Johansson O'Hara Scarlett

My first idea this afternoon, the day after Columbus Day Weekend had to do with what seems to have been as fictitious a contract as ever existed, the ten year deal between the Las Vegas Raiders of the NFL and one J. Gruden This deal fizzled they say, like the unrealistic nonsense it seemed to be; no coach is able to guarantee he will stay productively atop the athletic world that long and Mr. Gruden never even reached consistency in the three years that he had to do so.

Perhaps one could chalk the whole thing up to what should be expected from a new franchise in Sin City no less. I mean, were people expecting Simon purity or what supposedly we got: a tabloid phony scandal? The smart money says that that this is not the end of anyone's world, there is no such thing as bad publicity and that Gruden intends to recant an altruistic statement, seeking every penny of what he feels he is due as per the ludicrously ridiculous contract.

Anyone in their right mind would do the same. It is all about what the market will bear. This guy may be seeking employment for a time and presumably still may very well have mouths to feed. He knows no shame. Is not he a bit like you and me?

What is really on my mind though has little to do with the above. I cannot figure out why my social worker called this morning , to say nothing of why this person looked Jim Carrey Mask Smoking Hot. Perhaps, as one would suspect she really is looking to advance career wise, like she intimated. If jeans, boots et al were all that was required to land a better job I would gladly audition to be campaign manager to elect her High Priestess Of The Universe but then I am the person who for that matter would vote for Mel Trump, too, were she to pursue high political office.

I feel the need to record the fact ( or fiction ) that there would seemingly be no limits to the manner in which I would potentially degrade myself to socialize with this trumped up counsellor who is of marginally sufficient qualifications to counsel--she has a diagnosis. Let us say I would gladly toss her figurative salad like any number of gullible people of my biological gender. We continue to work our respective angles; currently I conclude that we do not e mail, friend one another on social media, etcetera. Hell. she will not read me consistently. Both of us having musically talented male parents assures me of nothing. She perhaps needs to open a damn door for herself as well and has a habit of irking me by not calling before appearing at the door. Like all the others I would not doubt her ability to " carelessly cut... and laugh while you're bleeding " . There is something in the way she moves and the way I quote ancient deceased lyricists when overcome with amour.

The way I felt flattered by her assessment of my lead vocal capabilities, I have half a mind to tell one of my underlings to spare no expense, make an offer that cannot be confused and hire her as my music manager. If this involves violating the fictional contract with the equally fictitious Molten Tune conglomerate, so be it. The heart wants what it wants, to misquote an elderly ex Manhattan resident infamous for resembling another generations version of myself. Ideations, hallucinations--I leave it up to the poor sap who fictionally subscribes to me here to decide.

Also, I must leave it up to the crack ( innuendo intended--as in butt crack, anyone? ) team of editors here to legitimately reject the forthcoming feeble minded if not autistic spasmodic attempt to weasel this pathetic piece of trash into the Belize Macaw contest. I really should trash this but here goes. I find it difficult to decide whether the aforementioned woman is more majestically reminiscent of the Macaw's natural beauty or a relative of mine. They are both blond and at the age where it ain't nothin' but the bottle variety. My auntie used to be the cutest bubble butt under five feet tall you would ever encounter. She lost weight similarly to the way I must have lost my mind here. Anyway, ya' want ta' make something of it? As an aside, her great granddaughter named Scarlet; I always automatically think of her name being O'Hara or Johansson for fairly obvious reasons.

In case there is an inquiring cranium viewing this disappearing act I refer to as a piece or article, I suspect that a couple of somewhat famous people have done more than they are generally credited with. F.F. Coppola may or may not have been the talk radio host I recall listening to decades ago; if so he went by the radio moniker Frank Ford and the Frank Ford Show aired in the Delaware Valley , broadcasting under the auspices of WWDB. Why do I feel like the late L. King, I begin to ask myself ( maybe I recall his newspaper column, reminiscent of one S. J. Lewis ) ? Another tidbit of unreliable nonsense is that there is a sports talk radio co host of J. Smith by the name of Mark Harmon, who may be completely unrelated to the actor and ex athlete of the same name. This is obviously pure speculation.

I was somewhat mystified by ex New York cop Sean Hannity and his co conspirator on the radio recently. The self congratulatory happy talk she and he engaged in was insipid, not that the show itself was not of interest. I liked the show quite a bit; like anything of this nature it is not by any means as easy to entertain as one might like to wishfully/wistfully imagine.