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!!
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