Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Welcome To The Summer Of Allegra Didgeridoo

Allegra Didgeridoo’s tits walked into the Carlyle Hotel and the rest of her followed close behind. She admits to 26 years on the planet, but is a woman, and cannot be trusted to give her true age.

And what a woman. Tall, but only when standing on a box, or if you are asking a child; skinny, but not gross skinny, and certainly not skinny around the chest, where her tits are. Her skin glows like one of Wonka’s Golden Tickets, but you would never exchange her for a tour around a candy factory.  When she’s not wearing clothes–in the shower, perhaps, or when she’s been paid vast amounts to not wear clothes–she is naked. Allegra is not naked now, but I can imagine what she’s look like naked, because I have several screen-caps of her nude scenes on my phone.

“Have you ever seen naked pictures of yourself on a journalist’s phone?” I ask her as she slides into the booth. God, I wish I were that banquette.

“Wha?” she says, seductively.

I show her, scrolling through half-a-dozen shots. Ass. Titties. Whole package.

“Uh-huh. That’s, uh…yeah. Huh,” Allegra says, pretending to be creeped out. She looks just like Audrey Hepburn when she pretends to be creeped out.

I forgot to tell you: Allegra Didgeridoo is from New Zealand, which is a country off the coast of Australia. If Australia is Texas, then New Zealand is Austin. New Zealand is Australia 30 years ago, and Australia is America 50 years ago, so New Zealand is virtually prehistoric. Wallabies serve in their Parliament or Congress or Duma or whatever they have down there. (I did not do even the most basic of research for this piece, besides downloading all those naked pictures of Allegra.)

Life in New Zealand is slow, and small: they just got electricity in February, but then a sheep walked into a transformer, and now they do not have electricity again. They also do not have soap, but they do have soap operas, which is where Allegra–along with half of the Avengers–got her start. As New Zealand is so small, and Allegra so fuckable, she was famous before the second commercial break of her first show, which was of course live because of the backwardness and whatnot.

And why not? She is hot. So fucking hot. Eyes as blue as the balls of the men she refuses. Calves that a dairy farmer would take pride in. A hip-to-waist ratio that signifies health and fertility. Nipples that you could hang an umbrella off, and not one of those cheapy street-corner jobs – a golf umbrella with a corporate logo. Allegra’s legs go all the way from the floor to her vagina, which I have not seen but imagine looks like a Venus Flytrap covered in morning dew. Her mouth is too big for her face, but the right size for…well, you’ll just have to buy a ticket, won’t you?

Allegra and I ordered dinner: she asked for a salad, like a woman; I ordered a steak. We discussed her upcoming film projects–she has 31 films coming out this year–and I pretended to record the conversation while I thought about a discussion I had with a man.

“The thing about Allegra,” legendary producer Garry Weinberg told me at his palatial Beverly Hills home, “is that you need to fuck her. Do I want to hump Cate Blanchett? Sure. Would I like to shtup Scarlett Johansson? Okay. But Allegra? I’d do it all for that nookie.”

Garry’s butler took our dirty dishes wherever dirty dishes go.

“That’s why I knew she had to play Dale Arden in my Buck Rogers movie. I’ve been trying to get it off the ground for a decade.”

“That’s so odd, Garry,” I said. “Tarzan is such a modern idea that isn’t irretrivably based in centuries-old racism.”

“You mean Buck Rogers.”

“Oh right, sure.”

“I had to have her, and as soon as we had hired the male lead, we offered her 70% of his salary and the rest is history.”

Have I mentioned her tits? I feel like I should ask her about them.

“Allegra, if you only were able to save one of your tits from a house fire, which one would it be?”

“Excuse me?” She is kittenish and frisky.

“I notice you’re not wearing a bra,” I say.

“Is there a question?”

“No.”

God, she’s got a perfect nose. I want to pick her nose; I would eat her boogers; I would wear clothes made exclusively from her used Kleenex. And her mouth, Jesus fucking Christ, her mouth. You know that thing where you put your finger in your mouth and it goes POP when you remove it? I want to do with that, except with her mouth and using my dick instead of a finger.

Our evening is over, and I cannot wait to go home and write about how much I want to fuck her, which is the best compliment you can give a woman, and only a real bitch would get offended by.

She looks great walking away, so I take a few pictures but forget to turn the flash off; she turns around and pretends to be disgusted and exhausted and bored, but I still want to fuck her.

9 Comments

  1. I’m now guessing that this is a response to a misogynistic article in Vanity Fair.

    • Thoughts On The Dead

      July 6, 2016 at 11:11 pm

      The disappointing thing is that the writer, Rich Cohen, is much better than this. Bit of a Nick Tosches vibe, and he wrote two great books, Tough Jews and The Avengers.

  2. hugh.c.mcbride

    July 7, 2016 at 6:25 pm

    You are a gift to the world, ToTD. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a gift to the world that we don’t deserve, that we can’t possibly appreciate enough, and that we should all aspire to be better people because of.

    • NoThoughtsOnDead

      July 12, 2016 at 4:09 pm

      You certainly can write satire! (You can write very well in several different modes.) I’m glad you provided a link for those who hadn’t seen what you were commenting upon.

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