The Tonight Show

I got me a mail today from The Tonight Show. I didn't even know it was still on the air. I'm usually three sheets to the wind by the time that late stuff comes on. It was a short, two-line letter, and I hadn't got hide nor hair's idea what to with it. They didn't ask me for any advice, so I'll spout some out anyway since that annoying Carter boy finally got off the computer machine. I done told Maxine we need to put a sign with a time limit. I don't know how she 'spects me to do this advice column if I cain't use the machine.

This morning I was skimmin' the newspaper and saw that sad people spend more money. Made all kinds of news! Then they printed, and I think I would have left this part out, the study was done on 33 people. Now, what kind of mad scientist only studies 33 people and then spits it out as fact. It's like the day before, I read me a story about the sweetener in Diet Coke caused hunger in rats. I don't know about you, but I ain't seen me a lot of rodents drinkin' soda-water. 

So my advice for you women out there is to get you a good vibratin' pleasure stick to stay chipper. What you save by being happy, you can spend on rechargeables and then work ya out a savings plan. And as far as the other news, make sure you drink all the Diet Coke from the can so there ain't none left for the rodents. 

I'll be right back. Constance, that's our newspaper reporter at The Herald, just came through the door and she's madder than a wet hen...

If that woman had a heart, she'd take it out and step on it. All she wants—ever—is the scoop. Last year I saved her life. Is she grateful? No. She comes in here, "Give me the scoop! The scoop, Winnie." I told her this wasn't no Baskin-Robbins, but politely offered her a coffee, since that's what we sell. I didn't know what'n the world she was talkin' about.

 "The Tonight Show!" she barked.

Now, the only person I told about that letter I received was Maxine. Well, she done went and blabbed to Luciano, her Argentine beef, who told Robert, his Mexican friend at the gas station, who told Trisha, the checker at the Save-All, only minutes before—who else?—Constance shows up with a bag of spaghetti noodles asking if she'd heard any gossip. 

Fuck me silly, but I ain't even decided why they wrote me, and Constance wants to do a "spread" in The Herald. The last thing I need is to be spread across cheap paper.

What'll I do, folks? I can usually stir my own batter, but this has got me into a tizzy.