Hard at work on my new scoop, Tom Brazaitis barges into the boudoir to stick his new "tattoo" in my face.
"Never gonna believe this one, Dotty! TAKE A LOOK!" The aroma of his inner regions pleasures me. I mightily resist.
"Tommy," I gurgle in the space between my lips and his bulbous hair ball, "can't you see I'm workin' dear...." I give in. Half an hour into foreplay in the ceiling stirrups, I notice the @RTBGOP hovering over Tommy's love canal, right next to the County In Crisis tattoo.
I gasp in horror. "They finally deleted it." The mood's gone for second. I pour us both a Tom Collins, when Bobby himself barges in drunk as Del Donahoo at Casey Coleman's St. Patrick's Day orgy.
"INTELLECTUAL PROPERTEEYE BLBER blerbueibjkburg......" or something. Ol' Dot needs to put the foot down.
"Bobby if you don't get your drunk fat ass outta my bedroom right NOW," Bobby plunges his tongue down the throat of the PD's most glorious all time columnist, Tom Brazaitis. "You want me in your ass Brazaitis! HUHUHSH????!?!?! I'LL BE IN YOUR ASS RIGHT NOW YOU LITTLE ......" Now I need to call Betty Cope. She calls Ghoulardi, rounds up Bob Hughes, Arnold Pinkney, the Van Sweringens, and it's on. On the patio overlooking Cleveland at the after party, sporting the new "tattoo" Ralph Perk scrawled across his forehead with...well...Bobby looks whistfully downward.
"I'm really dead now," Bobby sniffs. I get back to my scoop.