Congratulations on Attending the Best Fucking Opera You've Ever Seen!

You spend a lot of time at the opera.  It’s a byproduct of being a wealthy aristocrat with ample time and resources and little intellect or motivation.  That doesn’t mean you actually like the opera any more.  It’s just as interminably boring for you as it is for the next guy (with the exception of The Who’s Tommy).  In fact, it’s sort of worse.  The fact that you’ve had the time and money to see so many operas means you see renditions of the same tired pieces again and again from musicians who traded ambition for steady pay years ago and have long since fallen into an uneasy pattern of musicality as means, rather than means of expression.

So when you show up at the operahouse tonight you’re going to snort and laugh at the prospect that this new opera is going to “totally blow your fucking mind,” as your friend told you it would.  When the house lights dim you’ll prepare yourself to be bombarded by a culturedump to forget.

But as the opening bars of unfamiliar music float through the hall something incredible will happen.  Masked women will descend from the stage into the crowd.  They’ll begin in the front row, bowing down for a few minutes and then rising up as the men and women they engage with cackle with glee.  When they reach your row you’ll be pregnant with curiosity.  The masks, the delicately concealed curves, all the more sensuous for lack of light, the gloved hands.  It will all be so titillating that you’ll be aroused before the young woman who approaches you unzips your pants and asks you to please remain quiet while she jacks you off.

You’ll abide her, stuffing your tie into your mouth as you thrash about wildly in your seat.  You’ll moan and shriek into your cloth before ejaculating on her hand, at which point she’ll gently thank you before removing her gloves and placing them in an ornate fanny-pack suspended at her side.  She’ll withdraw another pair of clean gloves from her cleavage before moving on.

You’ll fall asleep a few minutes after that, but the next day you’ll be all over your blog ranting about how you just saw the best opera ever, and you plan to see it every night this week, $500 ticket prices be damned.

Congratulations on Attending the Best Fucking Opera You’ve Ever Seen!

Congratulations on Having Middling Opinions About Most Sitcoms!

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Congratulations Bad Actress Betty!

You’re a bad actress named Betty, and you’re a huge hit in Hollywood.

You’re pretty attractive, as far as the general population goes, but you’re not jaw droppingly attractive. In fact, in the context of actresses you’re kind of homely. And your acting is somewhere between Shatner and Anderson (Louie or Pamela, it doesn’t really matter which you look at). But you remain a prominent and well regarded actress because you give the finest handjob in Hollywood.

“This is okay,” an executive will tell you as you jack him off the back of his town car while his Jamaican driver sits in the front and does his best to pretend the two of you aren’t there.

“Aw, you’re sweet,” you’ll mumble at him as he ejaculates all over your hand without warning, groaning loudly as you continue jacking off his fast-descending erection.

“I guess I need to give you that part,” he’ll mumble into your hair as you continue to masturbate him despite his ejaculation.

“Sure,” you’ll mumble at him, already making eyes at his driver, who will still be doing his best to pretend you’re not there. “Who’s that black guy?” you’ll whisper back to the executive, licking your lips as you stare at the driver’s eyes in the mirror, hoping he’ll look back at you.

Congratulations Bad Actress Betty!