Porn Star Goes Berserk

Meet Bianca Trump.

This former exotic dancer turned model turned porn star turned escort turned white supremacist turned tattoo artist and all around psycho bitch has a past so tumultuous, so sordid, so wrong, it makes me want to douse myself with holy water. Hell, it makes me feel like a virgin again, shiny and brand new. We need the Biancas of the world to remind us that the average run-of-the-mill vermin (raising hand!) is not beyond repair or redemption. Because if God can forgive Bianca, he, without question, can surely forgive us even if our trespasses are piled up like a ten car wreck in the junkyard of sin.

Here’s my version of the story: Bianca, real name whatever, was born to a large happy family, somewhere in Brooklyn. She gets hitched, supposedly loses her virginity to her husband, ditches him (or gets ditched), finds work by twirling around poles at a strip bar, then as a model, hooks up with some porn dude, makes a shitload of movies during the eighties, the splendor of her honey not exclusive to white men or the opposite sex. Switching gears and reemerging as a very high priced peddler of flesh, she dives headfirst into the maelstrom and adds robbery and blackmail to her soon-to-be extended list of carnage. Brilliantly cunning, she’s believed to be the mastermind behind several robberies.

But, as fate (and karma) would have it, her melon sized implants break and the silicone must have shot up like a geyser into her thinking vessel because she just goes completely loca from this point on. The self loathing former Latin Princess of Porn relocates to the outskirts of Palm Beach where she stirs up trouble with her black neighbors for a real long time before they throw their hands into the air and in her face and beat the shit out of her, all fifteen of them. The cops don’t even bother pressing charges (they were probably black) and her lawsuit against the department is dismissed.

But this is just the beginning. After a stand-off with a shotgun and a SWAT Team and temporary residency at the local looney bin, she heads up north and transforms herself into a tattoo artist. She also hooks up with more bald and heavily inked people who seem to be as endless as the supply of communal Hater-ade they swizzle. Not content with inking people 24/7, the ennui of a real job stirs up a longing for some mayhem of a higher order.

To see how this sordid tale wraps up, read more here and here. Don’t hold it against me if I have the timeline amiss, this story has more curves than a serpentine trail.