Attention to all the fine ladies I've crushed on since roughly 1977, beginning with Mary Shae Brickamoore, to whom I made the sweetest of honeyed Bat Out Of Hell love in the back of my parent's Chevy Nova, and the fiery-tressed Debbie Provost, the greatest babysitter to ever work at the Whittier Kentucky Fried Chicken:

You have been replaced in my heart by Sue Ellicott on Air America's Morning Sedition. That's right. Don't cry. Don't succumb to the medicine cabinet's hypnotic gaze. Please don't barrage her with hate e-mail, please don't call her names, please don't parade through the streets outside her studio unless you're in a hearty throng shouting, "Cory Frye is the sweetest guy who ever lived, and you should give it all up for him!" She's English, so she can't help that she's automatically cute and smart. They're just born that way--'cept Tony Blair, and I have it on good authority that his baby bum was first swatted by a Wisconsin doctor. I'm a native Californian, so I can't help that I'm on drugs--in this case, the deadly SWOONENOL. Oh, Sue!

Yesterday the esteemed Mannogod Reverend Speats, who's performed legendary humanitarian work in Denmark and Turkey without ever leaving the bathhouse, sounded off on a certain genus very dear to my heart: Shitbricking Playdoh-brained oblivious gleeful assholed suckers of cock--specifically, shitbricking Playdoh-brained oblivious gleeful assholed suckers of cock who occupy too much precious vinyl space on Los Angeles transit buses. I've felt the squeeze from both ends, where you have to either splay your pretzel-configured arms and eyeteeth against a grimy window where someone's etched HILL ST TRESE 01, using the fossilized gum to dot his I, followed by a list of said firm's (like The Firm, as in Foxxy Brown's "We the firm, baby!") board of directors; or experience the spinal jolt of half-cheek, where you're kinda sorta in the seat, kinda sorta sitting on oxygen. Why? Because you're forced to share with the Human Scissors, who's performing a bored form of the splits while either sleeping or just in general exercising his birthright as a shitbricking Playdoh-brained oblivious gleeful assholed sucker of cock, which is akin to being asleep forever, occasionally disrupting your slumber with a series of excited grunts, lethargic gasps, and gaseous bursts of numbing nothingness. If they're wearing earphones, they're usually listening to Nelly. If there's a cellphone anywhere on their girth, chances are it'll bleat a happy cucharacha or the first six notes of "Dre Day" at least 12 times during the ride, followed by 17-minute conversations that begin "Sup, fool? Yeah. Yeah. Ah told that bitch ah be there 'round six. She trippin'. What Alexa say? What Alexa say? I say what Alexa say? OH, SHIT! OH SHIIITDAWG! Later. Ican'talkrightnowahmonthebus. What? Naw, man, what? OH SHIT! DAAAAAYUM!" And if you're lucky, it'll be one of those fashionably ire-rousing two-way walkie-talkie jobs where you can feast heartily upon both ends of the ass.