“Pretty lady is pretty, Trey.”
“She is, Page, but she’s more than just a pretty lady. She’s a big-time reporter.”
“Oh. OOOOHHHHHH! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!”
“She’s not secretly Superman, Page.”
“Oh, right, right. Okay.”
KEYBOARDIST WINKING NOISE
“No, Page. All reporters are not secretly Superman. I don’t know who told you that, but they were messing with you.”
“Is she Spider-Man?”
“She has no super-powers at all, buddy. Although, she put up with Keith Olbermann’s bullshit for a few years, so maybe she does.”
“What?”
“Big media joke, pal. Don’t worry about it.”
“What does she do?”
“Katy? Well, she covered the Trump campaign for NBC.”
“He is bad!”
“He is, buddy.”
“I don’t like him!”
“I’m with you.”
“He is orange! Presidents should be black!”
“Could not agree more, man.”
“Trump should not be around Katy. He will chain her up and make her wear a metal bikini.”
“She’s safe now, Pagey. She’s with us.”
“Okay. I like her better than Jake Tapper.”
“Everyone does.”
…
“Trey?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“What doughnut is it?”
“We’re not doing that anymore.”
“Oh.”
Here’s something else that has nothing, nothing at all, to do with the flaming wreckage of a failed experiment our republic and culture has become: Phil and some very special Phriends from the Warfield in SanFrancisco on 4/15/99. Trapqueen Applefucker and Page from The Phishes joined Phil, along with Steve Kimock and John Molo, and the whole thing kicks ass, starting with the half-hour Viola Lee. Grateful Deads are playing Phosh music, Phishes are playing choogly tunes: mass hysteria.