England: “Two eggs over easy and some buttered toast, please.” Waitress: “Sausage or bacon with that?” England: “No. No, thanks.” Waitress: “White or wheat on the toast?” England: “White, please. Oh, and coffee.” Waitress: “Great. Be right back with your coffee, then.” England: “Thanks so much.” **** update **** Waitress: “Can I bring you anything else, hon?” England: “No, that’ll do it. Just the check, please.”

So, y’know, no biggie, I guess. **** more, from Malkin and friends.

So, y’know, no biggie, I guess. **** more, from Malkin and friends.

I bet you anything George McSmirkychimp hates herring. Probably only eats fresh rainbow trout. From a stream. The Biblethumping oil gaucho. update: Can you imagine Chimpy eating gefilte fish? Me neither. God how I hate that man.

Your attention, please. protein wisdom has not been issued press credentials for the Democratic National Convention. Which is fine by me, because I can report from any place at any time that Ted Kennedy is drunk, drooling, and goosing a horrified cocktail waitress — and I stand an excellent chance of being correct. Proximity is overrated. And Michael Moore loves peanut butter cups.

Your attention, please. protein wisdom has not been issued press credentials for the Democratic National Convention. Which is fine by me, because I can report from any place at any time that Ted Kennedy is drunk, drooling, and goosing a horrified cocktail waitress — and I stand an excellent chance of being correct. Proximity is overrated. And Michael Moore loves peanut butter cups.

JK: “Can I bring you a grilled cheese sandwich, dear?” THK: “I don’t even understand what that is, this grilled whatever it is you called it. Now leave me be and send in Kiko would you? It’s time for my foot massage.”

I don’t mean to quibble, but disco didn’t die so much as get a little too coked up and sloppy on Dom, then stumble off to a dimly-lit nightclub bathroom, where it wildly banged six spindly polyester Lotharios and a biker chick before passing out naked on the floor with a pair of $20 bills and a champagne flute crammed in the coochie. That’s more humiliation than “death,” technically speaking.

I don’t mean to quibble, but disco didn’t die so much as get a little too coked up and sloppy on Dom, then stumble off to a dimly-lit nightclub bathroom, where it wildly banged six spindly polyester Lotharios and a biker chick before passing out naked on the floor with a pair of $20 bills and a champagne flute crammed in the coochie. That’s more humiliation than “death,” technically speaking.