One more day until Mr A-list Hollywood turns up for dinner. I need a favour from the asshole, but I’m starting to wonder whether it’s worth the financial hassle.
Victoria has bought a new set of outfits which she spends hours trying on over and over again while shouting: “I’ve got nothing to wear.” I opened the door this morning to find a spotty youth demanding that I sign for a package. It turned out to be a shoe delivery. Since when did we get shoe deliveries? What happened to pizzas? “I just try them all on and then send back the ones I don’t want,”she bleated while trying to flutter her eyelashes in a way she’d seen on MadMen.
Sure, she’s going to do that – this, a girl who has taken her Scuba PADI course THREE times because she keeps forgetting to send off the final paperwork. What the hell is it with chicks and mail? Put the thing in an envelope and mail the f***er. Maybe mailboxes should be put in shoe shops? No, bad idea, they’d only start mailing themselves more shoes. What is it with shoes, anyways? I’ve never noticed what shoes a chick is wearing. Here’s a tip ladies – worry more about what you look like without any clothes on rather than the periphery packaging. Someone should hire the Coop to be one of those posh personal shoppers for a day. God, I’d love that – you’d sure get some honest opinions that day, trust me. Got to go, think I’ve got Sally Bercow to ditch the dwarf and hook up with me for a drink – there’s a woman who doesn’t need high heels. Cooper Out.
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