Through a rare but infrequent case of cross-mutation, your zip code and DNA will be transformed, and you will be seized with an overwhelming urge to open fire on your coworkers. By wetting your finger and pressing it onto an electric socket, you can transfer the effects of that mutation into an urge to dress like Lady GaGa.
Ann Coulter Rips George Clooney, Danny DeVito, Rosie O'Donnell
Dec 4, 2006, 09:55
LOS ANGELES - George Clooney's been on the morning squawk shows of late bragging in his insufferably smug- yet-wooden way about how he drank that poor, misshapen troll Danny DeVito under the table last week in New York's venerable Italian restaurant Scalinatella. That's some feat, Boy George. You da man!
DeVito's all of four-foot-ten in his elevated shoes, for Christ's sake. What could it take to drink him under the table? Half a can of Coors Lite? A slow gin fizz? It's not like DeVito's a normal human being in any respect, and when he gets under the table, all bets are off.
Yet Boy George, ever the cautious reveler concerned about his image, admitted on Live With Regis and Kelly that he was dumping shots of limoncello into a plant near his table at Scalinatella, while court jester DeVito, always willing to play the bumptious fool whenever he's lucky enough to get within drinking distance of an A-list star, kept pouring his shots down his wattled, disgusting throat.
Quicker than you can say The View, DeVito shows up on The View the following morning, obviously drunk, claming "the last seven limoncellos" were still chasing him.
Right, Little Danny. If you had put away seven limoncellos, you would have been in an alcoholic coma.
One can forgive DeVito for taking Napoleonic liberties in reporting the number of drinks he had consumed, but the drunken insult he flung at President Bush—to the amusement of The View's Rosie O'Dyke—should not go unremarked.
Fourscore and seven times ago.
DeVito's calling President Bush "numb nuts" was a low blow, the only kind DeVito is capable of delivering. That remark certainly elevated post-election analysis to a new height, but just when I thought DeVito couldn't sink any lower, he proceeded to treat us with frightful innuendos about the goings-on the night he and his C-list, facially challenged wife, Rhea Perlman, spent in the Lincoln Bedroom during the Clinton administration.
"We went in and made it our business to really wreck the joint," said Danny the Woodman. "I mean, every place in that bedroom was . . .”
"Utilized?" O'Donnell suggested.
"Utilized!" DeVito agreed, to great laughter and applause.
Fortunately, I had had a light breakfast that morning, so disquieting images of DeVito and Perlman bumping uglies on every surface of the Lincoln Bedroom—including the portable steps they needed to get onto the bed—did no worse than make me nauseous.
I'm seldom interested in the sexual exploits of normal-looking people, and I certainly didn't want to think about DeVito burying his cow-pie face in Perlman's Gettysburg Address like the spawns of Chuckie that they are. I suggest, therefore, that anyone who sleeps in the Lincoln Bedroom from this time on has to sign a confidentiality agreement.
If this suggestion is not implemented and a Democrat wins the White House in 2008, don't say I didn't warn you if you turn on the television one evening and there's Barbra Streisand simpering about the night she hummed an F two-and-a-half octaves above middle C when she and her husband stayed in the Lincoln Bedroom.
Through a rare but infrequent case of cross-mutation, your zip code and DNA will be transformed, and you will be seized with an overwhelming urge to open fire on your coworkers. By wetting your finger and pressing it onto an electric socket, you can transfer the effects of that mutation into an urge to dress like Lady GaGa.
