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.