Under the Pier. Alone.
My passenger bailed out in Vegas. The El Camino is parked in Venice, near the ballerina clown.
When did I last sleep? Tuesday morning, I think.
Been on an emotional tilt-a-whirl. Good thing I have the Quisp, the Kids, and the chocolate-covered coffee beans to keep me on an even keel.
Most excellent news came round midnight from my Merde-lywood Mole that Alan Parker slipped and tripped on some spilled Skittles at a pre-production cast party and fell out a second-story window. He'll be in traction for months. And I thought, yea, verily, God is on my side.
Of course the production company and Universal immediately began scrambling for a new director, and I thought whoever they get, he or she ain't a-gonna want a gender-swapped cast of prepubescent Merde-lywood brats.
WRONG AGAIN, WILSON!!!!
They found their new director in a matter of hours, and he LOVES the concept. Feels it will allow him to be more creative with the storyline.
The replacement's name is Michael Mann.
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Sorry. A little spasm in the fingers there. But it's gone now.
I'm fine, I'm fine, really, I'm okay. Got this uncontrollable twitch in my right cheek, but otherwise, I'm amazingly cool. Maybe it's because of this PND I've got strapped to my back.
PND? No, it's not post-nasal drip. It's a Personal Nuclear Device. Picked it up at a street fair in East LA. Forty megatons ought to do it, don't you think?
And those Merde-lywood morons are worried about a Writers Guild strike? HA! Thinking of leaving early to avoid the Friday afternoon rush? HA! NO MORE TRAFFIC JAMS AFTER TODAY, BOZOS!
Those of you east of the Rockies, watch your TVs; those west listen for the boom. Lisa, grab the kids and head for Frisco.
Tomorrow will be a better day. I love ya, tomorrow. Tomorrow Never Knows (ah, but it does). Tomorrow, Tomorrow and the Fairy Chessmen. Will you love me tomorrow. There'll be no tomorrow for Merde-lywood. Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow...
Signing off.
FPW