Nothing really happened.

A good friend I haven’t spoken to in at least twenty years left a message on my cell the other day. I called him back.

We talked for almost two hours just now. He’s a surgeon. Painfully bright and very funny. He used to puke out the window of my VW bug after an evening of Long Island Iced Teas when we were underage. Turns out he’s comedically conservative but we still have plenty in common. A welcome catharsis. Left me with a smile.

Watched about three quarters of NBA finals game one, had to switch to Stewart/Colbert. I hear the Celtics had their way. I’m in awe of how insipid post game punditry is. Phil Jackson fascinates though. He’s got a big ass brain.

Pro athletes aren’t typically the most articulate or eloquent.

I’m convinced Paul Pierce indulged us with a little thespianism. Ah well, effectively executed.

I understand the Pantsuit invited our man over to her pad in DC tonight for some face time and maybe a little arm wrestling. Think they watched the game and played a little one on one? How tall is he? Can he dunk? The skinny thus far tells of something private and fairly intimate. I’m guessing she was looking to make her case on her own turf. Fundamental Art of War, chapter one.

I wonder how much we’ll actually learn about it.

My ear feed says now they didn’t meet at her place. Whatever. Her favorite saloon then. The staff knows her and doesn’t pay a mind when she gets heated and brandishes a nickel plated Smith & Wesson.

This just in from Yahoo News: “Obama is seeking to become the first black president”. This is gonna be huge. Who saw this coming? Not just President, but the very first negro one. Watch this story catch fire. We in journalism predict it will have “legs”.

I picture the Pantsuit getting tipsy and surly. I don’t think Michelle is with him. I see Hills lunge for his crotch with crazy eyes. Bill cackles freely in the very next room. He’s watching TV with a voluptuous young brunette but the sound is off. Terry McAuliffe, I think of him as “Chip”, is on premises. Chip is in the nearest closet rubbing one out. Launching a bootlace as it were.

The Secret Service is pulling their hair out. They hate this shit.

Chelsea spends hour after hour applying and re-applying makeup while reading Nabokov.

Our man pretends to answer his phone. He nods and grunts. He makes apologies and informs everyone that he has a sick daughter at home. Pleasantries are exchanged. His limo actually squeals out of the driveway. Inside, a handful of people including the Senator, laugh with relief as they pull onto the road.

In an oddly portentous and perhaps not unrelated development, a profoundly disturbed team of Dick-in-Bush surrogates are poised at the grave of one Richard Milhous Nixon. They are well appointed with tools to move earth. The idea is to resurrect as much black dripping hate as can be had. The operation is code named “ANWR”.

You may think this is a sign of desperation. It is. Relax though, Republicans have long courted the supernatural. Look how pale they are. You know those big ticket fundraisers behind closed doors? There’s a guy in a monkey suit walking by every couple minutes with a tray full of crackers quivering with gelatinous eye of newt. They drink blood mixed with absinthe at these things.

There is wife swapping, drug smoking and therefore a fair number of libertarians. Ross Perot is passing out mints in the bathroom trying to muscle in on the tips meant for the attendant.

And you thought liberals knew how to have fun.

This one is for you Lance.

Drinks for my friends.