Reader mail from the poorest city in the US

Dear Dorothy,

I love your blog. It's better than reading Dan Savage. I need some advice. Last year, my Episcopal priest wife started getting it on with the then mayor of the poorest city in the US whose campaign she was running. I walked in on my wife gettin' busy with the mayor, in my own house. Did I mention they're both women? My manood has been shaken to its core. What do I do?

Signed, Dying of Pride Evisceration

Dear DOPE,

I have just the thing for you. Give your Episcopal priest wife more of your money so she can start a new investment project with her lesbian former mayor lover. That way, you can keep an eye on their hot girl-on-girl action while they spend your fortune, and no one will be the wiser. Keep me informed.

Dear Dorothy,

I'm a former mayor of the poorest city in the US. My husband's been a prancing gay our entire marriage, so I started going down on my Episcopal priest campaign manager during my last re-election campaign. She's hot, totally your type. Only problem is, we lost the election, and now I think my political career is over. What do I do?

Signed, Jackin' Off Kuzza Episcopalian

Dear JOKE,

Don't be so glum. All you have to do is get the Episcopal priest's husband to give his wife more of his money so you two kids can do a nifty project together. No one will get wise to any of it, so your political career will be resurrected. Send me updates.

Dear Dorothy,

I'm an Episcopal priest married to a titan of industry in the poorest city in the US. He's so cute and rich. Only one problem...I've been eating out the former mayor since before she lost her re-election. It's hot. I think about her every time I give out the Eucharist. What do I do?

Signed,
Taking Rich Ass's Money Pronto

Dear TRAMP,

This all can be solved with more of your husband's money. Start some swell new project with your husband's fortune and put the former mayor on the board. Who said you can't have your cake and eat it out, too? Update me along the way. Thanks.

Dorothy Fuldheim 3.0

Wherein the queen of all Cleveland journalism returns from summer vacation to reassert her claim over two bit shameless hacks who obviously don't have good sources. This sure as hell don't look like moving to Britain or Boston, now does it?

What it does look like is an orgy that would make even Caligula proud. How's this for a headline -

Episcopal priest finds forgiveness from jilted husband
Keeps lesbian former mayor lover, husband's money
Lists former mayor lover as "advisor" in new tech strategy group started with husband's money


Now listen up good, people. This is a tough story, see? No one's scoopin' nobody if we keep getting bad info. I gotta deal with Barnaby's hungover ass every god damn morning. I got Ghoulardi hogging the TV with old Three Stooges reruns all damn day (and they're not even Schemps!). And Tom Brazaitis won't keep his hands off me. I need help. Leave comments already.

And by the way, who the hell is this?

Summer vacation in the afterlife

Me and the gang are living it up at the bottom of Lake Erie this month. Scuba diving with Bob Hope, Tom Brazaitis, Ghoulardi, and Barnaby. I always wanted to be in an Esther Williams movie, and now, as a dead Cleveland journalism legend, it's a reality. Bob Hope set the whole thing up with some of the deceased producers. Check out my swimsuit! The Tom & Jerry vaguely S&M bondage thing was Barnaby's idea.

Gay?

The trail on the big scoop has gone a bit cold, but when you're a Cleveland journalism legend, the tips keep coming in. Like, for instance, about this guy.

Casey Coleman's Countdown Party turns ugly

So I'm hovering over the chili dip at the Kegs & Eggs Casey Coleman Countdown party yesterday, and I just feel that someting is up. This ain't right. Everyone's looking at me.

Then Joel Rose comes over with this shit-eating grin on his face, which is barely visible behind the crotch line of Marilyn Sheppard's panties which are draped over his head. "What the hell do you want?" I ask.

"Looks like you got scooped, you old hag!" Joel Rose laughs through a mouthful of western omelet, bits of egg flying out between his teeth. Hands me a printout from some shameless hack's website.

Ah...now I get it. "That's what you get for listening to that old fool Barnaby...'go stalk the priest's blog! go stake out her booth at iNGENUiTY!' Big fat nothing, that was." Sometimes talking to Joel Rose can make you feel like not such a loser after all.

Then it starts. Tom Brazaitis overhears and saunters over with a 22 ounce plastic cup of Genny Cream Ale. "Boston or Great Britain, eh?" Brazaitis says. "How'd you miss that one, Dot? Looks like the Queen of Cleveland Journalism ain't so royal after all, eh?"

Bob Hope chimes in while he's pumping the keg, "Hey, did ya hear the one about the Episcopal Priest, the mayor, and the nappy-headed old maid who got scooped...?" Joel Rose starts giggling. The Van Sweringen brothers start doing a jig in the corner. Ghoulardi yells, "BOOYAH!"

Just as I start to scream, "YOU'RE ALL A BUNCH O' TWO-BIT..." a plate full of scrambled eggs hits me in the side of the head.

Game on. Place explodes in a blur of eggs and suds. I got the best o' those old coots...but they were right.

I still got scooped. I'm gonna have to work a little harder now.

Breakthrough! Discussion of sexual advances in the workplace!

Nev Chandler turned me on to this last night after a quickie in the backseat of his Corvair. Minister& Revolutionary. In it, many clues on the big scoop. Including this photo - check out where the mayor's left hand is. Can't see it, can you. MAYOR COPS A FEEL! AH HAAAAA!

In Cleveland she can often be found at Trinity Cathedral, doing a mid-week Eucharist service.

Not much of a churchgoer myself, but hey, anything for a story. Stick that thing down my throat, baby! Another clue.

...is trying to determine how to take her priesthood and use it so that people can taste some of it in everything she does.

Finger lickin' good! The clues keep...er....coming.

The Bishop helped her and told her he wanted her to be ordained to the work place, not a church ."God chose me to make a difference in the business world. I was forced to wait so that I could be a better tool."

Heh. She said...heh heh....tool.

Although Cathy is known for her support of Cleveland's previous mayor Jane Campbell, she herself is not political.

"Support" in Episcopal-priest-of-the-work-place-business-people-speak means oh, so much more. Or so Ghoulardi tells me.

She also has very down-to-earth view on sexual advances in the workplace. She "just handles" the frequent propositions. "I handle it by feeling flattered, rather than bitter. I don't see it as an invasion of my privacy or offensive. This is not a helpful way to work with male peers."

You can say that again, girlfriend! Forget about male peers, how about female mayors? BRING IT, BITCH!

I am SO there!

Lordie, my big scoop has been hard to crack lately. No more!

Red Room Revolution leader Cathy Panzica, whose investment firm is housed at the tech park, is organizing the event. I hear Mayfield Mayor Bruce Rinker and former Cleveland Mayor Jane Campbell are likely to attend. Anyone else hearing anything about this?

The nice thing about being a dead blogger Cleveland journalism legend is that no one can see you, so you can get in real close to hear all the sweet nothings people will be whispering to each other. The bad news is that I think Barnaby wants to tag along...better be some serious amounts of Canadian Club at this thing.

Reader mail

Boy, do I have a lot of fans! But here's a little pointer...it's a blog. You can leave comments. You don't have to put a letter in an envelope and address it to me in "the great beyond" like you're writing to Santa Claus at the North Pole. For example....

I think that moment in Cleveland tv history ranks second only to baraby's drunken "There ain't no goddamn bird in that cage!" on-air tirade.

That's how this is supposed to work, folks. For now...on to the mail.

Dear Dorothy, Why you such a ho? Used to be such a nice ol' lady, now you a slut...wassup?!?! Love, Leroy

Leroy,
I'm dead. In death, there are no STD's, you can't get pregnant, and all the parts work, so why not get jiggy? Thanks for noticing.

Dear Dorothy, Of all the dead Clevelanders, who's the best in bed? Both male & female? Love, Rev. Cathy

Rev. Cathy,
Hmm....on the male side, toss up between Ralph Perk and Frankie Yankovic. On the female side, let's just say I can't wait for Betty Cope to kick the bucket.

Dear Dorothy,
You're dead. How are you getting all this great dish from the living world? Love, Pete Kotz, editor of Scene Magazine

Pete,
That's for me to know and you to find out.

Dear Dorothy,
You were always my favorite on WEWS. Did you ever get busy with Ted Henry? Love, Don Webster

Don,
Nice try. If you think I'm answering that one, you're crazy. But here's a hint; Dorothy loves toupes!!

Now back to pounding the pavement.

Eliot Ness on the law beat

Hanging with the likes of Barnaby and Ghoulardi all day long is fine for a few laughs and some cocktails, but it's gettin' me nowhere on this story. So I turned to the real deal.

Eliot sits me down, lights a Lucky Strike. I ask him what he's got. He tells me this thing is the most sordid tale of human depravity he's seen since the torso murders. Tells me if he got caught doing this when he ran for mayor he'd be hanging from the Soldiers & Sailor's monument by his testicles. I tell him cut the dramatics, I need dirt. He delivers.

Sharks in the water, he says. Lawyer sharks. Divorce filings. Things gettin' ugly, he says, real ugly. Tells me a certain law firm's partners are starting to circle around a certain fellow partner's clients like Jaws sniffing chum. I ask him for a Lucky Strike. He gives me one. I light it, take a hit, exhale nice and slow. Then I cut to the chase.

I tell him I want every man he's got on this story until he delivers the goods or I'm gonna find out just how untouchable he is. He nods. Says look lady, just doin' my job. I thank him quietly.

Talk about a magic bus

Dug up this one in my research, and just had to run it by the Van Sweringen boys, you know, Oris & Mantis. Shaker Hts., Terminal Tower railroad baron types. Public transport was sorta their thing, might have some useful background, right? Wrong.

Apparently, in the Cleveland Dead Bloggers Society, everybody's a comedian.

OVS - Will the new RTA board member introduce a rider's discount for philandering lesbian Episcopal priests?

MVS - Only if the Episcopal priest is married to a titan of Cleveland industry.

OVS - I heard there was gonna be a special section on the bus for lesbian mayors, too.

MVS - That's where the Episcopal priests sit.

OVS - Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk! - How about their jilted husbands?

MVS - No discount, unless one of the husbands is also a prancing queen.

Ugh. Again, no respect.

Pillow talk with Tom Brazaitis

After my little fling with Marge I needed some real man love, called Tom Brazaitis. Told him the door was open, just walk in, take your clothes off, get to work.

So I'm lying there in his sweaty, hairy arms, and we start chatting. Turns out the PD isn't the only big paper with the big story. NY Times, USA Today...they're all on it like flies on shit. Hottest story they've had since Sam Donaldson dug up a dead body on his ranch. And Sam Donaldson isn't even an Episcopal Priest!! Now I'm nervous. What if I don't get to break this story? I'm the Queen Of All Cleveland Journalism! It's my story, damnit!

Tom's such a good sport. He lovingly caressed my nappy red mane and told me not to worry. I looked into his eyes. Told him he's the best lay I've had in the afterlife this side of Lou Groza. Another four orgasms later, we share a martini and he heads home to work the phones some more. I tell him if anybody asks, tell them Barnaby said hello. He smiles.

I go back to pounding the pavement.

Marge triggers a breakthrough!!

Sometimes the best thing to do to capture a story is put yourself in the shoes of your subject matter. You know, field research. What would make a sitting mayor and an Episcopal priest BOTH forsake their husbands and run into each other's arms? While campaigning for re-election, even?!?!

So I go visit Margaret Bourke-White and ask her if she's ever...you know...switch hit. She looks me in the eye. I look back. Next thing I know my corset is flying across the room. In no time Marge is going down on me in a flurry of semi-circles like one of those industrial strength floor buffers. Marge is lovin' it, I'm underwhelmed.

While I pretend that Marge is pleasuring me, I light a smoke and go through my notes for the hundredth time, and it finally hits me. Maybe HE'S switch hitting, too!! Bingo. I get up, give Marge a "nice try" pat on the back, and hit the phones. Turns out this is the worst kept secret in the whole city of Cleveland...not so much switch hitting but hitting for the other team. Now I'm onto something. It really is the Aristocrats! In real life!

Thanks Marge!!!!

Joel Rose hits on me

Let me tell you something, kiddies. When you're trying to confirm the biggest story in Cleveland since Sam Shepherd walked in on his wife cheating on him with a lesbian Episcop...oops! Wrong reference! Let's start that again. When you're trying to confirm some big story I'm not gonna give you any hints about, you need advice.

So I go and buy Joel Rose a cosmopolitan, ask for some advice. If there's one guy in the Cleveland Dead Bloggers Society who fits the bill for advice on this story, it's him. Sex, lies, and Cleveland celebrity...got Joel Rose written all over it.

Anyway, I ask him for advice. You know what Joel Rose tells me? He says he's always wanted to get in my pants. So I smack him. Hard. He says do it again. I tell him, Rose, you're pushing your luck, fella. He begs me to smack him harder. I throw my cosmo in his face and get the hell outta there.

Hard enough trying to get this story right than to have to put up with some balding flunky Morning Exchange reject trying to steal my honor. Back to pounding that pavement.

Drat! I'm Scooped!

So I'm bustin' my hump on this big story, which has it all....recent mayor...Episcopal priest...lesbians and gays coming out all over the place...jilted multi-millionaire titan of Cleveland industry...has it all.

I'm sitting down to my trusty Remington typewriter and in walks Ed Scripps, ruins my day. Tells me the PD already has it. And if the PD has it, that means so does everyone else. Here I thought I had an exclusive, now I find out half of the Cleveland media establishment is already sittin' on it. I knew that rapscallion Bob Hope was up to no good!! Being a dead Cleveland journalism legend just ain't what it used to be. No respect.

I guess it's off to the races now! First one to confirm the bedroom story wins!

Loose lips sink scoops!

This Cleveland Dead Blogger's society is such a hoot! Bob Hope came to the weekly canasta game, had us all in stitches.

But I had to slap him down when he started spilling the beans about my big scoop. He's a clever rascal! You know that famous joke, The Aristocrats? Well, Bob starts telling The Aristocrats with a dash of Episcopal priests and lesbians thrown in, and that was that. Had to step on his toe under the table. He called me a frigid bitch. I told him there's more where that came from. He finally shut his trap.

Anyway, still working some details on the big scoop!!! And if Bob Hope tells you anything, you tell me. I'll take that pointy nose of his and squeeze it 'til it falls off.

Boy, do I have a scoop!!!

Oh dear. What's a Cleveland journalism legend to blog about?

Well, I just got back from the big Cleveland Dead Blogger's Society welcome soiree for Barnaby, who joined us in the great beyond over the weekend. Barnaby was thrilled to learn that in the afterlife, you can throw back as many Old Fashioneds as you want, no one is gonna call you an alky.

Ghoulardi and I were kibbutzing over the punch bowl about my big scoop (it's a biggee!!!) and how wonderfully reminiscent it was of the good ol' days when Sam Miller used to pork his mistress, now his wife, in my apartment. You didn't know that? Oh, c'mon, honey, get with the program...you think Cleveland's corporate titans are busying themselves with do-goodery? They like a good romp in the hay as much as the rest of us.

So anyway, I say to Ghoulardi as he's sipping his punch, "Ghoulardi, I have this big scoop!" I tell him the scoop. And Ghoulardi does a spit take across the room, hits Nev Chandler in the face. Barnaby starts laughing his ass off. Hal Lebovitz orders a round of shots, and the party is on!!

Anyway, gotta run and tie up some loose ends on my big scoop, or else you'll never get to hear about it! Bye bye!

Welcome!

I am thrilled to be the inaugural member of the Cleveland Dead Bloggers Society!