Today, I went to the supermarket — by which I mean Payless Produce, Halal Carneceria, and 89¢ store — earlier than usual, and ended up waiting in line quite some time next to a woman who claimed to be the mother of WWE star “Chris "The Master" Masters”:http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/chrismasters/. She was dressed for the place, in a dingy off-the-shoulder, hot-in-1992 print sundress, to go with her probably hot-in-1988 boobs, which were rarin’ to pop out of that thing. With big, cheap, dark plastic sunglasses — likely to hide her pinpointed, tweaker pupils — overtanned skin, overeprocessed, brittle-looking long brown hair, and sexy-in-1990 pink lipstick, she leaned in too close to tell me the following, which I swear is all verbatim:
*HER:* “Oh my God,” (nearly stepping on underfoot small Latin child), “Well she’s sure got them,” (referring presumably to the mother of said small Latin child, who also had a younger child with her), “and I’ve still got mine, I’m not letting that bitch get him.”
*ME:* “That’s the spirit!” (Clearly, I didn’t understand what I was getting myself into.)
*HER:* “Yeah, I’m not letting that bitch get my only son. She’s like ten years older than him and that bitch thinks she can take him away from me. Well not me! No, I got her on national television. I served her. On basic cable! Ha. That bitch didn’t know what she was in for when she crossed me. My son’s all I’ve got and that bitch is never getting him.”
*ME:* “Hmm!” (At this point, I’d realized that this woman was not, in fact, good conversation for the next three minutes but was, rather, extraordinarily high, plus probably generically delusional to boot.)
*HER:* “Do you know that bitch is like ten years older than him? And she thinks she’s so hot. She just lost a lot of weight and made herself over to look more like this,” (runs her hands down the side of her body), “and she’s still got that big nose. She’s so not hot.”
*ME:* “Huh!” (At this point, I had her pegged from her face as either about 50 or about 35+the ravages of crank, and was assuming the latter, which left her son about 12-15, and I really didn’t want to hear about his 25-year-old suitor.)
*HER*: “But you know I got her. I got her on Unforgiven, on TV, you know Unforgiven? I wrote them letters and put up a Web page and told everyone about her. All her secrets. And they got her! Did you see her on TV? She asked my son — you know I made him that, I made him what he is today, I tried to make it in Hollywood but this is a tough town, but I knew how my son could make it, I did everything for him, I set him up so that he can succeed, and look at him, he’s succeeded, he’s out there now and he’s on top. I gave him all of that and she’s never taking him away from me.”
*ME:* “Wow you did!” (Oh dear, I’m not nearly to the register yet.)
*HER*: “Do you know she thinks he’s going to marry her? That bitch! She doesn’t know, he’s mine and he always will be. All I gave him! I made him who he is! Do you know they call him The Masterpiece? You know I made him that? I came up with that idea and made his body like that. That’s all because of me. And that bitch thinks she made him. And that bitch thinks that she can ride him ’til she’s on top,” (my conversation partner thrusts her hips to make it clear that she’s using the word “ride” in multiple ways), “but I’m the one who got him to the top.”
*ME:* “Well, good for you.”
*HER:* “But I got her, did you see that? On national TV! She thinks she can be all sexy, with her long brown hair and her body, and she was on TV, interviewing my son, and she says, ‘so Chris, you’re the Master… bater?’ you know, ’cause he’s known as ‘The Masterpiece’, and he gets all mad and says ‘No, I’m the Masterpiece, like Michaelangelo made,’ and she says ‘Oh, like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?’ Ha! You should’ve seen her! I told them she was stupid, I wrote them letters, and finally they let her show it! You shoulda seen that! I punked her! She thought she could get all sexy, making her body like mine, and yeah she looks like me but she don’t got what I got.”
*ME:* “Well, I’m going to buy my food now…”
*HER:* (Goes to the other register, starts unloading her stuff onto the belt, puts it in with the stuff they’re bagging at the other register, then, says to the guy who’s bagging his stuff,) “Oh, sorry, I’m all on top of your groceries, sorry, didn’t mean to, that’s not what I want to be on top of, you know what I’m saying?”
*ME:* Buys my stuff and walks out the door.
*HER:* (Running up after me,) “Hey, you got basic cable? Watch it Monday night, USA, Channel 40. Laugh at that bitch when she says something stupid! And laugh at my son too! Look at me! Look at where I’m shopping!” — incidentally, where I’m shopping — “After all I’ve done, you think he could get me a house, set me up, I could shop at a good place, you know? Look at me! Look at this place! I shouldn’t have that! If you see that girl, say,” (and this at the top of her lungs, in the parking lot,) “fuck you you whore, keep the fuck away, you know?” (Slams car door).
I love the famous. Clearly, “spurned relatives of C-list celebrities” would make a wonderful reality show.