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Category: Crying Into My Cake

Crying Into My Cake: But There Was A Bomb

I got a call about doing a Princess Sofia party for a 2-year-old. Who the hell is Princess Sofia? Apparently, it plays on Disney Jr. and is about a little girl whose mother married a king and so she became a Princess by marriage. Great, another nepotism success story in Hollywood. Just what we all need. I get the details. Beverly Hills party. Good start. $100 for 1.5 hrs. Cool. 7:00 pm start. Ok…ay. Wait, isn’t this a party for a little kid? Why is it starting so late? I start to think on it, then get distracted because...

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Crying Into My Cake: You Here To Dance For Me Tink

Hello, my little muffins! I’ve been away so long! My apologies. Life, ya know? I was inspired to touch back on the good ole days as a sad clown as I saw my former boss who used to run this actual kids party company today at an audition. One glance at her tight, Botoxed forehead and her giant, shiny boobies brought back all those old memories of finger painting and balloon animals in the shape of shame and wieners. So I present to you another costumed tale of woe. I was asked to do a birthday party for a...

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Crying Into My Cake: White Bitch Ass

This one was a doozie. Pick up your beers, kiddos! I looked at my pathetic bank account 7 minutes before I took this gig. $18. You can do very little for $18, short of buying the biggest Ralph’s brand vodka they carry and crying on a toilet while you dream of a better tomorrow. I got the call about a clown party for a 3-year-old 7 mins after I saw the amount. I said yes. I wanted to buy better vodka. Setting a goal and achieving it is part of adulthood. I drive to the party singing along with...

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Crying Into My Cake: Shitty Hat

I got a text from the boss that said I was needed for a birthday party last minute, and she would pay me a $25 more for the trouble. I said ok. I finish my 3rd vodka soda. On the day of the party, I arrive at a house that has a “Beware of Dog” sign. I’m a dog momma, I love dogs, and I usually don’t judge a dog by his warning sign. But this warning sign had teeth marks in it. Christ. I knock and knock and knock. No one. I knock some more. No one. Then...

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Crying Into My Cake: Another Day in Clown Town

I found that once I said yes to the clown thing the floodgates were opened. And by flood, I mean a fucking flood! A monsoon! A Hurricane Sandy, a shitstorm of red noses, balloon pants and shame you can hold in your hand. I got a text that asked if I was “avail to do a clown P(P means party. I didn’t know we were starting to abbreviate, but I’m a smart gal, so I figured out the P thing pretty quickly) in the 90035?” I said yes because A. I don’t know LA very well, and I’m not...

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