They Call Her Flipa.

Ladies and gentlemen, we gather here today to say farewell to our dear friend and Sister under the Lord, Flipa. Allow me to take this opportunity to say a few words about Flipa. Flipa is the type of woman who never says no. Despite her seemingly tough and street-wise exterior, she's truly a softie on the inside; she will bend over backwards to please those she cares about. She might be a strong soul sista, but Flipa quite obviously wears her vagina on her sleeve.

Growing up in the hood, Flipa had it hard. Her life has been one long, rough ride. She's been used, abused and mistreated. But Flipa is the kind of person to take what is dished out to her, and then turn the other cheek to ask for more. She truly touches and inspires all who know her well.

Flipa is a gorgeous specimen. She's tight, sculpted and silky smooth with curves in all the right places. But Flipa's true allure is her single, penetrating brown eye. Men often find themselves drawn into that eye for hours on end. Flipa is also well known for her succulent, plump lips. Anyone who has experienced those two glorious lips knows how they can leave you wet, raw and ready for more. But beware... she won't hesitate to blow the rape whistle on anyone who gets out of line.

I remember the good times I've had with Flipa. Not the same type of good times she'll have in her next life, but good nonetheless. Flipa was an avid shopper. Some of her favorite stores are Crate and Barrel and Victoria's Secret.

Flipa enjoyed shopping for panties with us in Chicago, though she later told me that full coverage briefs aren't exactly her style. She ended up buying a few pair of crotchless G-strings, and wrote them off as an occupational expense.

Keeping her girlish figure in its original shape is never an easy task for Flipa. So when all the gals all got together for dinner at the local Mexican-Syrian cantina, Flipa didn't order any food, claiming she was saving room for a creamy dessert.

She did, however, put a sizable dent in our mango-flavored margarita supply. After all, you know what they say... when Flipa's around, the juices will always flow!

In honor of Flipa's departure from the free world, I would like to bestow some words of wisdom unto her newest friend on the other side of the globe. First, you should know that Flipa enjoys long walks on the beach. I understand that beaches, like condoms and wet wipes, are in short supply in Iraq, therefore let me offer this helpful suggestion. Dig a hole in the sand. Lay down some newspaper. Fill it with piss. Strategically place some umbrellas and lawn chairs in the vicinity. Complete the deception by costuming yourself in hawaiian print board shorts and a pair of flipa flops. Tell her you're at Middle East Beach. Her bikini bottoms will drop faster than you can say, "easy". Flipa also enjoys riding bareback through the countryside. She will, however, settle for riding bareback on your cousin's futon. Flipa loves to wrap her two lips around a nice, stiff beverage. Tell her that she's beautiful, and she'll be sipping your stiffie ALL NIGHT LONG. Romantic fireside chats while curled up in a sheepskin blanket are one of Flipa's favorite pasttimes. So the next time the two of you pass a hobo trashcan fire, start whispering in her ear all of the naughty things you want to do to her. Assuming that no sheepskin blankets are available, be sure to at least cover yourself with a sheepskin condom. Lord knows that sister's been flipped all over town, and the last thing any of us needs is a FTD (Flipa Transmitted Disease). If you can't decide on which of the above mentioned activities to participate in first, just flipa coin. Here's a hint: always choose tails.
Bottom line, I know Flipa will be happier in her new life. I have no doubt she will be constantly filled with joy. Overflowing, even. What can I say, everywhere Flipa goes, she gets a lot of love. Indeed, friends, Flipa is the new black. Actually, Flipa is the USED black. And used is the new new.
Godspeed, Flipa. God. Speed.

Here is a musical tribute to Flipa, set to the tune of Flipper. Feel free to add your contributions in the comments.

They call her Flipa, Flipa, she'll have him sighing
No one you see is harder than he!
Her name is Flipa, with two sides he can plunder
Lying there under, under the sheets!
Everyone loves the Queen Bee
One hole where she poos and one where she pees!
Tricks she will turn when long dicks appear
Oh, how they rise when she's near!


Ode to the Thong.

Last Tuesday after a particularly grueling night of off-pitch karaoke and lukewarm beers, my roommate and I were driving home from the local drinking establishment when she decided that the perfect addition to a queasy beer-filled stomach at 2:00am would be some deep fried cow vagina from the house of that creepy clown with the red afro. As we're waiting in line for our atherosclerosis to-go, my roommate suddenly shouts, "DEJA! Am I seeing things, or is that person wearing a thong?!"

Based on the fact that she had chosen to sing "Because I Got High" earlier that night at karaoke, I arrived at the preconceived judgement that she was indeed seeing things, and hesitated to even look in the direction towards which she indicated. However, because she was hyperventilating and there were no paper bags on hand, I indulged her by begrudgingly looking towards the gas station to our right. Sure enough, right there in the parking lot beside us was a man wearing a thong. This person had gotten out of his truck to- get this- WASH THE WINDSHIELD, donning nothing more than a cut-off white tank top and women's underwear. It actually took my beer-logged brain a couple of seconds to realize that the individual I was looking at was indeed A MAN. To make matters worse, this person was not wearing just any thong. It was a woman's thong; a G-STRING. This is the type of thong that even
I wouldn't wear, for fear of a yeast infection or worse, anal chaffing. This particular item was nothing more than a pirate's eyepatch on two elastic strings, the kind of underwear that are most frequently seen on strippers or Britney Spears. To make matters worse, the man in question was not the youngest or most attractive of gents, as evidenced by the fact that mother nature had obviously had her way with his flabby, translucent buttcheeks. This dude had quite literally been repeatedly ass raped by gravity. I could see the rippling waves of flesh adorned with silvery stretch marks glistening in the moonlight. I could see dimples and cottage cheese. I could see anal pubes.

I tried to take a picture, but in my state of inebriation, my sausage fingers could not activate the camera in time. I have come to realize that contrary to popular belief, heavy machinery and electronic devices are not intoxication-friendly. My roommate began honking and wildly indicating for the drive-thru attendant to come validate the situation as a tangible circumstance instead of a drunken hallucination. By the time he arrived, the thong bearer had retreated to his vehicle and pulled into traffic, his fellow motorists oblivious to his semi-nudity.

My question for you all is this: what was this man doing washing his windshield in a thong at 2:00am? Was he receiving some sexual favors from an underaged prostitute in the front seat when he suddenly noticed that the windshield required his immediate attention? Was he perhaps using his pants to tend to the needs of his windshield, caring not that his ass was exposed to oncoming traffic on one of the busiest streets in the city? Does he simply like the feeling of silk between his ass crack, gender roles be damned? Do I possess enough foresight to conjure images from the future of Jessie's son at the age of 50? Had he just returned from a raging swingers' club which enforces a strict dress code requiring a lack of both moral ideology and clothing below the waist? Does he get some kind of kinky thrill out of scaring intoxicated McDonald's patrons in the wee hours of the morning by flashing his bare chassis? Was this a form of punishment from God for eating deep-fried hypertension with a side of early onset obesity at 2:00am? Life is full of so many unanswered questions. I guess this is one mystery that will remain unsolved.


Guess Who? (Chicago Edition)

Each of the following statements were made by one of the following persons:






TR Youngblood (seen in the background)

Ray, the cabbie (not pictured)

1. "Sherri has dick rash."

2. "Is that a burp or a mouse?"

3. "If she doesn't stand when she pees then she's not for mes."

4. "You suck the rectum!"

5. "I gotta get this hotdog in my mouth."

6. "Sisterhood of the travelling internet."

7. "This doesn't taste like tea. It tastes like boo-tea."

8. "Love is like nervous gas."

9. "You live. You learn. You shave your balls. You grow up."

10. "You can't have date rape without the date."

11. "Did you get your outfit from the local clothier? You look good in it."

12. "Only two more blocks. But I'm not counting all the little blocks in between."

13. "I gotta take a Dima."

14. "Jesus Christ. I have 5 brothers and I've never been around this much flatulence."

15. "Hang on to your skirts, once."

16. Re: Megan taking her shirt off in the back of the cab... "I know it's exciting, but keep driving."

17. "I gotta take my dildo out of my bag."

18. Re: dildos... "When I'm talking to it and it's taking me out to dinner, I want it to look REAL."

19. "Do not put that on my labia!"

20. Q: "What team do you all bat for?"
A: "Oh, we like the corn cobs."

21. "I piss like a pregnant diabetic."


Party Time, Excellent.

Chicago was a blast. We saw some amazing sights and did some crazy things. My old lady hips are hurting because I think we walked to Canada, which conveniently enough is only 2 blocks from Dima's apartment. My purse still has egg on it. My voice still sounds like Cher on anabolic steroids. My asshole is on fire because of all the hot dogs and kibbeh that were consumed. The only thing this weekend was missing was a nine-toed stripper, but we got to kick it with a dual-ended sista instead, and I think I might just prefer her company to TJ's.

As Wayne would say, "You're partied out, man!" I need about 16 straight hours of sleep and a detox program. I'm thinking a healthy dose of Rami's pimp juice might also do the trick.


Shocking the Midwest.

I leave for SHOCKago today, and I have to admit that I'm just a little bit nervous. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE flying. I get such a thrill out of what most people consider to be pretty mundane. For one, I immediately develop a girl-crush on every single flight attendant on the aircraft. As I sit in my little window seat next to some sweaty mouth breather in coach, I weave all of these soap opera-esqe tales in my mind of whirlwind romances in France, drunken orgies in Greece, and sloppy donkey shows in Mexico. To every gay man of the 80's and every single, power-hungry and self sufficient woman of today, flight attendants represent the epitome of sexual liberation. They are the physical embodiment of random, anonymous and committment-free international sex. Plus they get free peanuts. Does life get any better than that? I should think not.

I also LOVE airplane turbulence. When the pilot hits a rocky spot in the skies, my anatomical reaction is that which I can only describe as the female equivalent of a boner. Fuck a boyfriend; turbulence is like having a 150 foot vibrator between your legs. I can join the Mile High Club from RIGHT THERE IN MY SEAT, and the sweaty mouth breather will be none the wiser. Pummelling to my death after flying through some type of horrid weather anomaly would not be so bad, in my opinion. I know I would die the happiest woman on earth, and really, isn't that what's important?

So maybe I shouldn't be so nervous afterall. Although this is my first time flying solo, I think I'll probably just grab a blanket, tune the iPod in to some Marvin Gaye, and enjoy the ride.

See you bitches Tuesday!


That's What Friends are For.

**UPDATE** Monday's Insult:

"You're just jealous because your virginity grew back and you couldn't fuck your way out of a paper bag."
Each of the following statements were made to me TODAY. Sometimes I wonder where my low self esteem stems from, but my greatest friends are always there to remind me.

"I never wanted to be your friend in the first place."

"Get a knife....then get in the tub."

"Being a nurse means you're going to get varicose veins and coffee breath."

"You want to be a fucking swinger, don't you?"

"Say yes to getting a sponser."

"You need to buy Downy Wrinkle Release. FOR YOUR FACE!"

"Are you going to shut the fuck up?"

"Don't be afraid of good hygiene."

"I hope the HPV infiltrates your vaginal area."

I love you too, Megsie.


Loose Lips and Raging Boners... All in a Deja's Work.

Me: "Hi Dr. B., this is Deja from the 8th floor. I need you to come sign this medical release form for your patient's lab work."

Dr. B.: "What's your name?"

"Deja. I'm Mrs. Z's nurse."

Dr. B.: "No, what's your REAL name?"

Me: "DEJA."

Dr. B.: "That sounds like a stage name."

"Are you calling me a stripper?"

Dr. B.: "No, but perhaps you chose the wrong profession."

My name has always been a source of turmoil in my life. In college I won the award for "Name Most Likely to Appear in a Porno," to which I replied in my impromptu victory speech, "I want to thank my mom and dad, who always told me that without college I would amount to nothing. HEY MA, LOOK AT ME NOW! I'M A PORN STAR!"

Apparently, every loose lipped and loose moraled individual feels the need to point out the fact that indeed, my name is identical to many strippers, porn stars and mail order brides; not to mention a handful of African American school children whose parents harbor a special fondness for apostrophes and prefixes. YES PEOPLE, I KNOW ALL OF THIS.

Actually, I probably wouldn't mind enduring all of the jokes if my name wrangled me even half of the income as that of porn stars and strippers with the same moniker. Hell, I probably wouldn't even mind if I could just get LAID half as often as those bitches. I should consider contacting the Guiness Book of World Records, because I'm pretty sure that I'm the only Deja in American history to be both poor AND celibate. Now that's something mom can be proud of.

In fact, I'm reminded of a story...

My freshman year of college, my roommate and I decided to attend a party thrown by some soccer buddies of her older brother. Basically what that translates into is that we had no friends, no booze and no boyfriends, so we were trying to mooch these commodities off of big brother. For the most part, this tactic worked- I think we had collectively hooked up with nearly every member of the soccer team by our sophomore year (my scholastic achievements leave you in awe, don't they?) At this particular party, my roommate introduced me to one individual who couldn't resist the lure of another lame Deja Vu joke.

"That's not funny," my roommate retorted. "She hears that every day."

"Oh yeah?" the dude asked, "Well I have a small penis. Have you heard that yet today?"

The fact that I went home wit him anyway is a testament to my discriminating tastes and elevated standards.

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