Cast away thy typewriter! Put quill to parchment!
G R A P H O L O G Y.
Brrr, how ’bout that snow out there, eh, babe? That’s a lot of fuckin’ snow, Cochise. You should have seen me trying to dig my car out of the snow. My chest tightened up like John Wayne Bobbitt in a Hoffritz. I thought that I was going to have to call Clooney and the boys over at County General to defibrillate. The whole Northeast was totally shut down for a very short while, but you can always count on the East Coast to get themselves out of a jam faster than a Houdini-O.J. tag team. Ha, ha, I don’t even know what that means, but, I’ll tell you folks, I haven’t seen this much plowing since my eight-year-old son forwarded me a downloaded video starring Paris Hilton’s cell phone. The last time I saw this many white flakes, it was on Ed Asner’s shoulders. It’s whiter out there than milk and Nilla wafers at the Tuesday-evening Portland, Maine, Daughters of the American Revolution meeting. I'm talkin’ whiter than an albino Klansman sopping up spilt bleach with a slice of Wonder Bread... Whiter than Eddie Izzard caulking the windows of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Whiter than Dennis Kozlowski’s accountant applying Wite-Out to a 1040… um… than a white man licking… sugar… off a blank piece of paper… and Elmer’s glue? Chalk dust? Ah, fuck it. It’s cold out there, eh, babe? Colder than the ice flowing through Gwyneth's veins. Colder than… a… Frigidaire and… fusion… um… eh… Coldplay… ice cream? Uh, back to white, eh, cha-cha? Talk about tons of white stuff falling from above... it’s like that time I camped out in Robert Downy Jr.’s backyard, and his window was open, and his fan was on high-speed, and all the coke was on the windowsill, and it all… blew down… um… White like… um… a polar bear with no fashion-sense wearing the wrong pants after Labor Day? Wow, this bit is deflating faster than Anna Nicole Smith after sitting on an upturned thumbtack. I'm sorry, folks, the only white I’ve seen is the primo coke Lovitz gave me. It's sunny and warm here in California, and I haven't been back to the East Coast since Lorne canned my ass from the Weekend Update desk faster than Schwarzenegger raiding Chi Chi’s for green cards. Faster than that American idol asshole Justin’s career ended. Faster than the Micro Machines guy on methamphetamines narrating a play-by-play of Olympic runner Michael Johnson on a treadmill after chugging a crate of Red Bull as chaser to a weeklong Phen-Fen binge, which, as we all know, is pretty fast. And, how ya like that gazellelike jeté back to Coolsville, eh? I can turn a shitty, falling-apart rant into gold because I am awesome. Dennis Miller for Senate, folks. Over and out, cha-cha.
© MMIII, Y.P.R. A & M