Yes, ladies and gentlemen: when it comes to the end, there is but one way to whip round and get the whip going. That way is with tits and assess, and there is nothing like "reality teevee" to make sure the "writers'" strike does not damage the artless absence that is sure to send the crayon-eating cretins into a fin-flapping fever.
One might think that the the L.A. Times (an entity what should be well-know for its diminishing returns at the annual April UCLA book festival) and the Book Expo America (for which I were in town the last time it was here—2004—by the hair of a Queens' DA's chinny-chin-chin as well as the strange permission of the FBI, NSA, et al, etc., and all that—so watch out!) would take advantage of it all, seeing as the melodrama what defines Los Angeles is all but screaming about "months of strike!"
In the meantime, there are those who, looking to fuck Adam Smith with a pine cone even as they anticipated Ann Rand by way of her own "daddy," Milty Friedman, want the teeveee "writers" to be granted their "rights." To the entire lot I offer as much charity as their teevee shows offer anything:
See you at UCLA, if not the Convention Center, boys and girls!
-BusTard
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