottle in his hand. Swann was so started, he did not offer a hand for a greeting.

“Yes, Mr. President. They look very cool,” said Swann. Bush removed the goggles.

“So you need some help with the campaign. Well, I’m here for you,” said Bush.

“Sir, yes. Help would be good. I fear we Republicans are going to take a beating in November,” said Swann.

“Oh, it’s too early for that. Things change. Hey, do you think I can have the red cap of your Coke bottle. I collect those caps,” said Bush.

“What? You do? Jeez, so does my nephew. But if you want it,” said Swann.

“Yeah. I want it. I’m up to four thousand and some odd points,” said Bush.

“Four thousand. You drink a lot of this stuff,” said Swann as he held up his bottle of Diet Coke.

“No. No. Mostly just collect the bottle caps. They are payback for all the stuff I do for people like you. I don’t ask much. Now, you got that red cap?” asked Bush.

“Yes,” said Swann as he removed the red cap from his pocket and handed it to Bush.

“Thanks,” said Bush.

“Sir, may I give you an impression I have about your foreign policy,” said Swann.

“You know, Laura won’t let me get a motorcycle. But after today, I am thinking about it. They are so cool,” said Bush.

“Yes. Yes, they are. About your foreign policy,” said Swann.

“You’re running for governor, Lynne. What’s it you want about foreign policy?” asked Bush.

“Well, my impression, sir, is that you were totally right to insist that the Israelis not leave southern Lebanon creating a power vacuum there,” said Swann.

“Thank you,” said Bush.

“But in my view, sir, America has created a power vacuum throughout the entire world because our tits are stuck in a ringer in Iraq,” said Swann.

“Our tits?” asked Bush.

“Sorry. I mean to say that the world perceives that we are so mired in Iraq that we cannot cope with anything else. Iraq has shown our limits. Look at Iran. Look at Syria. Look at North Korea. Look at Russia. Look at China. Look at the insurgents in Iraq. They all think they can do whatever they want because…”

“Our tits are stuck in a ringer. I like the ring of that, no pun intended,” said Bush, cutting off Swann.

“Yes. I do hope you agree with my assessment,” said Swann.

“You’re running for governor, Lynne. I get plenty of foreign policy stuff from my people,” said Bush.

“Then may I suggest that you are not getting, well, that you are not seeing it from my perspective,” said Swann.

Your perspective? Like I said Lynne, you are running for governor. Are we going to the Amish section of Pennsylvania today? I want to meet some Amish folk,” said Bush.

“Yes, sir. You will meet some Amish folk,” said Swann.

“Oh, good. I want to ride in one of those horse and buggy things that they have,” said Bush.

“Then, Mr. President, let me see if I can put it to you this way. I suggest that you abandon making democracy the hallmark of your foreign policy and return to the tried and true power, military and economic alliance approach to foreign policy. Return to the good old fashion way of doing things. It will serve us best in the long run,” said Swann.

“Never. I am establishing the Bush doctrine. It is hard work, Lynne. Like catching a hail Mary pass. It is hard work. And it is the right thing to do,” said Bush.

“With all due respect, sir, America is weakened by the Bush doctrine, Mr. President,” said Swann.

“Lynne. Lynne. There is no Swann Doctrine, now is there,” said Bush.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Swann.

“You are not even governor yet, and you are trying to come up with some doctrine to replace my doctrine. But you are not even in the position to have a doctrine. Only I can have a doctrine. Now, that horse and buggy ride. Let’s go do it,” said Bush as he turned and walked out of the cafeteria.

Lynne Swann stood there, holding his Diet Coke bottle, a bit stunned at the conversation. He finished the remaining Coke, put another $1.25 into the vending machine and got another Diet Coke. He twisted off the red cap, put it in his pocket and tossed the full bottle into the waste basket.

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Britney Spears In The Nude And In The First Person

Every time the big banks of lights flashed in my face, there was a little beep that followed. It seemed to signal to the bearded photographer that he could take another picture of me as I sat on the white floor in the nude with my large belly hanging in front. My knees were forward and my legs bent behind. My butt was sitting on my calves and I was made it a point to keep my hands between my legs. It is not easy to pose naked in front of like, what is there here, twenty people running around, lots of lights and cables and rolling desks with big computer screens sitting on top with men, it was always men, examining the computer screens, looking the images the bearded photographer, images that were sent over a red cable from the digital camera directly to the computer screens.

“Britney, sweetheart, can you give me more of a smile,” said the bearded photographer.

I hated that people who did not know me called me “sweetheart.” Like what right does he have. Like he thinks he can sweet talk me into smiling by being like my father or an older uncle. The guy took no time to talk to me, to tell me what he was going to do, to make me feel comfortable. He left that to his female assistants, who all betrayed how much they despised me, thinking I am an idiot, like some hick who got lucky. Little did they know that I have been performing since I was a little kid, every fucking weekend, before thousands of audiences. Maybe I am a hick. But damn, I know how to get in front of a big crowd and sing. And anyway, who cares what they think. They should be taking care of me. For god’s sake, I am sitting here naked with my fat belly and big thighs and fat arms and, jeez, even fat fingers, and they are taking photos of me with my shitty looking skin. And they say they are going to put this on the front cover of Harper’s Bazaar and it is going to be great.

“Britney, sweetheart, maybe we can get off our legs, and change positions. What do you say?” asked the bearded photographer.

He said “we” like he was sitting here with me in the nude. Fuck him. Like he really knows what it is like to be in the heat of the media lights every fucking day, where they can watch every donut I eat, where they can assess my daily weight, my fat rolls as they grow from week to week, or as they disappear, which they will once I get this kid out of me. I am popping a couple of kids to start a damn family, and big deal if I get fat during the process. Big deal. Damn I want a cigarette so bad.

“What would you like me to do?” I asked.

“Sit up on your knees. Rise up and place your hands behind you,” said the bearded photographer.

No fucking way I was going to place my hands behind me and expose privates. Well, OK, so my breasts were hanging out, and he took tons of photos of those, but they promised that none of the boob shots would be used. But I was not going to put my hands behind me.

“That’s it. Now your hands behind you. Yes. Yes,” said the bearded photographer.

OK, so I did it. I rose on my knees and placed my hands behind me. God, I felt fat. But they said I did not have to worry. That there was Photoshop and it would make me look trim and tan and fit, even though I was fat, and white and about as unfit and un-exercised as I have ever been.

The big banks of lights flashed and flashed and flashed, and all I could think about was that cigarette waiting for me in my dressing room and the donuts. I loved those donuts.

“Can someone get me a Starbucks cappuccino. Have it for me in my dressing room,” I asked.

“Yes. Of course,” said some girl to the right, someone I could not see, someone I had never met, no doubt.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart. You look beautiful,” said the bearded photographer.

Everyone lies. Everyone. And for what. Because they think they can make money off of me. It’s all about money. Which I have not made much of in the last few years except off the investments, so my manager tells me. I’m not worried. After the kid comes, and I spend a year raising him, I will get a trainer and go into major rehab and come out the other end looking great with a great new bunch of songs. It will all fix itself overnight.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart. Keep smiling,” said the bearded photographer.

So I kept smiling. But it wasn’t easy.

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