Dahrlings, as you well know, when one dinkette retired, my troubles shrank by 50%. I now dream of the day Open Jaw undergoes a full ice water shrivelling of its last founding member.
The nincompoop is all a titter about attending a Uniworld christening in Paris with none-other than her all-time idol, Joan Collins wielding the magnum. In preparation, the ninny has hit every thrift shop in town looking for outfits with quarterback-sized shoulder pads. It was never a good look, dahrlings. But left in the unskilled hands of this fashionota, I fear an international incident in the making.
There’s a pool on board, so Jethrine here keeps rehearsing the Krystle and Alexis lily pond catfight hoping for a moment of splashy glory with Joan. Run, Joan! Run!
If you’re thinking it means a week of peace for me, not quite. OJ’s Editor-in-Chief will be lording over the place showing off his big title. I call him Mr. Dink. Just because he owns part of the business (I’ve had acid portions bigger than that percentage) – he thinks he can direct me. Fair warning, Bruce Parkinson. You can drop your jaw all you want, I don’t take kindly to men telling me what to do when I’m above ground level. (You want to hit the dungeon, Mr Big Words? Just say the … um, word.)
Anyhoo, I can only hope that Miss Pinky falls off the boat. But with those pontoons on her shoulders, she’ll probably just take on water and float upstream.
