Shut Up, Steffans

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Karrine Steffans has a new book coming out in two months. It’s a book themed on a subject that’s a noted area of expertise: blow jobs. Excuse me, the title of her book is SatisFaction: Erotic Fantasies for the Advanced & Adventurous Couple. So: bougie blow jobs.

I’ve already made my disdain for Karrine quite clear, but it’s not because she’s uses what she got to get what she wants. I don’t know mind her being a literary example of Ronnie from The Players’ Club top hoe quote. If anything, I wish she’d stick to that script. It comes across as far more credible than anything else she’s tried on us. She can’t, though. Maybe it’s because she’s that in dire need of attention or perhaps she just felt like flipping on the Web cam instead of the cap on her bottle of happy pills the day she filmed this. Whatever her reason is for the back, back, forth and forth stance on selling sex, I find it incredibly annoying.

She’s already lied to Oprah (to her face!) while wearing hair that looked as if it were scalped off some dead woman’s poodle. She’s gonna get hers for that alone, so why not just own what you perpetuate in the meantime? Oh, because she’s getting older. Yeah, she is and I guess after her marriage failed (shocker) she realizes she wants to change some of her ways.

That is, if you actually believe her. I don’t. I guess since I used to believe in Santa Claus for like four years, I might as well play along with Santa Slut, too. Alright, let’s play. This one last time.

The habitual liar says, “I’m a writer, I write shit.”

And then says this about the book that made her a New York Times best-selling author: “It was all fabricated. I didn’t even name my books.”

As for all that media attention: “I don’t wanna be on TV. I want to be anonymous.”

Because: “Authors are supposed to anonymous.”

On the life of a writer: “We’re supposed to be sitting down, getting drunk, smoking opiates and writing some amazing shit. That’s what we all do.”

Wait, I can’t do this. She makes it so hard to play along.

Speak for yourself, oral slurpee.

Call me cynical, but people who stand in their bra and panties with a camera capturing her best side declaring that they don’t want to be famous coincidentally around the time of their next book release are hard to believe. Interestingly enough, had she not done all that promotional blitz and built her narrative around celebrity ejaculation around her truth-allergic mouth for the first book she’d probably not be all that successful a writer. Many folks have sex stories, but not everyone has them tied to a deposit slip. Even fewer of them have that slip signed by a superstar. Or whatever you call the rappers of yesterdecade who used to fawn over her tyrant tongue.

Fortunately for her, she lives in Los Angeles where delusional behavior and delusions of grandeur are considered positive personality traits (to other delusional people who think far too highly of themselves). But to those of us not sippin’ the Kool-Aid snorting the cool coke, she just sounds out of her mind. Then again, that could be her way of finally telling the truth.

Spotted at Miss Jia

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