|Brazaitis with incompetent PD hacks|
"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.|
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.