Miss Chrissy is too busy barfing to write and I am too busy running around after monkey pants Otto and auditioning for commercials that involve florescent colored processed foods, sub par candy bars that look and taste like neglected turds and grocery store chains frequented by coupon clippers and melon squeezers.
I am lucky enough to have a new neighbor who is an exact replica of the basement, cross dressing serial killer from Silence of the Lambs. He has moved in with the neighborhood floozy who thinks rubbing her self down with shoe polish is a great substitute for a professional fake tan and giving hands jobs for a line of coke is normal.
Then, by a stroke of dumb luck, I was behind a guy at Ralph's Fresh Fair yesterday who was buying only three things. I looked down on the conveyor belt and saw a copy of the James Patterson novel Run For Your Life, a generic box of red food coloring and a carton of buttermilk. No, he was not the same guy who just moved in next door. Good guess, though. He was either a creepy dude who wanted to pretend to torture someone by reading a step by step instruction manual and then create a fake crime scene in his apartment, not realizing that corn syrup is the preferred fake blood substance, not a gooey, milky substance adored by the Amish. Or, he was a serial killer who was planning on baking a red velvet cake to choke his victims with and then cover their eyes with silver dollar buttermilk pancakes while doing a little light reading in his wheelhouse.
Christian Bale, the same guy who treated me like a Jehovah's Witness at the front door when I interviewed him for a show I was hosting, flipped out on a crew member of Terminator 4 and it was all caught on audio, much to my immense pleasure.
On Monday, I heard the Sham Wow reference five times in one day.
American Idol, Hollywood Week has arrived and I lie on the sofa drinking up the epic failure of others and the tear jerking successes of nobodies.
My hair just quit on me.