You suffer from automonosis—the tendency to become bored with your own company. If you need to get away from yourself, here's a tip: you don't have to die in order to be reincarnated. People who don't like themselves often find happiness when they become somebody else. Companies that advertise in the backs of magazines are ready to assist in this transformation. If there are compelling personal reasons for not changing your identity, perhaps a trip to a spa for a simple makeover will do the trick.
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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.
Amused? Disgusted? Royally pissed off? Click the Twitter link to share with a friend. Go ahead. It's free.
Former Penn State football coach Joe Paterno did not die of a broken heart, as many of his delusional followers are claiming. He died of a guilty conscience. Anybody who says otherwise is a toadying douchebag.
You suffer from automonosis—the tendency to become bored with your own company. If you need to get away from yourself, here's a tip: you don't have to die in order to be reincarnated. People who don't like themselves often find happiness when they become somebody else. Companies that advertise in the backs of magazines are ready to assist in this transformation. If there are compelling personal reasons for not changing your identity, perhaps a trip to a spa for a simple makeover will do the trick.
Meaner than a powdery, old-hag English teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive.
The book that inspired a website is available from Cedar Tree Books. Written by someone who was actually raised by pugs, Postcards is a welcome addition to any mailbox. Sample chapters:
Strike a blow for freedom.
