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.