Bob Bennett tells me about Grindr, orgy ensues

Gals, the Cleveland Media Superstar afterlife ain't all its cracked up to be. Every waking moment (which are rare, we sleep for eternity, mostly) some two bit closet case is lookin' to scratch the itch he's kept from scratchin' his whole pathetic life. Never seen so many horny obese bald white men suddenly without a need for Viagra.

"You on Grindr Dottie???" I hear between knocks at the boudoir door. Ghoulardi hides under the pillow. Coward.

"WHO'S THERE? What's a Grindr?" I crawl outta bed, slip on a bath robe from the old Theatrical, get to the door, who's there but none other than the most porcine ball of closeted creosote Ohio's ever produced, Bob Bennett. The RNC bein' in Cleveland's got all the dead Republicans suddenly very frisky.

"Pour me a drink, Dot, you gotta see this!" I pour three gins since Ghoulardi is suddenly interested. "I just turn on my phone, and LOOK AT ALL THE GAYS!!"

Ghoulardi grabs the phone, immediately freaks. "Better not show this to Joel Rose."

Bennett grabs it back, turns red in the face. "Those are NOT photographs of my dick!!!"

"The Closet doesn't exist in the afterlife, Bobby," I tell him. A drop of drool appears at the corner of flab between Bobby's mouth and fourth chin. I kiss it off, slowly. Ghoulardi sends the word out, Betty Cope rounds up the usual suspects, four hours later Bobby's got a bunch of new poses to send around online.

Afterward, a cigarette. "Cleveland's crawlin' with Grindrs," Bennett harumphs from the ceiling stirrups, sippin a mai Thai.

"If you only coulda lived just a few more years, Bobby."