My advice is, for now, why not try both? Get a nine-to-five job and do your art in your free time. After you’ve put a bit of money away, quit whatever boring-as-fuck job you’ve taken and move to a bigger city, like Glasgow or Edinburgh, where you can pursue your creative dream. If you don’t like that idea, then why not just forget about the job, forget about the art, and become a hooker? Money’s good, overhead’s low (mouthwash and condoms), and who knows, maybe someday you’ll paint pictures of guys blowing their loads in truck stops or back alleys! You’re gay, right? If not, my bad. (Women don’t make art.)
* * *
Bianca,
I am nineteen years old and trying to figure out what to do with my life. What is the best approach to finding out your passion in life and how to go about fulfilling it?
Alex
Texas
Dear Alex,
I think your first passion should be grammar so you can learn to not go from first person to second person in one paragraph. Anyway, I had so much fun making Hurricane Bianca. Filmmaking is so much more complicated than television or live performance. When I’m doing a live show, I know the beginning, middle, and end because I wrote the fucking thing. Reality TV is not as “real” as it seems; it’s very well structured and the scenes are all mapped out. Film is different because things are shot out of order, with lots of last-minute changes, and the star (me) has almost no say in how it turns out. A hundred hours of film has to be edited down into a hundred minutes of film, and the star (me) has no control over what the editors and director do, so it’s a little daunting. But Hurricane Bianca turned out great, so it was worth all of the stress and anxiety.
Hope that helps your depression! (Notice I made this all about me? Take notes!)
Anyway, back to you and your “passion.” Finding your passion is the easy part; fulfilling it is the hard part. For example, let’s say your passion is nuclear physics . . . but you’re a fucking idiot. The odds on your getting a job as a physicist are about as remote as Rosie O’Donnell getting semen stains on her sweatshirt, cargo pants, or the rest of her lesbian uniform. My advice: Make a list of three things you have a passion for and then figure out which one you could actually make a living doing. Who knows, maybe you’ll be good at two of them and have a really fulfilling life. (Remember Monica Lewinsky, Bill Clinton’s “attentive” intern . . . the fat one with the beret? Anyway, my point is that Monica had three passions—sucking cock, putting cigars up her pussy, and hiding under desks. Turns out, the lucky bitch was good at all three! Talk about fulfilling.)
* * *
Hey Bianca!
I think you’re fucking brilliant, I loved “Not Today Satan” (Adelaide, Australia, July 2016) and I look forward to hopefully seeing your next comedy tour. Love you!
I work in retail. Most of the customers I serve are grumpy old arseholes that completely disregard my humanity and in an indirect, suggestive way, basically tell me to go fuck myself; as if I were born to serve them and kiss their feet. How should I deal with them? Be passive aggressive, kill them with kindness? Help!
Also, my shifts are extremely boring. How can I can keep myself entertained?
Thanks,
Amy
Dear Sourpuss,
Thank you for calling me brilliant; I appreciate the compliment! And you, too, are brilliant. At least brilliant enough to know that offering me a shallow compliment would guarantee my including your letter in the book. (But don’t feel too special. My book contract requires me to deliver fifty-two thousand words. No way was I leaving you out. Ever. Ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever. Did I mention that contractually I have to deliver fifty-two thousand words? To the publisher?)
A dash of salt and a pinch of Clorox! You can eat AND cleanse, AT THE SAME TIME!
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
Amy, you’re a retail clerk, not a Doctor Without Borders. Shoppers don’t care about your humanity; they care that you bring them nice, open-toed shoes to try on. The best way for you to deal with these people is to not deal with them. I suggest you quit and find a work environment that’s more attuned to your antisocial personality. Maybe you could get a job in a morgue, or a school for the deaf, or perhaps the International Space Station.
FYI, I don’t think an antisocial personality is a bad thing. But I don’t work in HR, now, do I?
#FUCKTHATJOB#ITSONLYGONNAGETWORSENEARXMAS
* * *
Bianca,
I work in a small office with five other women. Our boss, a 47-year-old man, has made vulgar, suggestive, borderline harassing remarks to the other five women. I don’t know what to do.
Nervous in Nebraska
Dear Nervous,
First thing in the morning, you should march into the boss’s office and say, “What’s the matter, am I not pretty enough? You’ve harassed every other woman in this office, but not me. What’s wrong? And I can suck the headlights off a Camaro going 120 mph on a salt lick. I have feelings, dammit!”
And if that doesn’t get Bill O’Reilly’s attention, call me; I can put you in touch with Gloria Allred, the Cunt Whisperer.
* * *
Miss Bianca,
I work with a wonderful woman. Not only is she great at her job, but she’s sweet and kind and thoughtful. She’d gladly give you the shirt off her back. But there is one problem, and it’s a big one—her breath. It stinks! You can smell her 100 yards away. Her breath smells like an anchovy’s vagina. She doesn’t smoke or have cancer, her hygiene is fine. I’m pretty sure it’s because she has rotten teeth and gums. (It’s hereditary—I’ve met her parents and they look like jack-o’-lanterns that have been left out in the sun.) I’ve casually offered her mints, gum, candies, etc., but she always says no. I don’t know what to do. Any ideas?
Gary
Palm Springs, California
Dear Gary,
There’s nothing worse than bad breath. Okay, well, that’s not actually true, there are a couple of things worse than bad breath: climate change, camel toes, and Lady Gaga’s second album, for example. But bad breath is a definite boner killer.
Since Hallie Halitosis has said “no” to gum, mints, and candies, offer her Listerine, cough drops, or hydrochloric acid. If she turns them down, too, every time she wants to speak to you, strap on a gas mask before you engage her. Her feelings may be hurt, but better her feelings than your sinuses or lungs.
* * *
Bianca:
One of my colleagues at work, “Frankie,” is under the impression that everyone—including me—is hitting on his wife. He’s been getting loud and obnoxious and kind of menacing, and he’s creating problems in the workplace. Two important things to note: 1. His brother owns the company, and 2. His wife is a pig. I don’t want to lose my job, but the office environment is really becoming toxic. Any suggestions?
Phil
Monroeville, Pennsylvania
This is what happened when Trump deported the kitchen staff.
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
Phil,
How fat is she? Can he have sex with her or does he need a Sherpa to mount Vesuvius?
First thing you might want to do is buy Frankie some glasses. If wifey is as hideous as you suggest, maybe Frankie is blinded by the possibility of big bucks to be earned by Big Bertha. (Not for nothin’, but have you ever seen a thin Bertha? I haven’t. The few Berthas I’ve met were either circus material or too big to even go to the circus, let alone join the circus as a novelty act.)
Second thing is, you might want to find another job.
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I’m a professional singer/actor. I have a nice career—I regularly appear on television in guest roles, I get some supporting roles in films, and I have a strong following on the cabaret/supper club/theater circuit. All is good.
I need some help in dealing with a friend—a BFF, actually. His name is Steven and he is lovely and sweet. The problem is that he considers himself to be in show bus
iness—and he’s not. He hovers around the edges of the industry, getting an occasional low-budget cable show, or hosts an LGBT charity event, or sometimes does a show at a cabaret. He lives off of his rich boyfriend (who, thank God, adores him and takes care of him). The underlying problem is that Steven HAS NO TALENT. None. Zilch. Zero. Nada. The Kardashians are higher up on the talent food chain. He bills himself as a comedian/singer . . . but he’s not funny, he can’t sing . . . and everyone knows it, but him. (He’s handsome and charming, but so is my plumber, and the butch dyke who walks my dogs.) Steven is sort of like Zelig, in that he manages to befriend a lot of famous people, and gets to mingle in their circles. Yet he ONLY talks about himself and his credits—in rooms full of people with actual credits and careers. Steven is becoming a laughing stock amongst people who are actually in the entertainment industry. When his name comes up in show biz circles, eyes roll, and people snicker and giggle. His lack of talent is well-known (again, by everyone but him). If he knew what people think of his “career,” he’d be terribly hurt, but he’s doing such damage to himself and his reputation, I feel that I have to say something. But what? HELP!
Eric D
Los Angeles, California
Dear Eric,
His real name’s not Justin Bieber, is it? Only kidding; Justin isn’t living off of his pastor . . . I mean, boyfriend.
What to do? Say something, bitch, that’s what! If not to “help” Steven, then for the rest of us, who may be subjected to his tin ear, non–funny bone, and insecurity-driven ego. I spend half my day worrying about ISIS, the other half of it worrying about Mike Pence, and the third half worrying that the filler in my cheeks might slip and mix with the collagen in my lips, and I won’t be able to give a halfway decent blow job.
You can try to direct Steven into other show-biz-related careers. You can say, “Hey, Nicky-no-talent, have you thought about producing? You have such amazing leadership skills,” or “Hey, Carl Clueless, you blend in with stars so well; you’d be a GREAT event planner,” or “Hey, Gary Going Nowhere, have you ever thought about getting a job as a drug rehab counselor?”
If such gentle prodding doesn’t work, then it’s time for tough love. Next time you’re in a crowded public place (where he’ll be less likely to cry, hit, or bite), pull him aside and say, “Steven, you know I love you, right?” (Pause.) “Well, you know what you’re trying to do for a living? Stop trying. You stink. You have no talent, and you’re making an ass out of yourself!” (Pause.) “Coffee?”
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I don’t really need any advice I just want to know when you’re putting out a clothing line?
Maggie
Somerset, UK
Maggie, Darling,
I already have a clothing line. It’s by Barnum & Bailey and can be purchased at any circus, carnival, or sideshow near you! Seriously, other than students at the School for the Blind, who do you think would buy my clothes? My designs are so loud that Marlee Matlin covers her ears when I walk by. That said, if I can get Ivanka and her dad to Make America Great Again by producing my dresses overseas, for a nickel a week (Asian kids work cheap), then maybe a clothing line IS something I should consider.
And by the way, Maggie, you do need advice. On how to respond to direct questions. I specifically asked for advice questions, didn’t I? And you specifically didn’t. Just sayin’.
Love you madly. Dumb cunt.
Xoxo ☺
* * *
Dear Bianca.
Our church is putting on its annual summer play. This year we’re doing Auntie Mame, and I’ve got the lead role. Do you think I should use Rosalind Russell or Lucille Ball as the model for my character?
Pat
Omaha, Nebraska
Pat,
Thank you, thank you, thank you! I LOVE theater questions; right in my wheelhouse. It’s like asking Kendall Jenner about STDs. I think it’s great that your church is putting on Auntie Mame; either it’s a very gay-friendly congregation or a very straight congregation with very gay priests. Either way, all good. You don’t say if you’re a man or a woman, or perhaps a schizophrenic (you said “our” church but yours is the only name on the letter), but gender matters. Women tend to be vainer than men—remember in the Lucille Ball version of Mame, Lucy always looked fuzzy on camera, like she had a load of Desi all over her face? That’s because she was a 138 years old, trying to play 60. Fuck putting gauze over the cameras, they shot Lucy through a woven army blanket. If you’re a gay man, go with Rosalind Russell: the fabulousness should come easy. If you’re a woman, go with Lucy and the army blankets. And if you’re a straight man playing Mame, you ain’t that straight. Trust me, sister, you’ll be ass up on a Pride Parade float by late November.
* * *
Bianca,
If you could perform with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?
Mike
Burbank, California
Mike,
When you say “perform,” I assume you mean onstage, as in doing a show with a fellow semicelebrity—as opposed to performing a sex act in a sling chair in a dingy basement with a well-hung D-lister.
What’s up with only one? I’m like Carnie Wilson at a buffet—I need more. What if I wanted to perform with the Village People? Do they count as one, or do I have to pick one individual Village Person? (I’d take the Indian; feathers bring out my eyes.) What if I want to perform with Adele? Does she count as one or two?
Anyway, there are three “artists” I’d love to perform with:
Michael Jackson: I’ve always wanted to see, up close, how he blended the black parts of his face with the white parts of his face and the cherry-red lips. Not to mention finding out how he kept the fake nose in place—tape, glue, string, jizz?
Donny and Marie: More for the backstage experience. (I find their act nauseating; if he’s a little rock ’n’ roll, I’m a little straight. And as for “Puppy Love,” in Vegas it’s a song; in West Virginia it’s a way of life.) I want to see Donny’s Mormon Magic underwear. Is it a onesie? Does it have buckles and snaps? Does it have a picture of Mitt Romney on the ball sack? And what about Marie? Does she wear magic underwear, or maybe just a magic bra or magic tampon? Plus, performing with them would be my first experience in front of a semi-live, lily-white, heterosexual audience who are all dressed in cheap polyester suits and faux costume jewelry.
Midgets or dwarves: I’m sure that somewhere in this vast and beautiful country of ours, there is a stage-worthy midget act, thrilling audiences with songs like “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” “Tiny Dancer,” “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” and “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” They would be perfect costars for me. Why? Do the math: 1 bitter drag queen + 5 singing midgets = guaranteed appearance on America’s Got Talent! And if one of the midgets is missing a limb or has a wandering lazy eye, it’s a winner!
Before the PC police come after me for not saying “little people,” please note I am NOT using the words midget and dwarf in a pejorative or disparaging way. In fact, it’s quite the opposite—I LOVE midgets and dwarves. Especially dwarves. If you don’t know the difference, midgets are small but all of their limbs and features are proportional; dwarves have small bodies, but oddly formed arms and legs and giant heads. FYI, I once almost had sex with a dwarf. We were getting busy when I said, “Would you like a little head?” He got all pissy and offended and stormed out of the gas-station bathroom. I was offering him a blow job but he misunderstood and thought I was making fun of him because he was only two feet six inches tall but wore a size 94XL hat. Whatever.
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I work in a small office and our desks/cubbies are all very close together. The guy who sits next to me, Bob, is nice but he coughs all the time. I don’t think he’s sick—it seems like more of a nervous tic. It’s driving me crazy and distracting me from doing my job. Everyone in the office is aware of it, so it’s not like I can switch desks with someone; no one would make the switch. What sh
ould I do?
Maureen
Huntington, New York
I don’t always sleep here. It’s a time-share.
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
Dear Maureen,
Gently and lovingly say, “Hey, Bob—either get cancer or get Robitussin, but it’s enough with the fucking coughing, already.”
Let me know how that works out for you.
Muah!
* * *
Hi B,
What advice did Joan Rivers give you that you apply to your career or personal life?
Thanks!
Susan
Huntington Beach, California
Hi S,
She told me never to write an advice book—no one would care and no one would buy it. But she’s dead, so I wrote it and you bought it. Fuck her.
Actually, Joan was the greatest. She gave me three great pieces of advice:
Work hard.
Never take a vacation (they’ll forget about you).
Use industrial gaffing tape to tape my dick to my ass so it doesn’t slip out when I cross my legs. Apparently it happened to her, once. MAYBE TWICE.
Never go to a private clinic for an endoscopy. (I’m kidding, she didn’t say that. I made that up. She was in a coma.)
* * *
Bianca,
How do you deal with rude employees at your workplace? There are these two older women that are just plain rude and constantly lie about doing certain jobs and of course I’m trying to play nice but I’m getting to the point that I just want to curse them out . . . please help me out on what to do or say . . .
Much love ♥
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