Because of my recent much publicized scandal, I decided to lay low last night. An appearance at the Time 100 gala would not be good for me right now, I announced to my fleet of flacks, ducks, handlers, personal assistants and the horse vet I keep on retainer in case I get a horse (equine health is not something to be taken lightly). They were disappointed, as they thought they’d get the night off and apparently they’d booked a private karaoke room, but as I told them when they were hired and forced to sign a multi-page confidentiality agreement, “[ … ]!”
Sadly the designer of my outfit, Hanes, didn’t get the credit for whipping me up one of his fabulous beefy T confections—this one with body of a bikini model air brushed right onto the oversized white shirt itself—and for that I do feel bad. I also feel badly, but that’s because these oven-mitts I’ve taken to wearing around the house really diminish feeling.
I suppose I’m going to need to return the genuine diamonelles I borrowed for the occasion, which is really a disappointment, because canary yellow suits me and really brings out the gold tones in my hair extensions. And I suppose I’ll need to be returning these canaries as well. One of them looks sick anyway.
I may need a bit of help out of these shoes though. Galoshes were a terrible idea—they hardly go with this T-shirt—and they smell likes tires. Plus when I try to pull them off they get stuck. I may as well be wearing two pickle jars on my feet.
Okay fine, you found me out, I was drunk and I shoved my feet into pickle jars and then I thought that I could fool you by calling them “galoshes.” Admit it, I had you going? Clearly you’re too clever for me though, so if we could just get past this and if you could just hold that right there and I’ll just…
Whoa. Are you okay? I should have warned you about that but obviously pickle jars are made out of glass and I don’t think, with both of us now sitting here bleeding, you obviously worse than me, that we really need to be arguing about this. In fact, I’ve had enough of you. I’m going to be needing my own private ambulance with security detail so if you could just clean up this mess and please arrange that right now, I would appreciate it. That will be all.
I’m sure your time at the Red Eye 300 was alot more exclusive then a stupid Times party.
I attended a few years back, got so shit faced i woke up the next day with my Gore Vidal Tattoo. While the tattoo is great, the taste in my mouth has yet to go away, its a mix of gin and type writer ink.
PS. Watching Fox the other night I noticed something, You and Diana Falzone look very similar, are you hiding the fact you two are a pair of sexy coed twins? huh?
I told you I’d brb. I can always sense danger lurking. I hope your injuries aren’t to a great extent. When you walk around in full body armor like me, household accidents are all but gone. That doesn’t guard against specks getting in your eyes though. Maybe switch to a bee-keepers outfit? But enough about preventative maintenance. When you get settled in your private room, let us know where we can send balloons and get-well cards.
Michael.
La.
I don’t get it!