
Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Oh what am I saying? If you can’t hear me, IT’S YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM, DOLLFACE!!! You’re fired.
Now peel me a grape. And get my lawyer in here. Bernie. No, the other Bernie. This Sid Korshak has to be taught a lesson: nobody pushes Cecil B. DeMille around! Now get my wheelchair. I feel like looking at the little people. I need a good laugh.
ISN’T THAT GRAPE READY YET???
No, NOT a red one. I only like the green ones. I hate Reds. While you’re running for your life to find me some green grapes, I’ll just loll here in my golden bathtub filled with tears freshly wrung from the pillows of virginal prom queens turned used-up chorines, and scrub my back with my souvenir loofah wrenched from the pinnacle of Sagrada Familia. God, I love Culture.
And baby, a semi-unfatted soy latte, half-caf. No foam. Three thirty second shots. Stirred clockwise three times by an ivory and unicorn-hair wand.
I’ll be here reading the trades.