Poor crazy bastard. He called me last night. Collect. From a pay phone. Drunk, of course. So blotto he could barely speak. To be honest even when he's sober I can't understand the guy. He's like Ahmawahmgonnabeonnawityabalahalabaldh... Then he starts crying. He's at a pay phone because he lost his Blackberry in a bar, a strip bar of some kind, and now he's afraid someone's got his phone and is gonna go through his address book and start prank calling Barney Frank and everyone else he's got in there. And he needs to call Verizon wireless and get his service shut off, but he can't get the 800 number for Verizon because someone stole the fucking phone book from this fucking goddamn cocksucking phone booth, and it's raining like a motherfucker and he's got no overcoat because he also lost that in the strip bar and his wallet was in that overcoat so he's lost that too and he needs to go back into rehab again and this time he's really gonna get serious about it.
Poor Jimmy. He's a troubled soul. Brilliant, in his own way, but really, really certifiably crazy. I sent a car for him and had Krista, my new "overnight assistant" (sweet kid; Smith College, class of '04; ahem) get out of bed and put on some clothes and make us some coffee. Jimmy drank some coffee and cried some more and then he just lay down on the couch with his head in my lap. What is it about these troubled genius type men? Why are they so attracted to me?
As for Mr. Big, don't even get me started. He stumbled in at three in the morning, also drunk, highly disheveled, and his breath smelled of pussy. Says, "Oh, hey, honey, I thought you were in Des Moines or something." Well, at least he had the good sense not to bring the sluts home with him this time. As long as he does his doggie business outside I'm okay. That's the deal.
Oh well. Come here, little Jimmy, and let Mama rub your shiny head. And Krista, honey, put away the Ben Wa balls, and I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow night, okay?
