|IT MAY BE BLEAK AND DREARY IN CANADA but in the land of your fantasies, it's always hot and gorgeous. And haha, I've just inserted myself into your dreamscape. PSYCHE!|
Ah, delightful. I'm looking out my office window as I write this and, unless martinis can make you see snowflakes where there aren't any, we're getting friggin' lambasted again. So you can blame that for this picture I'm cauterizing your eyeballs with today.
I was originally planning to write about Eliot Spitzer and his latest slut. But when I saw what was going on out there I abruptly switched gears and went with this image of me sunning myself in the tropics instead. (Sorry. You can complain to my moron Editor if you wish, but it won't do any good. He's busy clipping his toenails with his teeth while he scans the personals. I hear Silda Wall is available ... )
This here is Paradise Beach in the Bahamas, where I had the good fortune to be just a few months ago. "Paradise" might be a bit of a stretch, but if your definition of paradise includes turquoise waters, powdery beaches, a full Thermos of healthful vodka and Ryan Gosling begging you to come back to his room with him just one more time, then this is pretty damn close. (I'll just let the mystery of which one of those didn't actually happen torment you for a while.)
As you can see, I'm not even bothering with the charade of trying to suck in my all-inclusive stomach, because I tried that once and it just popped out the other side and I looked like I had a back tumour. What I do instead is, I close my eyes and visualize Jane Seymour. Which is probably exactly what you're doing right now, too, not that I blame you because escapism, that's what this post is all about.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and see what all that racket is.
MY NOTE: Why the HELL do you have your face in my pasta maker, you moron?!?
EDITOR'S NOTE: That's a pasta maker? I thought it was a mimeograph machine. The ad said to send a recent, good-quality likeness ...