Sunday, November 02, 2014

Chris Quinn's John Kasich video revives orgy night

The orgy circuit's been slow upstairs. Ralph Perk gave himself a hyrnia pile driving Betty Cope at the last one, so with injuries, the gossip crowd, and images none of us can get out of our heads just yet, me and Tom Brazaitis been goin it alone, which gets boring. So we had to order out for hand delivered brown paper bag material. The usual stuff don't cut it up here, kids.

"I know just the thing," Brazaitis whispers across my heaving bosom. Next thing I know Northeast Ohio Media Group Online Editor Chris Quinn is at the door with a special delivery from the land of the living. Brazaitis pops a video into his laptop, invites Quinn to stay. 

"Wait a minute...," I say. Old Dot has standards. I pour some gin. "Quinny Boy needs to audition first." 

Brazaitis drops his pants to reveal his glorious "County In Crisis" tattoo across the hairiest ass in the entire known CLE media afterlife. "Pucker up, pal!"

Quinn gets on his knees and licks his way across every letter in the font, nice and slow. Great. I ain't got time for this crap, so I press play on the video. There's one guy in a suit, another guy in an open collar, talkin' birth control. Why me. Brazaitis bolts for the door.

I toss my corset, Brazaitis slips on it, I'm all over him. "Not so fast Tommy. Lemonade from lemons." Delivery boys from the land of the living don't just fall off the tree every day, who cares if their snuff video ain't all its cracked up to be. I pull out the stirrups, saddle up Quinny, Brazaitis starts shouting "I'm pro-life! NEO MAHHHHGGGGG" and it's on. 

We're a bit loud, so word spreads, soon we got a crowd. The Van Sweringens bring their cage, Arnold Pinkney puts a bowl of condoms in the corner, Gib Shanley and Fannie Lewis use Quinny like an electric bar room riding bull. The video's a hit! 

Next morning at Ghourladi's canasta game, I get a bottle of VO for bringing the swing back to the afterlife. Del Donahoo asks for a copy of the video. 

Back in business!

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Hey Dot! Reader mail, Andrea Rocco's attorney edition!

Here in the great beyond, all of us dead Cleveland media celebs really cannot understand why you people haven't figured out "commenting", the same way your Ol' Dot has figured out "blogging". You still send letters. Use the comments! If this old lady who interviewed Hitler himself can figure out blogging, you can figure out commenting. To the mail!

Hey Dot!   
My client, a woman not Ed FitzGerald's wife, has demanded I send out cease and desist letters to anyone (a) mentioning the missing person's report her husband filed on her, (b) alleging this combines with her recent Clerk of Courts gig to form a CLE sex scandal worthy of Joel Rose sending panties through the mail (who I do remember, vaguely), and (c) journalists. Please help. Who are all these dead people you hang out with? I need full legal names and addresses. 
Yours,
Clerk of Courts Andrea Rocco's two bit hack attorney
This is the most popular question in reader mail - "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?" - Really? You never heard of Margaret Bourke White? I suppose you never heard of "school" either. Betty Cope takes this the hardest - all those years riding a stuffed zebra like Lady Godiva whoring herself out to sell a few used candleabras during her "auction" took quite a toll. Ghoulardi likes to pick at that scab with a spectacular zebra-vibrator-leather-harness act on the weekends. In my day, journalists wished people would sue them. Begged for it. So fire away, shit stain! Aint' my job to make sure you never get a "return to sender". Besides, there's Google. We'll shove your cease and desist letter up Ghoulardi's zebra's you know what, then use it as a dildo.
Hey Dot! 
I got a cease and desist letter from the attorney of a woman not Ed FitzGerald's wife who was reported missing by her husband once, a report which I have seen with my own eyes! Now, she's Clerk of Courts! Is this a story? I don't know what to do. Normally, I'd chase this attorney into the bathroom to catch him jacking off into the toilet paper dispenser, because that shit is money! But, I'm a coward. What to do? 
Yours,
Tom Meyer, WKYC Investigator

Kids, Ol' Dot is used to her "competitors" wagging their dicks around claiming they already got the scoop I'm chasing. Picture me holding my heaving bosom in your face - then suck it, Tommy. I'll pour a shot of Four Roses down my love cleavage to make it palatable. For once in your piss ant gutter chasing life report some actual news.

Hey Dot! 
My wife has been fellating her way up the county government ladder for years, (kinda like that lesbian Episcopal priest you covered once) but I took it personal for a minute and filed a missing persons report shot across her bow, which in hind sight looks rather rash. I asked Kevin Coughlin for advice, he said toss a few cease and desist letters around, don't worry, they're all cowards, they'll all spike it. But now, I'm nervous, as my wife isn't the only "woman not Ed FitzGerald's wife". Can I count on your colleagues to stay mum?  
Yours,
Philip Palmer, Clerk of Courts hubby

Careful who you refer to as Ol' Dot's "colleagues", sparky. I don't have any "colleagues" left in CLE journalism, which died with me. Don't worry, in two months, no one will care how your wife sashayed up the ol' food chain. Betting on CLE media to live in mortal fear of wifey's lawyer for 2 months is a pretty solid bet, so why not join the fun! Here in the great beyond, if 15 minutes pass without a Caligulan orgy breaking out, the party's a dud. Yolo!
Hey Dot! 
While a prosecutor, mayor, and county executive, I've been fucking everything that walks while not being a licensed or insured driver for about 10 years. Living above the law I enforce with an iron fist for political gain has been great, I even got myself one fine-ass Clerk of Courts out of it. Now that I'm running for governor, I'd like to use this to my advantage politically so I can take another step in my birthright destiny toward POTUS. Please advise. 
Yours,
Ed FitzGerald, Cuyahoga County Executive

Let that freak flag fly, son! For pointers, scroll through my blog. Ralph Perk has a few go-to moves you might like to try on for size. Be careful, though, Tom Johnson tends to seek out whores like you for some righteous schadenfreude come uppance. Which can briefly get ugly before he makes you the star of the show in a dog cage.

Back to the shoe leather.


Friday, August 08, 2014

Unlicensed driver Ed FitzGerald wakes me up



Last night my eternal slumber was interrupted when I realize Joel Rose is between my legs with my panties on his head floor polishing his way around the ol' squeeze box. This is how Yahweh decides I need to rise and shine and chase a scoop...great.

Joel wastes no time. "History is repeating itself Dot!" I shove him off the bed, call Elliot Ness.

"Spill it, Ness."

"Remember that lesbian episcopal priest Cleveland mayor scoop? Same damn story Dot."

"On my way." I grab my corset from around Joel's bulging hairy midriff, head over. Ness is pourin' me a Canadian Club. Neat. Lights us two Lucky Strikes. Our eyes meet. Forty five minutes naked on his desk later, I get the scoop.

"Dot, I need to find this missing person's report." I waddle on over to Betty Cope's early bird canasta game. Big crowd. Tom Brazaitis is showin' everybody the COUNTY IN CRISIS tattoo on his hairy ass. They're all ignoring me, except Barnaby, who's already two bottles of J&B into his morning, feelin' frisky.

"Need a licensed driver, Dot?" Everybody's a comedian.

"Any of you 'media pros' seen this missing person's report?" I still got Mr. Sandman in my eyes from just waking up out of eternal slumber, like I need these two bit hacks and their hijinks.

Ghoulardi slaps Brazaitis on his bulbous canker encrusted hairy tattooed ass, shouts "Here's your missing persons report, you frigid old maid!" Brazaitis pours a shot of VO through his cheeks, Casey Coleman and Nev Chandler fight each other for the best angle to swallow it down, now we got a party at my expense. Arnold Pinkey unfurls a banner screaming "Welcome Back To The Beat Dot!" like it's my birthday, and then it's on. I wake up in the Van Sweringen Brothers' hot tub surrounded by floating underwear, but no leads on my scoop.

Let's do this people.


Sunday, May 04, 2014

Dot's End of Primary Awards!

Well dears, Ol' Dot's gonna retire again. Up here, we can sleep as long as we want without even knowing how many years pass, so in 2006, when my first posthumous scoop emerged, I just popped outta bed from 20 years of blissful eternal slumber and got to it. This year, I'm a bit miffed at whoever woke my ass up for a scoop that turned out to be nothing more than the usual Caligulan orgy of media whores filling their orifices with cash from big shots.

So, back to bed. Wake me up when there's a real scoop to cover. You don't think Ol' Dot already has these pimps pegged? I need reminding what a barren wasteland of sellouts and whores Cleveland media has become since I kicked the bucket like I need Tom Brazaitis rubbing his hairy ass between my heaving bosom. Please. Dog bites man ain't news.

But before that, awards! You know, the new business model. Lists! Let's get to it.

Joel Rose "Panties On Their Face" Award - Tom Beres

For excellence in carrying water for an advertiser running for high office. Ol' Dot can see a politician buying off a TV station from a mile away. Apparently, Tom can't see it sitting in the edit suite for 15 years staring right at it.




Ted Stepien "Scheisterism" Award - Jimmy Haslam

For achievement in carpetbagging. Two years ago, CLE never heard of this two bit thief. Now, he's got the city throwing bags of money at him no questions asked. Clever!




Betty Cope "Shameless Whore" Award - Mark Naymik

For record time high speed copy and pasting from a PR flack while seeking to fleece poor people. To go from your favorite PR flack's freakout, to column in print, in 48 hours, suggests hyper reactive muscles in the cut-paste area of the index finger. If I had that kinda finger, I wouldn't need Gib Shanley in the boudoir.



Ghoulardi "Dada Perfection" Award - Tim Russo

For achievement in bewildering others. Who the hell is this guy? Ghoulardi can't stop talkin' about him, watching his videos, cackling like a hyena with laughter. And Ghoulardi's the only guy who gets the joke apparently!




Bob Hughes "Vampire Squid" Award - Armond Budish

For performance in high suction at the public teat while bankrupting seniors for cash. Fifteen years is a long time to be liquidating seniors' assets so they can live on Medicaid. The American Dream! Soon, he'll be living high off the taxpayer too. This guy is the Mary Lou Retton of prostitution! Can't wait til he arrives in the Great Beyond, gimme that Hebrew, I'll make a man out of him. He'd look great swinging from the stirrups with Barnaby's parrot dangling off his nose. That, I'll wake up for.



Del Donahoo "Why Do You Even Exist" Award - Chris Quinn

For excellence in bending over. Journalism stopped being a profession in CLE when I kicked the bucket, and this guy is the most bloated maggot feeding off its dead carcass in town. Look at that hair!!! Get him up here! Do you have any idea what Tom Brazaitis would do with this guy in my steel cage whip and chain chamber? I could sell tickets!


Arnold Pinkney "Who Me?" Award - Kent Whitley

For selling out your own kind for a buck. Twice even! To fellow honorees! Once to Armond Budish, and then to Jimmy Haslam, all in the span of a year.


Casey Coleman "Woe Is Me" Award - Tom Hamilton

For achievement in repetition of a billionaire's sales pitch. Talk about soiling your own reputation. It's OK Tom. Nev Chandler is up here waiting for you. He has a thing for baseball announcers which flares up whenever he hits the sauce a bit too much.


Fannie Lewis "Judas Goat" Award - Frank Jackson

For shoveling tens of millions from poor people to billionaires TWICE in 8 months. I mean...wow people. When me and Sam Miller used to kick it in Shaker, after a sweaty roll in the hay, Sam would talk in his sleep dreaming about someone this shamelessly Dickensian. Now, he's got his man.


Jane Scott "You Ain't Rock n' Roll" Award - Nancy Lesic

For pimping herself out for Gateway TWICE in one LIFETIME. That shit speaks for itself, kids. At Peter B. Lewis's bong night last week, I talked to Arnold Pinkney about this dish, and he couldn't stop laughing. Maybe it was Peter's herb.


AND FINALLY!!!!!!


The Alan Freed "Payola For Everyone" Award - Jon Benedict

For obvious reasons. This corpulent porcine discount rack whore really is the Mona Lisa of billionaire prostitution, no? Even his tie is color coordinated! Ol' Dot used to bump into his type at the Theatrical on a Tuesday night, you know, when it's a bit slow, and the pimps are the only people on the street in town. They'd put this guy to work in a heartbeat. The Van Sweringens toss dude's 8x10 around just to start the party. Like last night at Margaret Bourke White's canasta game - took us an hour to deal another hand.


Well, kids, I'm off to slumber for a few more years. Or decades. Or maybe I'll get eternity this time, seems there's no return for journalism in Cleveland, so why not sleep out the entire existence of the cosmos? This is Dorothy Fuldheim, signing off.



Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Hey Dot! Reader mail from Joe Roman, Jimmy Haslam, Chris Quinn



What a dud my scoop turned out to be.  All that work I did dodging Tom Johnson's fists, chasing dentists, crawling up Tom Brazaitis's hairy ass and whatnot led to the same old story - a seething maggot pit of incestuous whores. What else is new. Dot's got the cure - reader mail!

Hey Dot!
Business is great, next decade looks even better. I need some advice. Where can I actually spend all this taxpayer money I live off of like a cockroach on a pile of dung? I'm feeling bloated.
Yours, Joe Roman

Hey Joe! You have to die and get up here before seeing anything good enough to justify that kinda money. Pretty soon, though, you won't be able to squeeze any more blood from that turnip. Just ask Bob Hughes. Better find a Plan B!

Hey Dot!
I'm from Tennessee. This whole urban midwest gritty working class ethnic thing is makin' me thirsty. Can you recommend a local champagne that these dopes will think is Polish?
Yours, Jimmy Haslam

Hey Jimmy! Get with the program. Today's CLE is a 216 Logo NEO Synergy Incubator Corridor NEOMG "THIS IS" hashtag gutteral snort sounding meaningless acronym suitable for a grant application. Ain't nothin' working class ethnic about it, you can bet your rootin' tootin' craft ale on that, Mr. Home Boyyyyy. Stick with the Dom Perignon.

Hey Dot!
Big problem. These billionaires' hot pokers up my ass are starting to chafe. I don't mind that one end comes out my mouth with C notes on a spike, but I'm so sensitive...you know...down there. Help!
Yours, NEOMG Editor Chris Quinn

Hey Chris!  Man up and lube up. Everyone knows that since I kicked the bucket journalism in CLE died with me. Your destiny is to channel cash, out your mouth, no matter which orifice it enters through, for eternity. Who do you think you are, Betty Cope?

Tuesday, April 08, 2014

Del Donahoo finds Armond Budish's cash

Here in the Cleveland media celeb afterlife, we know how to follow the money. It's our eternal penance for ignoring every incestuous seedy money laundering racket that lined our pockets when we still walked the earth. Betty Cope is the go to gumshoe on this topic, for obvious reasons.

Me and Betty are kind of an item, and my scoop hit a dead end thanks to $40,000 going into a black hole. So one night after rolling in the hay, I whispered a sweet nothing across the pillow.

"Betty, where's this money goin'?"



Betty plays coy, like her virgin ears couldn't possibly conceive of an instance where taxpayer money gets handed to an elected official on a silver platter then disappears.

"Ummm....Dot?.... this is a bit touchie." Breaking fucking news.

"Betty, if you wanna keep dippin' your toes in Ol' Dot's ocean of lust, better cough it up." Betty plays the victim, jumps outta bed, straps on her corset, storms out the bedroom with her nose in the air. Great. Now I gotta play hardball.

I pick up the phone. "Del?" Donahoo just arrived upstairs, and if anyone has loose lips and knows where this money's goin, it's a guy who spent a few decades at WKYC and suddenly has penance to do to pay the rent.  Del sounds groggy, tells me it's early, I hear Margaret Bourke White in the background picking up condom wrappers or something, why am I callin' him, blah blah blah.

So I cut to the chase. "Do I have to come over there and have Gib Shanley put you in his ceiling stirrups for a couple hours, or are we gonna make this easy on the both of us?"

Donahoo coughs it up. I chase down Betty at Tom Braziatis' morning canasta game, let her have it. "Care to change your story, Cope?" Betty's busted. Starts begging for mercy and whatnot. Brazaitis suggests make-up sex then a round of Bloody Marys. Four hours later, Betty and Del are at my place over a bottle of Four Roses spillin' all the beans.

Ain't nobody scoopin' the Queen of All Cleveland Journalism. Ol' Dot's still got it.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Ted Stepien spikes the punch, steals party favors

No one knows how Ted Stepien got through the pearly gates instead of ending up with Art Modell getting chewed upon by Satan himself for eternity. Gib Shanley thinks he bribed St. Peter's intern. Nev Chandler's theory involves Ted sweet talkin' Mary Magdalene...somehow? Among dead CLE media celebrities in the great beyond, Stepien is the skunk at the party.

My scoop has gone a bit sideways, now that Stepien's filthy out of town progeny are bellying up to the public teat for another boondoggle on the taxpayer nickel. So I head over to Elliot Ness's Del Donahoo welcome party to pick his brain, figure out who's whoring out to whom, which is hard, since practically every hoi paloi in CLE is bent over Jimmy Haslam's knee with a crow bar up their ass.

Well, we've been waitin' for Del Donahoo to kick the bucket for a long time, so the place is packed. Every dead CLE media celebrity is cuttin' a rug, Del's Folks got him up on a chair over their heads while Frankie Yankovic plays the Hava Nagila. Me and Ness are whispering sweet nothings to each other at the punch bowl, when Ted Stepien slinks over, pretends he's looking for something, then disappears.

Ten minutes later we're all trippin' like Ken Kesey's bus. Barnaby is wavin' his arms making barking noises, Tom Brazaitis is staring into the underside of his finger nails, Betty Cope is tryin' to put her head through her legs and fold herself into a question mark. This of course leads to the most epic orgy scene this side of Caligula. Hours later, we're coming to, need to come down easy, so we head to Peter B. Lewis's for some chronic.

Everybody's weed is gone. All of it. Turns out Stepien was the seven headed lizard spider octopus vampire squid ostrich....thing we all saw reaching into our pockets before the orgy started. Well, you don't tug on Superman's cape, and you don't take Peter Lewis's herb. Lewis sent Ghoulardi and Arnold Pinckney to Stepien's place, retrieved the goods, and left Stepien in a straight jacket with an eight ball in his mouth.

This scoop is taking it's toll!

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Tom Brazaitis tattoos "County In Crisis" on his ass

Being the hairiest dead CLE media celebrity in the great beyond, the PD's wise man Tom Brazaitis is in demand. Luckily, he's had a thing for me since Ted Stepien's private room at the Theatrical, so I got dibs.

Last nite, Tom makes me a highball, we start with the foreplay and whatnot, on my way down, I see this tattooed on his ass.




My "nose for news" ain't what it used to be, but who can think about sex when a scoop is staring you in the face plastered across the hairiest ass in the afterlife? I cut right to the chase.

"This some kinda joke, Tom?"

Tom gets cheeky. "Trail gone cold on your scoop, Dot?" I pull the handcuffs and horsewhip outta my jewelry box, he gets the message right quick. "Cough it up, Tom, or shit gets real."

"Easy! EASY!" Tom starts begging, then spills the beans. Apparently the Plain Dealer lost it's "County In Crisis" typeface now that this guy is on the take from, you know, the county. "Whole newsroom is lookin' for this font," Tom says. "Well, here it is, right on my hairy ass."

I pick up the phone, call Elliot Ness. "Hey!" Tom whines, "we're in the middle of somethin' here!"

"Not anymore." Ness picks up, I let him have it. "Since when does a guy running for county executive on the take from, HELLO, the COUNTY get a free pass from a newspaper that's spent the last half decade prancing around shouting COUNTY IN CRISIS?"

"I'm on it, Dot," Ness says. In that voice. The voice that gets me to forget about Brazaitis's hairy ass then and there.

"Tom, I got work to do. Pull up your pants and hit the road."

"But....but...."

"Take your fancy tattoo over to Del Donahoo's new place, I ain't got time for games." At Ness's place, we go at it for an hour or two, light a couple Lucky Strikes, then get down to business over a Tom Collins.

"Ness, if the PD is ignoring this....." Ness winks.

This scoop is wearin' me out.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Tom Johnson beats the living crap out of Democrats over sin tax

Up in heaven, the Son of Man (whatever) has a few enforcers. Progressive mayor hero Tom L. Johnson is the Messiah's designated hitter for dead CLE celebrities who need a message sent downstairs. Think the Godfather crossed with Steve McQueen and Cary Grant.

Last night me and Ghoulardi are tossin' back martinis at Gib Shanley's, Tom glides in quietly, lookin' for action like Patton into Germany.  Pours himself a cognac.

"So Dot," he says to me, loud enough for the room to hear. Elliot Ness peeks over from the punch bowl. Every dead Democrat in the room is suddenly drinking faster.

"Yes dear?" I say with my bedroom eyes. But Tom's all business. Gets louder.

"Since when do Democrats take money from the poor and give it to the rich??" Uh. Oh.

Ghoulardi yells, "Fight!" Across the room, Ralph Perk downs his shot of Four Roses, makes a run for the door. Tom gets between Perk and the door. A momentary stare. BOOM, Johnson's fist goes through Perk's face like it ain't even there, Perk hits Gib's liquor cabinet on the way down, glass is everywhere.

Silence. Johnson adjusts his lapels, dusting off splashes of cognac. Calmly, he continues. "Who wants some more?" Then he holds this up.


John Coyne tries to save the day. "Listen, Tom, I know what you're thinkin'..." Johnson ain't havin' it.

"SHUT. THE FUCK. UP." I start takin' notes. The Queen of All Cleveland Journalism loves her a throwdown. Johnson does his best Clint Eastwood growl, whispery, menacing. "Every one of you two bit hacks... better dial up whatever seance afterlife gizmos you got.... and send this down the wire." Five minutes later, every dead Democrat from Cleveland is piled in a corner like cord wood, glass, beer, 100 year old scotch, Dom Perignon, you name it, sprayed all over the joint. Johnson walks out without even wrinkling his tie.

Me and Ghoulardi had to console Gib with an all night threesome over the loss of his entire liquor stash. My scoop is getting better by the day.


Tuesday, February 04, 2014

My partial from Armond Budish's dentist gets stuck

In the great beyond, I still have to deal with dentures. Took it up with Mr. Almighty on arrival, no dice. So I learned to make your teeth coming out an asset in the boudoir. Plus I got a whole routine for cocktail parties - down a bourbon, pop em out, hit the bottle, pop em back in like tossing a coin. It's a scream every time.

Barnaby saw some fly by night scam artist on TV, wakes me up on a Sunday, buys the whole racket hook, line, sinker.

"It's Armond Budish's guest expert!" That sucker born every minute they used to tell you about? That was Barnaby. Before his second bottle of J&B.

"Is that some sort of a tree?"

"No! Armond Budish! He's a 'senior advocate'!" Right.

"And you used to see a parrot in that cage."

"We all nearly puked in the punch bowl last time you popped 'em out, just get it done DOT!" Well, Ol' Dot's hygiene is a priority, so I went to this scheister. Wasn't cheap either.

Two weeks later, we're at Arnold Pinkney's new pad for a canasta game. Ralph Perk deals, Nev Chandler passes me the Canadian Club, I go into my routine. Down the first shot, try to pull out my partial. My hand slips off, head snaps back, chair tips, next thing I know I'm layin' on the floor with my corset in the air.

"HA HA HA," they all start hootin, hollerin, throwin' cards at me, spritzing beer bottles at an old lady rolling around on the floor with her teeth half out of her face. I get up, grab the bottle, see Barnaby taking off in full gallop, give chase.

"You're gonna get yours...." I try to yell, but it comes out, "grrnnghh urrghgnt blrffbt". More cards get thrown at me. So much for canasta.

Long story short, Barnaby got his. I made him pull out my partial with his own hands, then fashioned a cat o' nine tails out of it, strapped him to my ceiling, had Joel Rose make him the sub for my weekly threesome. This 'senior advocate' is gonna wish that's all he gets, cuz now I'm walkin' around flappin my gums like a dust bowl hokie.

This scoop is more work than I thought.


Friday, January 24, 2014

Hey Dot! Reader mail from Browns coach Mike Pettine

Polar votex edition! Let's get straight to the mail bag.
Hey Dot! I'm a money laundering senior fleecing pimp. In other words, a Republican. I've stitched up the endorsement of my county Democratic party for county executive. How do I keep the wool pulled over their eyes? 
Signed, Armond Budish
Back in the day, I knew a few pimps. Told 'em to keep their distance or else they'd see my handbag from the other side of their eyeballs. Don't worry, eventually they'll catch onto your racket and climb aboard the gravy train. Then they'll knife you in the back like you deserve, you'll spend a few decades pushing money bags around in the Fourth Circle, and end up trying to bribe your way past the pearly gates. Fun!
Hey Dot! This polar vortex stuff proves there ain't no climate change like I always said. How do I get people to listen to me like they listen to you? 
Signed, Kevin O'Brien, PD whore
I ran this by Carl Sagan at Barnaby's usual stitch 'n bitch over a Tom Collins. Outer space is colder than Wilma Smith's left tit. If your atmosphere is melting, outer space moves in. Then, the planet becomes a frozen rock. Not complicated. Geez, that Fourth Circle is gonna be crowded.
Hey Dot! I just got hired as the new Browns coach. They tell me to rent, not buy. I heard you used to have a pad in Shaker Square. What's the rent? 
Signed, Mike Pettine, Browns Head Coach
I ran you past Pete Franklin after a vigorous whip and chain session this morning. Pete laughed so hard, his dentures popped out onto my heaving bosom. So here's the deal. Back off, baldy. Ol' Dot still uses that place every now and then when I get bored. Besides, you look like a McMansion Walmart furniture Pergo flooring type to me, I don't trust you low rent drifters around my Tiffany liquor cabinet, not to mention the mahogany. Don't know what mahogany is? Didn't think so.
Hey Dot! I stopped by VTR last night and asked for your cocktail. Still nothing. Can I get the copyright and do my own? 
Signed, Sam McNulty, Ohio City Liquor Grand Poobah
You don't think I know Mr. Fancy Pants is draggin' his feet? Listen kid, Ol' Dot has standards. Swill palaces crawling with posing douchebags doin' the white man's overbite to Bruce Springsteen ain't it.  But tell you what - you can name a beer vat after me. Just make sure it's brass.

That's reader mail! Back to pounding the pavement for my scoop.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Bob Hughes bribes his way into Arnold Pinkney's Homecoming

Doesn't get any better for a dead Cleveland media celebrity than Arnold Pinkney showin' up. I, of course, was in charge of media access for the soiree. Wasn't worth fighting off half of dead Cleveland media pitching woo for favors, so I just let in every pointless hack who ever scribbled "press" onto their fedora. Never heard the holy host choir sound so glorious.

That is, until Bob Hughes showed up at the press entrance. Apparently, somebody downstairs decided Hughes could have a day pass, so he shows up in rags singed by eternal hellfire all sweaty from pushing money bags around since kicking the bucket 25 years ago.

"Allright, Dot, here's my day pass, now let me in you old hag." Thinks he's pullin' rank.

"Why don't you go visit your Saint Reagan, jackass."

"I'm here for Arnold! Come on....." So now Hughes is begging. Pathetic. I take a swig of Four Roses from my flask, decide to save his dignity for him.

"What's in it for me?"

Hughes pulls this out his pocket.



I laugh in his wretched hellfire scorched face.

"Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck? You gotta do better than that, tough guy."

Hughes fidgets, rubs the double folds on his puss encrusted chin, coughs it up. "ALLRIGHT! I happen to know all about the little racket your boy's opponent is runnin'." Now we're gettin' somewhere. Feeling sorry for him, I pass the flask, Hughes downs it in a shiver of desperation.

"Let's talk backstage." Ol' Dot is a sucker for Republican begging. We end up in the green room, Hughes gets busy between my legs, I let him think he's pleasuring me for five minutes, yawn, then lay down the law.

"Here's the deal. You cough it up, I'll talk to Arnold, see if he can put in a good word to St. Pete, maybe your purgatory days are over. Maybe."

Hughes involuntarily orgasms right there like a dormant volcano, now I have to make him wash down the green room with chlorine and iodine. Send him to quarantine for disinfecting, a physical, the usual protocol for purgatory entrants. "Come back when your corpulent whored out fat ass is presentable."

My scoop is suddenly veerrrry interesting.

Monday, January 13, 2014

Ghoulardi loses mind over movie trailer

After a particularly strenuous night in Bob Hope's BDSM dungeon, my beauty rest was disturbed this morning by a wailing the likes of which I haven't heard since Nancy Kerrigan's shin met a crowbar.

"WHYYYYYYYeeeeeeeeYYY whyyyyyW HYYWYWYYYEYY!!!!"  Stumbling out of my boudoir, I see Ghoulardi staring at my laptop convulsed in agony, staring at this.


Normally, I'd beat the living daylights out of someone takin' a peek at my reporting, but Ghoulardi is inconsolable. "I lived my whole life for this moment, and now I'm dead when it happens WHYYYeeeeeeeeeeeeeeWHYYYYYYYYY"

"What moment?"

"When the world has so lost its mind, my style of absurdity is actually preferable in public office."

Ahhh. Now I get it. I throw together a couple Bloody Marys, hold him like I'm burping a 3 month old. "But from the afterlife, you can experience it even more!"

Ghoulardi stops shuddering, starts comin' around. "You think?" He sniffs. I brush a tear from his eye. Three missionaries and a Cleveland steamer later, Ghoulardi's back to his old self, shoutin' "OXNARD" from my ceiling mounted stirrups. Ol' Dot's spoonful of sugar always helps the medicine go down.

"There, there....we'll make it aallllll better," I whisper across the pillow. "Let's check out this stitch up your guy's been blackballed from."


Ghoulardi's eyes light up. "They're so terrified of this lunatic, they won't let him in the door????? Talk about stayin' sick!!! We are so THERE!"


My scoop is getting better all the time.

Tuesday, January 07, 2014

Hey Dot! Reader mail from Cavs center Luol Deng!



Brrrr! It's colder than Jenny Crimm's left nipple in Cleveland these days. Luckily, I'm dead and in heaven, where it's summer all the time, and we don't have to pay a wit's attention to Don Webster's flailing "forecasts" anymore. To the mailbag!

Hey Dot! Any advice for hemorrhoids? My sphincter is so red and chafed from my corporate overlords pounding it up my innards, I can't even sit on the toilet, so I'm just crapping myself involuntarily. Please help. 

Yours, Chris Quinn, VP Northeast Ohio Media Group (NEOMG)

NEOMG? Is that the sound your ass makes involuntarily soiling your Dockers? Try this - look in the mirror, and beseech my name over and over again like casting a magic spell. Bubble bubble toil and soil, please Dorothy soothe my encrusted ass boils. You're on your own, kid.

Hey Dot! I went to the Velvet Tango Room and asked for your cocktail. Ha! There still isn't one! Bite it you old hag!
Yours, Mike Polk Jr., Comedian

I consulted Barnaby on this, the Great Beyond's resident alky. Tells me a "craft cocktail" ain't like sluggin' down Four Roses straight from the bottle, so give Mr. Rick's Cafe a little time. Whatever. If that prancing dandy knows what's good for him, he'll hop to it. Maybe he's still waiting for Sam Miller to kick the bucket.

Hey Dot! I'd like to offer you the position of press secretary for my campaign. Interested?

Yours, Tim Russo, Democrat for County Executive

What planet you live on? Ol' Dot don't pimp for no one, kid. You're lucky I don't send Otto Graham down there right now to drop kick your ass into the next milenium. Besides, can't you find a suitably whored out tool slut...oops!...I mean "journalist" with a byline among the mortals?  Dime a dozen, plus the byline makes it look legit!

Hey Dot! I just got traded to Cleveland, and they tell me you da shizzle. But your blog is so confusing! I don't know any of these playas, I'm lost! Please help.

Yours, Luol Deng, new Cavaliers center

Kid, you are so fucked. This reminds me of a party at Ted Stepien's. Nate Thurmond and Jimmy Chones were drivin' pretty strong to Ol' Dot's hoop, Austin Carr slides into the lane, smokes 'em both, we end up in Stepien's waterbed throwin' the hammer down. Don't worry, Brian WindWhorest will probably hitch himself to your wagon eventually for his summer of Lebron pimping, saddle up and ride that big ball o' creosote!

That's reader mail! Back to burning the shoeleather for my scoop.

Thursday, January 02, 2014

Drat! I'm scooped by Tom Brazaitis at PD party

Brazaitis with incompetent PD hacks
At Merle Pollis' New Year's Eve wingding, that hairy old coot Brazaitis is yukkin' it up with a crowd of the usual drunks, pointing in my direction, shouting insults.

"Queen of Cleveland Journalism, RIGHT!" Barnaby waddles over, waving these pics of Brazaitis punkin' me while moonlighting among mortals at the PD's morgue-like holiday soiree. "Looks like Ol' Dot missed the boat!" I toss my whiskey in his face, step to Brazaitis.

"Thought I told you to quit workin' my side of the street, hairball."

"Save it for Pete, you old hag!" Jealous little shit. I drag him by the back of the ear to a quiet corner. Our eyes meet. Couple motorboats and a missionary later, Brazaitis coughs it up.

"PD's made some big editorial call to ignore your boy Russo except for gratuitous cheap shot hit pieces." Like that's news. I grab his nutsack, give it a squeeze.  "I SAID COUGH IT UP."

Brazaitis tryin' to get lucky with PD's Listicle Dept.
"OK! OK! Russo didn't file a designation of treasurer, Dot!" The plot thickens.

I pull up my corset, march back to the party, find Ol' Pete, John D. Rockefeller, Mark Hanna, hoggin' the punch bowl like typical rich fucks, let 'em have it. "Which one of your lousy trust funds is backin' Russo?" Haven't seen rats scurry like that since Doug Clifton put a gun to Joel Rose's head over some panties in the mail. Betty Cope tries to "comfort" me.

"Maybe spend less time on listicles and such?" Public TV prude. "Listen, you frigid old maid, I don't need advice from...." Before I can finish, she's chin deep in my labia. Ball drops, noisemakers blast, Ghoulardi sits on my face screaming "OXNARD 2014!", we ring in the new year buried under confetti in a public threesome on the dance floor.

Which is nice, but kids, this lady don't like gettin' scooped. Enough pointless tripe, back to diggin' deep.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Dot's 10 Hottest Dead CLE Celebrities List MILFs


More evidence journalism died with me - Lists used to be what real journalists drooled out over their 5th Tom Collins at the Theatrical. Now, it's a tawdry "business model" for fraudulent hacks. In the spirit of such year end self flagellation, I, the queen of all Cleveland journalism (name one since 1973 that's had a bumper sticker like that ^^. You can't.), interviewed my Top 10 Hottest Dead Cleveland Celebrities!

But wait!! To add that extra multiplier of incestuous pointlessness, I asked each which Cleveland Celebrity mortal still living they'd like to fuck. (Mortal I'd Like to Fuck - MILF - get it? Shoot me now.) To our hotties!

10. Casey Coleman. May not look like much, but Casey's got a tongue move down below that just won't quit. MILF - "Jimmy Haslam's wife. I bent over for that organization long enough to deserve it."

8 & 9. The Van Sweringens. Up here, I call 'em Front & Back. Which is which gets confusing. MILF - Oris - "Being whiny ass oh-so-sensitive industry titans, we require body cavities sufficiently lubricated by bulbous throbbing veiny corporate pile driving already - thus, a foursome with Plain Dealer Publisher Terrence Egger and his online editor Denise Polverine will do."  Mantis - "Sounds delightful."

7. Peter B. Lewis. New in town, but boy does Ol' Pete know how to jump to the front of a line. MILF - "I'd bend George Voinovich over a stockade while Jay Westbrook straps on a tire iron from behind as Benny Bonnano spanks his face with a dead walleye. I'll just watch."

6. Margaret Bourke White. Madge goes down like a floor polisher. MILF - "Liz Claman may be a corporate mouthpiece stock pump and dump frigid prude, but I'd make a woman outta her."

5. Stella Walsh. Woman? Man? Both? No one knew. Up here, that's called a party. MILF - "With all the chasing public masturbators, Tom Meyer sure looks like he needs a gender bending walk on the wild side. Or is it Bill Sheil? Carl Monday? Jesus Christ, how many of these douchecocks are out there? I'll do 'em all."


4. Fannie LewisFamously referred to Mayor Mike White as a "Judas goat" (?wtf?), so Fannie didn't disappoint. "Joe Roman of Greater Cleveland Partnership. Can't think of a better two-bit low rent pimp to have an old black lady from Hough ride him like a mechanical mule until his dick rips off, which would make a nice charm bracelet."

3. Paul Newman. Everybody upstairs drives to this guy's hoop constantly. So imagine my surprise at his MILF - "Ted Henry. I'm a sucker for a toupe that resembles my ass hair." Editor's note: Having spent a career sitting next to that toupe, it looks more like my ass hair.

2. Judy Resnik. A fling with an astronaut is the coup de grace here in the great beyond. Plus, that big 80's do is stuck with her in perpetuity, which apparently people like. MILF - "Dick Goddard. Always had a thing for that crazy old deviant. Zero gravity might help keep him, you know, ready."

1. Ghoulardi. This spot is usually reserved for yours truly, but one can't make a list with oneself at the top and still call oneself a journalist, besides, everyone already knows my MILF. Biggest get in the CLE afterlife, everybody knows it, so does he. Goes straight to this raving lunatic's head, as evidenced by his MILF.

"All of 'em. Who doesn't want to hit the sack with Ghoulardi? Oxnard!" Always with the Oxnard.

"You can't cough up one name?" He's still a bit jealous of my recent fling with Betty Cope.

"You're the only one for me, Dot." Tiny cartoon hearts pop out his head like he's Pepe Le Pew. Soon we're bouncing on his waterbed like a couple wildebeests goin' through lube like it's nickel beer night.

A fine way to end Christmas vacation! Happy New Year, and stay tuned! Back to work chasing down my scoop.



Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Jane Scott, Peter B. Lewis Score Me Christ's Kind Bud

Here in heaven, everyone knows Jesus Christ has the best herb. Being Jewish, I never see a speck of it. Plus, Mr. "Your Lord And Savior" seems to have a thing against Cleveland, what with the whole "perpetual rotting urban carcass upon which landed gentry billionaires feed like rabid roaming hyenas" thing.

Well, guess which Clevelander just died and went to heaven. Mr. Weed Sugar Daddy himself. Damn holy host praising, cherubim rubbing up on seraphim, you name it. St. Peter opens the pearly gates riding a stoned mule pulling on some hemp rope, in marches Ol' Pete like he owns the place.

I get a backstage pass to cover Bob Marley's Christmas Eve welcome concert last night, and there's Jane Scott carrying an eye dropper. "Hey Dot! Try some of Kesey's Brown Acid!" Before I can say "Jane, I always hated your amateur sorry ass," Jane drops it on my tongue, then her hair turns into a Medusa-like swarm of worm like penises right before my eyes.

Either we went down on each other right there, or Jane crawled into my fallopian tubes and swam out my ass with Esther Williams, I'm not sure. But when I come to, there's Jesus passing me a bong he just packed for Ol' Pete.

"You know the guest of honor is from Cleveland," I tell the...ahem..."Messiah". Ol' Pete knows a Jewish mother scorned when he sees one, saves the day.

"That's why the after party is at your place Dot!" Well I'll be a Jew for Fucking Jesus. If I knew all it took to score some Son of Man kind bud was for Peter B. Lewis to kick the bucket, I'd have saved my breath for the last 25 years.

What an after party. Every dead Clevelander since Moses himself was jonesin' for my boudoir, but Ol' Pete knew what he was lookin' for. I let Betty Cope take a turn or two. Looks like I finally got me my hookup. Merry Christmas!!

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Social Media (?wtf) in the County Executive Race

Journalism used to be easy. Get the story, write it. Maybe you'd have to grease the sources with a cocktail. Maybe.

Now, there's "social media"? You know what "social media" is up here? Group porn. Everybody shows up at Nev Chandler's, Gary Dee brings some home movies, and we all get "social" with his "media".  Which is apparently not very different than yours, mortals!

I haven't seen such incestuous self-feeding cannibalistic daisy chaining since crawling up Dick Pogue's nether regions with my tongue. (a girl can brag, right?) Here's some guy pretending to be another guy, whispering sweet nothings to this lawyer and that lawyer, in some strange code....I ran this by Liza Minelli. "Honey, that's an early rewrite of a spiked Cabaret script gay bar scene, seemed too contrived!" Kids, just hop in the sack already! Keepin' it pent up ain't gonna do you no good.

Came across this.


Is that a preamble from a Cleveland Foundation grant application? Honey, the talent left with me, everybody knows that. Here's someone thinkin' they can pull the wool over the eyes of Old Dot.


Here's a 19 year old Republican in the race.


Can someone get this kid laid, laid laid? I think he'd find that a more fulfilling pursuit.

Then I found this.




Well, I just had to run this by Ghoulardi. 

"Hey Dot!" He thinks I'm there to tip toe through his tulips.

"Ghoulardi, what the hell is this."

"Genius, of course!" Great. Now I have a debate about "art" on my hands. "Didn't you just 'interview' that guy, Dot?" He winks. So now I'm busted. My corset pops off, Ghoulardi gets busy. A few swings in the ceiling mounted stirrups later, Ghoulardi walks me through the "art" over a Bloody Mary and a Lucky Strike.

"The floating angel gloriously bears a laurel wreath, of Greek mythology origin, made of interlocking branches and leaves of the bay laurel, (Laurus nobilis), an aromatic broadleaf evergreen, or often of spineless butcher's broom (Ruscus hypoglossum). Get it?"

Like I need this. "It's a conundrum? Perhaps a paradox?"

"You think too much, Dot." This is why I was happy Ghoulardi was on the other station's air, I didn't have to pretend to listen to his bullshit routine at the station Xmas party. I strap on my corset, head back home for a nap.

Getting this scoop is gonna take some heavy lifting.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

EXCLUSIVE! My interview with Tim Russo, County Executive Candidate



They don't call me the Patron Saint of All Cleveland Journalism for nothing, kids. After a trip to the bowels of hell, a roll in the hay with an old flame, some sleuthing, guess who gets the scoop.  So let's get right to it.

DF:  Nice Christmas tree.

TR:  Thanks! It's an honor to have you here.

DF: Flattery'll get you nowhere, kid.

TR: Coffee? Tea?

DF: Got any gin?

TR: At this hour?

DF: Honey, hours, time of day, means nothing in the afterlife. Let's cut to the chase. What's this about some trouble you got into 12 years ago?

TR: Well....(phone rings)

DF: ....excuse me, I gotta take this.  Hello? Hello? These infernal contraptions....oh, drat, how the hell do I pick up this call?

TR: Just press that button right there, Ms. Fuldheim.

DF: ....HELLO? WHO'S THERE???? ANSWER ME!!!  Ghoulardi? What the hell do you want, I'm in the middle of an interview.

TR: Tell him I said "Stay Sick!!"

DF: One at a time for christ's sake! What? Ok, Ok, I know, I KNOW. Allright already! Goodbye. How do I hang up....

TR: Press that button there....What did he want?

DF: He wants to know if I'm gonna go see Sam Miller.

TR: So it's true!!

DF: Sweetheart, you need to mind your own business.

TR: You know he's still around down here.

DF: I didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday, kid. You want me to go from here all the way to the east side? In this weather?

TR: If you need a ride...

DF: NEVER MIND! Allright, let's get back to it. So...where were we?

TR: You were askin me about...... (phone rings again)

DF: DRAT! These phones! Why did you people invent this ridiculous machine?

TR: Press that button right there again, Ms. Fuldheim.

DF: HELLLOOOO?????  Who's this? Oh, I can't hear a thing, can you help me young man?

TR: Sure, gimme the phone. Hello?

DF: Why me.

TR: It's Elliott Ness. He's askin if you want extra vodka in the hairy buffalo tonight.

DF: GIVE ME THAT PHONE. Ness? What the hell do you think, do whatever you want, I'm busy. Can you hang this up for me again please?

TR: Sure, ma'am.

DF: Now, back to the (phone rings again)

TR: Still popular as ever!

DF: HELLLOOOO?? Who's there? WHO IS IT? Listen, if you people think you're gonna get away with this......

TR: You know, you can actually turn the phone off so it doesn't ring.

DF: Shut up kid, you do know I interviewed Hitler.

TR: Yes, Ms. Fuldheim, so sorry.

DF: ....hello? HEEELLLLOOOO? I think that bastard just hung up on me.

TR: Who?

DF: Bob Hope. Still a prankster....oh why me. Tells me Madge is tryin' to beat me to the punch. Well, she's got another thing comin'.

TR: We can do this another time if you want.

DF: Listen kid, I gotta go. Can you call me a taxi?

TR: A taxi? That'll take forever.

DF: Isn't there a trolley nearby?

TR: I can give you a ride, where do you need to go?

DF: If you tell anyone you took me to Sam Miller's pad, I'll send Barnaby down here to torment you with his magic parrot.

TR: I thought.....

DF: No questions kid. I'll be the talk of the town upstairs if I can pull this off. I'll show those old coots.

TR: Lemme get my coat. (phone rings again)

DF: Please tell me how to shut this damn thing off.





Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Hey Dot! Reader mail from the great beyond



Hey Dot!

The county executive race is a big snoozer except for your coverage. Why aren't journalists more like you anymore?

Signed, Henry Gomez, PD political reporter

Dear Hank,

You're still on the beat? I thought you went brain dead 5 years ago! Congrats! Listen honey, the profession died with me. Hell, last time I graced the mortals with my presence in 2006, journalism was already an embalmed zombie. You people wouldn't know news if Hal Lebovitz shoved Boris Yeltsin's penis up his own ass in your living room. (which just happened last night at Pete Franklin's...ahem...."tailgate").  Lucky for you, I'm on this beat. Keep hitting refresh, I know you're at least good at that!

Hey Dot!

You died so long ago, I've never heard of half the people you're hangin' out with upstairs. Is there a primer somewhere?

Signed, Young 'Un

Dear YU,

Is everybody lazy down there? Jesus Christ. In the afterlife, we have hyperlinks too! Which make it into my blog! Click them! Learning is fun. There's also Google.  Or, talk to your grandparents. I know that's a bit square, but back in the day, we used to respect our elders at least enough to attempt to have normal conversation with them once in a while. If even that's too much work, there's probably a high profile columnist position at the PD for ya.

Hey Dot!

How can I cover news if I don't get a press release from a shiny PR firm representing a billionaire client whose party line is already pre-approved by my editors? I'm so confused.

Signed, Ted Diadiun, PD whore

Dear Ted,

No, I still won't sleep with you.

Hey Dot!

What's your favorite cocktail?

Signed, Paulius

Dear Paulius,

You got a lotta nerve showin' up in my inbox when you haven't named a drink after me yet. What's so hard about "The Fuldheim"?  If you can't bring your pure as the driven snow self to use my name, maybe you could call it "The Sam Miller Dalliance", or "the Ed Scripps Romp". Get creative! I like 'em stiff, so don't be stingy.

And that's Reader Mail! Back to pounding the pavement for my scoop.

Saturday, December 07, 2013

Down to hell to interview Bob Hughes

Haven't covered a political race this fabulous since Ralph Perk set his hair on fire, so I roll over to Ralph's weekly canasta game for a refresher. Carl Stokes, Jimmie Garfield, various politicos, plus the usual drunks. Pour myself a scotch, Perk deals, I cut to the chase, ask him where's Bob Hughes.

"You need to take the escalator downstairs, Red."  Calls me Red all the time, thinks it turns me on. I'll do anything to get a story, so I grab Joel Rose from the table, "You're comin' with me, I need some backup."

Joel decides he wants to do some sight seeing. "Art Modell! We gotta see Modell!" This is why I didn't ask Nev Chandler - like I need this. So I humor him, let him bring Pete Franklin along for kicks. Pete starts makin' calls, next thing I know I got a delegation, every one of 'em makin' eyes at me. Great. This'll end well.

Down we go, passing through Nine Circles and whatnot. We hit the Fourth Circle, come upon Bob Hughes in all his eternal Sysyphian reward, pushing boulder sized money bags around. Shit's bubbling up out his mouth, rats chewin' on his crotch, the works. "What the fuck you doin' here, you nappy-headed old hag!" Hughes thinks he can scare me off. Guess he forgot I interviewed Hitler.

I tell Hughes either he coughs it up or I'm leaving Joel behind to get creative on his ass. Hughes folds, says his filthy internet age progeny are so sick to their stomachs they're mumbling to themselves like Jim Backus channeling Magoo on the brown acid. Whatever. Some scoop. That stopped being news back when I was still pleasuring Sam Miller for charity.

Our work done, we do Joel's sight seeing. There's Modell, gettin' chewed upon by Satan himself robotically repeating he ain't no Ted Stepien, like that'll help. Otto Graham takes a selfie in front of Modell's pusstulent boil encrusted chewed upon ass cheeks. Pete starts yellin' at him, Lyle Alzado moons the fucker, I just head back up the escalator with Betty Cope. Men, for christ's sake.

Back upstairs, Rocky Colavito throws a party to celebrate. Otto's Art selfie gets framed with Marilyn Shepperd's panties from Joel's private collection. Fastest I've ever seen a punch bowl disappear since Gary Dee's Fred Griffith countdown soiree. Madge, Betty, and me end up pole dancing the night away.

No scoop yet, but at least me & Betty got a frat boy jock party servicing out of it. Back to the shoe leather.


Friday, November 29, 2013

Betty Cope wakes me up

Long time, no blog. Well, kids, what do you expect? My last scoop wore me out, and nobody gave a flying fuck. Didn't matter how many times I double teamed the Van Sweringens, co-hosted orgies at Gib Shanley's, or ate out Margaret Bourke White. I guess if a lesbian Episcopal priest is "liberating" the mayor from her gay grant whore husband, we're supposed to just toast to joie de fucking vive. Journalism died with me, I don't care what that hairy old coot Tom Brazaitis thinks.

So imagine my surprise when Betty Cope shows up in the afterlife pimpin' a new scoop. Always had a thing for that coy little bitch. We used to make eyes at each other across the punch bowl at the Scripps mansion New Years Eve party. Public TV types are such frigid teases. Always pettin' their golden retrievers at a nuclear free zone launch party in the heights over some herbal tea or some horseshit. Just let it loose honey, I ain't got time for games.

Anyway, Cope kicks the bucket, so now all of a sudden she's standing in my bedroom door with a couple Old Fashioneds like Kate Hepburn in heat. Well, you know me, that was that. We let loose two lifetimes' worth of wonton lust on each others hot box, I light her a Lucky Strike across the pillow. She takes it, drags long and slow, says, "Guess who's gonna be the next county executive?" Winks.  Grabs my tit.

It's on again.