| You know Dad became a drag racer, _not_ a drag queen. Unlike like some I could mention, he doesn't enjoy the feel of pink taffeta against his flesh. And if you think I just sit around noshing bonbons and watching television, you are sorely mistaken. After negotiating in the baseball strike team this summer, infiltrating Iraq to pinpoint the location of hidden munitions, designing a new rocket that will save Nasa billions, and knitting you a cashmere sweater from yarn I spun from goats I raised, you say that? Well, forget it, it's OVER. I'm leaving you for someone else. Sorry about the cat. |
