When Anners Met Whorelando: Totally Fictitious Fiction

Sorry. But doing a depraved fan fic about Whorley just seemed like fun. This will be the first and last.

The location is at some Hollywood party or something. Lots of small tables with fancy displays, lighting that doesn’t make people look dreary and phug, and delicious looking foodstuffs. I’m there because I am a hot blogger, of course, and because I was invited by the powers that be. I am walking around thinking about how fugly all of these people looked in real life and that they weren’t at all interesting (not that I ever thought they were), and I’m standing with a martini glass in my hand, feeling smug, when someone taps me on my shoulder. Politely.

I turn around and it’s Whorelando. It’s like he had some business to settle with me.

“Anners?”

“Hi Orlando!” I feel dumb.

“Oh, how nice of you to use my birth name for a change.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been to your blog, sister girl.”

“Hee!”

He looks disturbed. “You think it’s funny being called “Whorelando?” What’s the implication there? That I’m a shittin’ whore?”

“Sorta.”

“Yeah, well… I’m not.”

“You’ve shagged a lot of people though.”

“People?! You mean ‘girls’.”

“Semantics.”

“I haven’t shagged any GD semantics.”

I stare at him and blink. It’s time to change the subject or something. “Did you cheat on Kate Bosworth?”

“What?”

“Did. You. Cheat. On. Kate. Bosworth.?.”

“No!” His eyes flash. Then he lowers his voice: ”That’s none of your GD business, Annerd.”

“Oh! It’s like that? So you’ve been reading Daners’ bloggio, too!”

“And what of it? I read all your blogs. Good stuff. That Wanda is right to be worried. She’s… should I be ascairt of her?”

He realizes what he’s saying. He stamps his foot.

”Wait one GD moment here, missy. This is about me speaking up for the din, my girlfriend. You need to lay off of my girlfriend. On your blogs. The lot of you. That’s what I came here to say to your phace.”

“You were about to say ‘dingo’!”

“Shut it, bytch face! I was not about to say ‘dingo’.”

“You just said it. ‘Dingo’.”

His face flushes. “You gossip bloggers really are quite sick. Getting your jollies on at the expense of others. Vultures, the lot of you.”

“Calm down, Wheel Turner.”

His eyes flash again. “That’s the other name. Wheel Turner. You thought that was clever didn’t you? Me getting in that car crash and all. Because of my Pirate’s character… Will Turner.”

“I did.”

“All right. That was kind of cute, I’ll admit that.”

I smile.

My smile unnerves him.

“About my girlfriend… I can take the abuse that’s hurled at my person. Because I’m a big strong man, right? But you must lay off of her.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s mean.”

”So?”

“She hasn’t done anything to you.”

“She’s made it so that everytime I walk past a certain lingerie shop I start getting severe headaches and I have to rush and find the nearest restroom into which I can toss my cookies. Also, she’s shagging my boyfriend.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, Anners? You could stand to lose a few pounds.”

“Do you want me to beat the foolywang out of you?”

“I don’t care! She beats the foolywang out of me every single night I’m with her.”

He shuts his mouth. I can read the worry in his wrinkled forehead.

“She beats your arse?!”

“I didn’t say that. And I’m not your boyfriend, you delusional loser! Lay off my girlfriend. It hurts her feelings when you talk about her badly shaped cranium and call her a dingo.”

“So?!”

“It’s mean!”

“Okay, I’ll stop.”

He’s touched. “Will you really?”

“Phuck No.”

He looks angry.

I remember about my digital camera.  I fish it out of purse and ask him if I can have a picture with him real quick.

“It doesn’t work like that that,” he snaps. He walks off, his decaying boots making a soft tap on the marble floor.  I take a picture of his ass.

I down my martini to steady my nerves. Then I scan the crowd for a laptop: I so needed to blog about this because peoples would totes want to know about this shiz. None of these famous party people have laptops, though.

Not two minutes later, someone is tapping my shoulder again.

It’s Whorelando looking even more agitated than he did when he’d stalked off.

“Say you’re sorry,” he says. There is something unhinged about him and it freaks me out.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He stares at me.

I stare at him. He’s sooooo handsome. Scabby, but handsome. I reach up and touch one of his curls because it was calling to me.

He slaps my hand away. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Touching a piece of heaven.”

“The Kingdom of Heaven is actually just south of there.”

My eyes drop to his wee oui oui  region and my hand starts to follow,  until he takes it in his hand and places it thereabouts on his heart.

I feel flab.

“My heart hurts when I read what you say about me and the dingo… I mean my girlfriend,” he says.  His point having been made, he lets go of my hand.

“What’s her name?”

“What?”

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Victoria… Victoria Secret.”

“Try again, Whorles.”

“David Jones?”

“No… that’s who’s paying you to phreak her mangy arse. You don’t even know her bloody name!”

He looks sad.

“Don’t blog this. Please, Anners.”

“I won’t if you shag me.”

“I was going to shag you anyway. That’s why I came back.”

“What?”

“I’ll shag anything, you know. Even dingos.”

The music changes and people start dancing.

He takes my hand and leads me toward the dance floor.  “I forgot to wear my dancing dress,” I say, halting him. “It doesn’t seem right for you to dance with a slag who’s nipples aren’t threatening to spill out out of her dress.”

He whispers for me to shut my face. He dirty dances on me. I play with his curls.

The END.

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