• Wm. Steven Humphrey squirted his panties when Sam Elliott showed up at the Mercury offices. In related news, I met with Mr. Elliott shortly thereafter at the nearby Magic Gardens; I’ll let you slack-jawed cretins decide who showed Sam a better time. And some taint.
• As she has done since time immemorial, Marjorie Skinner expressed rabid, screeching enthusiasm for something utterly, inarguably stupid.
• Ezra “Ace” Caraeff shared a photo of one of his blow-up sex dolls. Enjoy your evening of “going one-on-one,” Mr. Caraeff.
• Like a mewling, pube-less infant, Erik Henriksen whimpered about Legos. SOMEONE TAKE THIS OBNOXIOUS CASTRATO TO MAGIC GARDENS ALREADY. Someone else, I mean. I’m not a fucking babysitter.
• Alison Hallett interviewed a pretentious loudmouth about his excruciating-sounding 24-hour-long monologue. This, according to Ms. Hallett, is “art,” and I gave up reading her rambling interview sometime around the 22nd hour of eye-rolling boredom.
• “Look at all that meth!” squealed young Sarah Mirk, astonished that such stuff exists.
• Courtney Ferguson has displeased me for the last time, and will no longer be acknowledged. Ms. Ferguson, you know what you’ve done. Or, more accurately, haven’t done.
• At long last, Ned Lannamann graced us with his review of Scarface! THANK GOD, MR. LANNAMANN. We’ve all been dying to know what some dipshit ass-drizzle thinks of a film that CAME OUT BEFORE HE WAS EVEN BORN.
• Alex Zielinski reported on some clumsy dickwhistle who fell off a chimney. Congratulations, clumsy dickwhistle! Keep up that level of imbecility and these Blogtown jagoffs will probably offer you a job.
I will return next week, and not one moment before. I urge you to do the same.
Please, let us have Frank entering the Discomfort Zone.