Last night my eternal slumber was interrupted when I realize Joel Rose is between my legs with my panties on his head floor polishing his way around the ol' squeeze box. This is how Yahweh decides I need to rise and shine and chase a scoop...great.
Joel wastes no time. "History is repeating itself Dot!" I shove him off the bed, call Elliot Ness.
"Spill it, Ness."
"Remember that lesbian episcopal priest Cleveland mayor scoop? Same damn story Dot."
"Dot, I need to find this missing person's report." I waddle on over to Betty Cope's early bird canasta game. Big crowd. Tom Brazaitis is showin' everybody the COUNTY IN CRISIS tattoo on his hairy ass. They're all ignoring me, except Barnaby, who's already two bottles of J&B into his morning, feelin' frisky.
"Need a licensed driver, Dot?" Everybody's a comedian.
"Any of you 'media pros' seen this missing person's report?" I still got Mr. Sandman in my eyes from just waking up out of eternal slumber, like I need these two bit hacks and their hijinks.
Ghoulardi slaps Brazaitis on his bulbous canker encrusted hairy tattooed ass, shouts "Here's your missing persons report, you frigid old maid!" Brazaitis pours a shot of VO through his cheeks, Casey Coleman and Nev Chandler fight each other for the best angle to swallow it down, now we got a party at my expense. Arnold Pinkey unfurls a banner screaming "Welcome Back To The Beat Dot!" like it's my birthday, and then it's on. I wake up in the Van Sweringen Brothers' hot tub surrounded by floating underwear, but no leads on my scoop.
Let's do this people.
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