The Scandalous Ecstasies of the Statuesque Sensationalists

INTRODUCTION THE VIEW FROM THE PERCH OF AN ALPHA BUDGIE
My most peculiar little audience, for this frightfully cheeky little jolt of a salty memoir, this immensely intimate little magnum opus, is the absurdly curious, garishly bizarre, and relentlessly fanatical Jill St. Brandelis fan club, an eccentric alliance of pop-culture-addicted annoyances whom have been implausibly known as “The Lushly Romantic Jill St. Brandelis’ Sensational Fan Sensualists!” ever since the fabled “Summer of Love” release of that 1967 Jill fan fave LP album, “The Sensual Jill St. Brandelis’ “Sensational!””
Wildly obsessed Jill-fan legions, your fondest of frivolous daydreams are now springing into pure silver realities, as here, today, with pen in hand, am I! Yezz’mum, your adored Jill’s exquisite big sister Pill Strathspey is kickin’ it in your house! Yes, the swinging “Sixties!” lifestyle icon Pill is now personally yapping printed words into your spellbound little faces! So keep those giddy little minds alert, as you proceed to vibrantly connect with my most fascinating of Pill-memories, yes indeed, as the trashiest places in your eager hearts enthusiastically fill to the brim with the real living thrill of Pill-insight! Prepare to feel some ecstatic glee! It’ll all be knock-a-block now!
Oh how my broad mind boggles, beneath crashing waves of nervous distortion, as I ponder you sheepy-like flock of ineptly self-proclaimed ‘sensational Jill-fan sensualists’ almost inexhaustible adulation of my oft syrupy sister of the “Sixties!” pop fame Jill. Yes, dears, I must disclose that you leering pack of stimulation-starved Jill idolaters possess quite the plucky audacity to persistently insist upon my personally activating the splashy intentional spilling, of the scandalous inside scoop revelations, upon the tawdry subject, of those recent tabloid notorious thrills of your gracefully aging yet inexplicably deified little pop-slopping has-been frill-of-a-thrill Jill. Oh how shaming that you Jill St. Brandelis camp followers have explicitly solicited such luridly sensationalist chit-chatty muck of me, the personally proclaimed “praiseworthy Pill Strathspey,” yet a pen to my hand you incorrigible lot have put.
“Oh, but, why?” I once again ask of my once serene self, “Oh but why is a privacy loving Pill Strathspey penning this word-packed star-memoir for you bafflingly fanatical Jill-legions? For ever more money? Ugly self-spiting fame? Tacky notoriety? Or merely because I have a giddily wild-eyed publisher actually physically tugging upon my too lovely hand with pleading brows creeping me out?”
Oh, woe! How my sister Jill and I have been relentlessly tormented by you hellishly pursuing coalition of tabloid-drivel architects and Jill-a-holics since those past-September headline days arose! You lot have shamelessly dispatched weird letters to our box, transmitted lewd facsimiles, fired off menacing memos, posted ominous telegrams, mortified our ears with obscene phone calls! You have ever so callously dared to irritate our oft delicate nerves with constant photo snaps, rude bum pinches, menacingly glares, and tasteless autograph inscription requests!
Oh how dare you lunatic lot so viciously publicly stun us pair of extraordinarily mannered sisters with such rude verbal jousting, such as, “Pose for a photo, bitch!”, “Give us your latest sleazy scoop, you great tuneful pantywaist!”, “How about a song, girly sex fiend?!”, “Come on over here and let us leer at you, you lofty old slag!”, and “You know you’re wanting it, so turn around and come give us each a wet smacker of a kiss!” Oh how dare you rascally cluster schmuck of gutter-minded media boys daily yelp and whistle and holler up at me when I am high upon my lofty terrace perch, wrecking my gloriously illuminating Zen Buddhist meditations, which for years I have daily indulged upon after my early morning tea! Oh how dare you raging cage full of scurrilous cretins disrupt my quaint happy birthday party, by spitefully spilling your brazen bags of tawdry tricks over Lord and Lady Twick’s ancient estate’s ivy covered wall, when I and my much-adored lot of Pill-pals refused to turn our fine-looking faces towards your unkindly intrusive direction! N’oh how dare you dishonourably malicious tabloid-cruds-on-a-shocking-rampage so bloodily pound our slowly creeping limousine, with clenched fists, and cruel obscenities, at the heartrending, media-maddened funeral! Whether you be tabloidistés, or Jill’s lost legion of woozy fans, the lot of you absurd packs of ravenous Jill-scoop-hungry creep-feature-creatures slop your mucky glut from the same scandal covered plate! Oh what dread agony hath been publicly bent about our lovely swan necks by ye most odiously off-putting of pebble lobbing annoyances of late!
Yet, I most blushingly now admit that I do sincerely hope that you mad little Jill-idolaters shall finally find some candid fan contentment, once you have finished your tattle-prattle read of my unadulterated honesty, personally designed to enlighten your eager minds with the brave truths of this Pill and your Jill—as I clearly define our Pill-natures and Jill-natures, as I so very generously offer insight into our fascinating Pillisms and Jillisms. Oh how your excited little human monkey eyes shall soon widely bug, in garish animation, as your tender lips elatedly sense the tingling tickle of the most incessant little bouts of tittering, as you lot feel your hearts go soaring giddily uppity, in near maniacal wonderment, as the curve of your jaws oft spontaneously drop, in thrilled super-amazement, as you dizzily read the frightfully scandalous, thrillingly lurid, sheer naked muscle of raw ultra-sensationalism bottled up within the sensually exciting throes of “The Definitive “Inside” Jill St. Brandelis Fan Scoop Ultimate!”