By Cydnee Murray

IIt was a cold night in lockup.  My high-waisted skirt and crop top ensem – an estranged dress fighting over legal custody of the part of my torso just above my belly button – provided scant warmth.  I managed though.  A corner of the over capacity holding cell became my temporary energy charging station.  I gave my bologna sandwich to a fidgety prostitute.  She graciously accepted and I knew I’d gained a new fan – one step closer to A-list immortalization.

In the morning, Dirk, my on-again off-again model boyfriend, bailed me out.  The least he could do considering the number of vests and dinners I’ve purchased for him.  Generosity, notwithstanding the fact that every single time we go out, the first thing out of that narcissist’s mouth is something to the effect of, “That outfit of yours is not at all what I would think to wear on a date.”  Honestly, who says that, proceeds to order “the good stuff” or a “fancy meal” and then plays tightwad with the bill?

In this moment though, exiting freely from the Beverly Hills Police Department, I shelve my complaints, too elated to be walking with only a fine and community service at a local animal shelter.  For the record, I’m confident that, if I’d been incarcerated, I’d have eventually owned those LA County Jail basic bitches.  Inmates would learn to fear and respect me.  They’d consider me their go-to for hot ticket contraband like loosies or shivs and their mentor for mastering such difficult skills as “react to backdrop” or “smile with eyes.”

Famished, I hop the bus back to my duLUXE Lifestyle apartment for a quick change.  Dirk suggests we fly to New York for brunch at the new “Ganzervel hotel.”  I immediately correct him.  Ganzervel?  You have to be the lone driller on an offshore oil rig not to know it’s the Ganservoort.  Same for LIV, not LIF.  The Ganservoot has been under construction since before Kimye.  With no signs of opening soon, I suggest my Mediterranean villa in Miami instead.  Flights cost around $15 bucks, and my Miniature Pinscher, Ray J, lives there.  I haven’t been back to feed him since I last hit up LIF to “charm guests,” “social drink,” and “bust a move.”

Two seconds later, Dirk and I land in every homeless person’s paradise, sandy South Beach.  Off the bat, temptation tests my resolve.  I come face to avian rat face with one of very cretins responsible for my arrest the night prior.  Perched on the sidewalk, with its beady black eyes and smug eyebrows, a pigeon bars my path.  It takes every ounce of my being to stand before it with one arm akimbo and pretend not to notice it.

I casually check my manicure, fluff my coiffe and smile with my eyes, but the bird stays.  If I don’t make a move soon, I know I’ll become a repeat offender.  I’d rather spend the rest of my days peddling MonstroBull – ahem, Red Bull or Monster Energy for the daft – than let that imp of a reporter Ray Powers uncover my pigeon kicking past.

There, I said it.  I kicked a pigeon.  Multiple pigeons, in fact.  Those sick ducks taunt me something fierce.  As though I were a senior citizen at a Native American casino with a $20 roulette voucher and five minutes left before the Greyhound returns me to my assisted living facility.  Each disease carrying cooer equals $2 in my self-entitled palm.  Kick a pigeon; make $2.  I don’t make the rules and they don’t seem to mind a whole lot.  I give them a swift love tap, they sort of flutter in the air momentarily while simultaneously pooping out $2 and then they go back to scavenging for scraps.

It works the same way for fire hydrants, bicycles, bushes and signs too but the cops don’t seem quite as concerned about an assault on an inanimate object.  So, with the discipline of a Shaolin monk, I breeze by the bird and alternatively unleash my aggression upon an unsuspecting Vespa.  Once inside the privacy of my own home, I kick my dog; also good for a couple of bills.  Then, I throw a three-hour party and expend a ton of energy “getting comfy”, “eating hors oeuvres”, and “chit chatting”, so I take a nap.

THE END

Final notes: NO PIGEONS OR DOGS WERE HARMED DURING THE WRITING OF THIS FICTIONAL ESCAPADE.  Ironically, in the actual game “Kim Kardashian: Hollywood” no pigeons exist in either the SoHo or Tribeca location.  This writer believes their absence is an intentional decision on the part of the developers of the Kim Kardashian game to protect innocent NYC pigeons from overzealous gamers imitating art.

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