The "king of kings", as he was referred to by one of his lackeys yesterday in introducing him to the assembly, was acting predictably loony but not so much that there's any comic value in mocking him further (he does that just fine on his own).
He was accompanied as per usual by his all-female 'Robert Palmer/addicted-to-love' style female bodyguards, but that isn't news.
'Nough said.
For instance, Julie Cooper's alter-ego Mackenzie Phillips was apparently screwing her father, or so she says in her just-published tell-all (and, naturally, on Oprah). Also, he introduced her to shooting coke and presumably other such typical father-daughter rites of passage. Papa John, it seems, wasn't the most adept at working the syringe for Mac, missing the vein and numbing her whole arm. I could see Mike Brady attempting to 'fix' M
arsha in this manner. Hilarity ensues. Meanwhile, nobody was gettin' fat 'cept Mama Cass (coke does that to ya).
It's like someone raking their fingernails down the chalkboard of my psyche whenever one of these abortions flash onto the TV screen, causing a Pavlovian reflex to kick into to the nerves in my right thumb, compelling it to press down hard on the channel changer of the remote. I'd just as soon use my money for toilet paper than give it to the Schwab shit-for-brains. I wouldn't want my cash associating with theirs.
At least some folks have the good sense to bust on this cheapjack shit.
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