He types his labored column - weary drudge! Senile fudge and solemn: spare, editor, to condemn these dry leaves of his autumn.

Hello you're with Drudge.

4/16/85: If I were thin, I’d never say “I am powerless over fudge.”
a) I can’t believe I actually ever said that. b) Which, of course, isn't to say that I do have any power over fudge. Particularly if it has nuts.

When you become senile, you won't know it.

I do not 'get' ideas; ideas get me.

Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. You come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good-night.