This is hand's down the lede of the day: "Rudy Giuliani yesterday fingered his former top emergency-management aide Jerry Hauer . . ."
Alright, there's more to that sentence, but the Beavis in me didn't bother reading it. I just love using "finger" as a verb. Heh.
When Brit housewife Jill Martin decided (incorrectly) that her husband was having an affair, she loaded his curry dinner up with dog poop as payback. You'd think she'd be apologetic after finding out hubby was actually faithful, but you'd be wrong. She instead shifted her motivation on the fact that he wasn't talking to her about his job as often.
So far no definitive word on whether it was suicide or cancer that killed fashion icon Isabella Blow, but, I kind of agree with her wacko husband that it doesn't really matter. If you're at all interested, do yourself a favor and read this interview with the bereaved widower—you won't be sorry.
Much to my disappointment, I discovered that I am fully Edina and not even a little bit Patsy.
"Date Lab" is my favorite feature in the Washington Post. This week the Post sets up two runners—one a vegan, the other a jackass. I can only hope that every single woman in the DC-metropolitan area reads this and boycotts this jerk, because it's a rare day when I feel sympathy for a vegan.
The barfiest story in the Times this weekend was that of "hip" and "edgy" fratastic finance drone, Beau Frank getting priced out of Manhattan and moving to a faraway land we know as Brooklyn. “From what I’d heard, Brooklyn was an O.K. place. I knew nothing about it, so I went off word of mouth.”
Frank's realtor, Lior Barak of Prudential Douglas Elliman, knew his client better than Frank knew himself. “He is a hip guy; he needs to be in prime Williamsburg,” Mr. Barak said. One look at Barak's gray Caesar cut and it's clear; Lior knows from hip.
So hepcat Frank shelled out 750k for a ground floor apartment in possibly one of the fugliest buildings in a nabe bursting at the seams with fug, Roebling Square. Unclear whether a pair of skinny jeans and ironic 70s concert tee were included in the purchase price.
There was a recent DateLab with a guy in a band who filled out the questionnaire drunk then went on the date anyway and was all, "I'm not really into dating right now" and "my band my band my band." It was totally barftastic. Of course the girl was really cute and sadly, seemed interested in him. He said she was cute and he might "hang out" with her, but he's just really into his music now.
gag.
Posted by: Jules | May 14, 2007 at 09:06 AM
I saw that one too--that guy was more of a run-of-the-mill type asshat. This guy actually had his drunk friend call her and tell her she sucked!
Posted by: Judy McDatedThatGuy | May 14, 2007 at 09:12 AM
I can think of many, many great ways to blow 3200 bones a month and none of them include rent.
Posted by: osisbs | May 14, 2007 at 09:42 AM
sh-t. i'm bubble. retake! retake!
Posted by: kate | May 14, 2007 at 10:11 AM
I'm a Patsy! More champers, Eddie!
Posted by: iamnotstarjones | May 15, 2007 at 08:36 PM
I'm Edina....
I think I hate myself a little more now...I guess today's the day to start having "liquid only" lunches...
Posted by: Personality tests determine your psychosis--part 2 | May 16, 2007 at 11:46 AM
upon a careful retake, i'm edina too. bottoms up!
Posted by: kate | May 16, 2007 at 12:37 PM