Tales from the Geor-gyna

Shortly after my best friend, Liz, became a nurse, I became privy to all the sordid details of her gooiest patients. Now let me preface this story with the fact that my mom is a nurse and has never hesitated to come home at night with stories about where she stuck her finger that day. What’s the difference, you ask? I’ve never before heard about the lady-grundle-shattering perils of labor…

One day Liz called me in blissful tears saying how she just had the most beautiful experience of her life to date: helping a woman give birth. “That’s amazing!” I replied, and asked to hear more. After unveiling the descriptions of the poopy mess and hemorrhoids, she proceeded to describe the sound this lady’s chocha made when ripped from Geor-gyna to no-no hole.

…And that’s when I died inside.

On Monday night, however, I realized that helping a woman give birth could be worlds more devastating than the above… well… if that woman is Georgina Sparks, of course. Despite your standard cleanup, assisting the ice queen in labor would also involve having to take cover from her fire-breathing vajayjay and herp sores. That poor nurse probably locked herself in a padded room, shielding her soul from the spawn of Satan.

In truth, the baby in question is a far cuter baby than anything I could think would come out of Georgina. What’s clear here is that the baby isn’t Dan’s (Let me indulge in an “Urrrr DUH” moment here). See, everyone knows that two negatives make a positive... and despite my negative feelings towards the mindless goof, there’s really no arguing that Dan is relatively attractive.

But despite what Dan may look on the outside, I’m fairly certain that his mind must resemble a diaper. Sorry, but wouldn’t you assume that a published writer/NYU honor student would have the know-how to get his own G.D. paternity test? Apparently not. Someone give this kid a big, fat “F” for life skills. The time spent apart from Vanessa, Brooklyn Queen of street smarts, has not done Dan well.

Speaking of stupidity, since when do you cut ties with anyone linked to the royal family of Monaco? Yes, I’m talking about you, Blair Bear. Never hate the on the help… they’re your first class ticket to the palace (ESPECIALLY when they’re so obviously astute to pull a Princess Jasmine on your ass). Idiot.

And while we’re on the subject, whoever is dumb enough to believe that Miss Rent the Runway is actually Gossip Girl needs a lobotomy (or at least needs to catch up on their past seasons). The serial killer wall definitely doesn’t belong in the home of someone who tweets. Tweeting gives you endorphins… endorphins make you happy... happy people just don’t kill Serena Vanderwoodsen.

Well, I guess we’ll just have to tune in to next week to see if the Melrose Place reject really is capable of murder. More importantly, we’ll be able to follow the saga of the only person I really care about, Chuck Bass. I’m actually pretty happy for Chuck, being able to cut the cord to the money tree and start new in a beautiful European country and all. Didn’t you listen to Biggie when he said “mo money mo problems?” ;)