Chapter 1: 100% that bitch
Had ma hair tall, had ma nails in check, ma miniature Gucci handbag. I, Lizzo, was feelin’ good as hell. I had refused to ask the mirror how I was looking as u know ya bitch was on point.
It was time to get loose.
I strutted self-assuredly into the main hall of the Grammys, amid the rabid cheers and screams of my MULTIPUL fan’s. In one fluid move, I done threw open ma little silky, glitter coated, semi see though, semi-formal, aperitif of a coat, to reveal the main course: a Versace fem-kini, encrusted with swarovski crystal, and took a moment to bask my voluptuous boddess in the (well overdue) praise.
You see, I, Lizzo, was not always the mega super famous goddess of opulence and critical acclaim that you see before you today. That’s right child, ya girl was once a strugglin’ lil Flautist, just trynna twerk her way to the position of first chair in the Jeb Bush memorial orchestra of New Orleans. But all that changed for ya girl one fateful September mid morn… the day I met Taylor…
Ya see, ya girl always been a sucker for some underground (heavily unregulated) jazz-ercise. So I’m sure as you can imagine, the moment ya bitch heard there was an impromptu jazz-ercise extravaganza was going down in my very own New Orléans estate, how excited ya bitch was. These types of pop ups were almost always broken up by the Police within the first few hours, so ya bitch had to get her booty out the door ASAP.
~30 minutes later~
Ya bitch had been tweaking up a storm, jazzing the fuck out for the past 3 minutes, shaking every part of this boddess to that funky jazz beat, and to be blunt, ya bitch was beat!
I decided to catch ma breath, and took a perch to the side to the exuberant and bustling crowd that filled the abandoned building. I sat for a few moments, just taking in the lively environment around me, feeling the high rush over me. That’s when I heard a kafuffle to my right.
“ewwww, get away from me you psychopath!” a woman’s voice exclaimed in horror. I jumped to my feets, ready to knock a bitch out. These jazz types are well known to get a bit pushy, and ya girl had had to step in for more than once bitch at these types of events.
“but they’re so ~reasonably~ priced! How can your resist such a deal? And besides! A woman of your…. build, could certainly benefit from my wares.” Came a croaking southern drawl, was that the voice of… a Woman? I tried to work out where exactly in the crowd the voices were coming from, but to no luck.
“I said leave me alone you crazy horse face looking motherfucker!” the distressed woman shouted and I could finally see the two. The woman was beside the out of order unisex, gender inclusive, bathroom, the woman in distress was a fierce plus size African American queen, not unlike myself, but clearly with much less mental fortitude. The other woman was a gaunt skeleton of a woman, draped in a, what on a normal woman would be a skimpy dress, but on this decrepit cryptid it hung like a sad red tent. This creature of the night lugged behind her what appeared to be an old flight attendant trolley, and clasped in her skeletal hands was a large jar filled with what looked like, at least to ya bitch, to be slightly spoiled spaghetti.
“well I suppose if you *insist* on being a misshapen sack of soggy, mold ridden flannels for the rest of your time in this mortal coil, there’s nothing one such as I,” she paused for a moment to theatrically gesture to her horrifically emaciated frame “can do to convince you” she finished apathetically, pompously turning back to her (surly pilfered) flight attendant’s trolley.
This Shameless, brazen, and quite frankly gaudy exhibition of body shaming wasn’t finna stand with ya bitch, I leapt into action. Pushing though the enthusiastic crowd, sending niggas and bitches alike flyin’, but ya bitch was a big girl on a mission (and there had been enough fat defaming for one eve in my eye)
Ya bitch was nearing the offenddress, but she was scurrying away with that (possibly, no longer operating Pan American Airlines, ya bitch suspect) flight attendant’s trolley with surprising speed, and ya bitch was running outta breath. I was left with no other option. With the power of a small land mine detonation, I pounced reaching ma hand as far as that bitch could stretch, for the mop of bleach blond hair.
Ya bitch grabbed that shit hard as she could, expecting this to somewhat slow my decent, but that bitches hair came right off in my hand, and ya bitch went down like a gorgeous (but no less disastrously ruinous) south world trade tower.
The bitch was wearing a weave! AND the shit was synthetic!
I cast my gaze up to take in the full horror or this bigoted creature, bitch was almost completely bald, save a few wispy tufts of blond hair, hither and thither across her pox ridden scalp. Her face was long and gaunt reminding me of a malnourished horse, her front teeth were disproportionately large, further highlighting her equine simulism.
The expression she wore was one of pure fury, and, ya bitch detected, a bit of BPD (ya bitch very empathic)
“Who the hell do you think you are, you wisdom tooth shaped oaf!?” the creature screeched as she lunged for her cheap synthetic wig, grabbing it back and trying to reposition the cheap plastic to her head, I been known it wont finna work though, no matter how much her spidery fingers worked, shit wont no lace front, This was some party city shit if ya bitch had ever done seen it, and oh, the things ya bitch has seen…
“Nah bitch, who the hell you be thinking you are, coming round ma hood, chatting that fat phobic propaganda shit, trynna tear down a fierce African American plus size diva, and pedalling ya nasty ass week old Chinese takeout!” ya girl was popping off, but this dogmatic carcass just stood there like one of them skeletons in a high school science class, not even blinking her lil eyes, the crowd however had become silent, all turning their attention to the verbal whipping I was laying on this skinny ass bitch, “You, hoe, have some motherfucking nerve coming into this jazzercize semi safe space and pulling this shit! Yeah, we might have the odd rape here and there, or some drug trafficking at some (not all) of these types of meet ups, but girl, rule number one of jazzercize; Big is Beautiful Bitch!”
Rule number two of jazzercize being; you don’t talk about jazzercize. Ya bitch didn’t say that last rule out loud, but I wanted to let Jesus and you hoes reading this shit know now.
But to the matter at hand: Ya bitch been wronged.
The crowd shouted and cheered in support of my empirically true statement, and ya bitch swelled with power, I was ready to destroy a hoe. I lunged forward, this time with well executed precision, right of course to snap that twiggy ass bitch in three. However before ya bitch could even comprehend what was happening, let alone wrap my weave around it, that spooky ass bitch had turned to her little defunct American airline, Pan American issue isle trolley(ya bitch was 99% sure at this point), pulled out one of her rank ass jars of spoiled Chinese or possible Korean noodles, unscrewed the lid of the jar, fished her bony little fingers into the fermented contents, pulled forth a particularly girthy noodle, closed the jar, put it back in the Pan American isle trolley, closed said trolley, and with a shocking amount of vigour and noodle still clasped in her fist, she shoved not just her hand, but her entire arm down ya girls oesophagus, all the way into ya girls lower intestine, where she proceeded to riffle about for a moment. Then with the speed of a presidential funeral, tore her appendage from my mortal boddess, revealing an empty hand.
Before I could respond Ya bitch’s vision began to blur, and the ringing of church bells engulfed ya girls brainz. With the force of 1000 waves ya girl full to the floor, in a crumpled heap. As the crowd was thrown into mass panic and people rushed to attend to my limp pile of woman, the last thing ya bitch remembers seeing, was that bony ass bottom slinking away into the crowd.