When I woke up this morning for the fourth time, mainly because the slumber crusts that had developed during my 12-hour, Nyquil-induced coma had grown large enough to start forcing my eyes open (WELCOME!), I realized two things: 1) Eye biology is disgusting; and 2) It was all just a dream. Alas, I'm not a 17-year-old baseball phenom from Nevada who just signed a multimillion dollar contract with the Washington Nationals. That dream-turned-reality belongs to a boy named Bryce Harper. This accomplishment was only topped by him finally being able to see an R-rated movie without a parent or guardian present.
And speaking of R-rated, that perv Andre Chreky of DC's downtown eponymous salon is going to have to pay $7 million to a former employee for allegedly sexually harassing her at work. Jennifer Thong, whose ancestors I'm sure assure us no pun was intended, claims among other things that Chreky once Hansel'd her by ripping off her underpants through sheer force of will alone. That kind of sick perversion is only seconded by that haircut I once got at his salon that made me look like Peg Bundy, presidential hopeful, which in 2010, I suppose, would just be called "the Sarah Palin." I'll see Chreky in hell.
Lastly, in more uplifting news, the only thing that could make this movie better is more Buster the Clown.