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5:41 a.m. - 2003-09-30


What is the big deal with British people trying to piss superstar magician/avid publicity whore David Blaine off?

If a guy chooses to live in an acrylic coffin hoisted high in the air over a park in order to slowly die an extremely public death, isn't that his business and nobody else's?

You would think so, wouldn't you?

You'd sit there in your nasty computer chair and say "That's his business, Uncle Bob."

But no.

These British people are tossing shit at him night and day. Eggs, cartons of spoiled milk, used condoms, orangutan feces, broken light bulbs, copies of Fred Anderson's fascinating new book "From Chunk To Hunk", and Spam.

The potted meat, not copies of unwanted emails.

David is clearly becoming agitated with these people ... the same people that you'd see beating the crap out of pregnant mothers on the sidewalk in front of abortion clinics with leather straps while screaming "Abortion is wrong!"

I'm going to take a controversial stance on the issue with this next statement.

The British just need to leave the poor guy alone.

Let him die with dignity. Once he's dead and the flies begin to pose a problem, go ahead and bring the coffin back down and throw it in a lake or something.

He's a magician. He can probably come back to life and escape and everyone will start calling him Jesus Jr. and then he'll finally get the respect he feels he so rightly deserves.

One question though ... if the guy ain't peeing up there due to a fear of exposing his pee-wee in front of a crowd of angry shit-throwing Brits, he's really doing some irreparable harm on his bladder. He might just wanna wave the white flag and "find a loo" as those crazy English would say.

I'm soooo continental.

I don't normally go out of my way to flaunt the good life that I've made for myself and rub my good fortunes in your face, but this time I have no choice.

Because you people are going to be sooooo jealous of me and it's going to bother the crap out of you all day and if you haven't noticed by now, every now and then I like to get under your skin and remind you that I'm a complete stranger who is capable of pissing each and every one of you off with simple words.

Guess who I managed to score concert tickets for???

Give up?


Go ahead and give up or we'll be here all day and there's nothing more pathetic than you having a one-man guessing game with a computer monitor.













That's right, beeyotch ... myself, the Mrs and America's most adorable little boy Andrew are rocketing over to Atlanta next month to check out Australia's answer to the Beatles.

You know, if the Beatles were gay and sang songs about fruit salad, hot potatoes and successfully wiping your ass after you take a dump.

We talked about going to see them last year, but Andrew was a wee tyke then and wouldn't have appreciated the show as much as he will now.

This is going to be his first concert if you don't count Mattie Gee's band The Spicolis or Dennis Quaid's band whose name escapes me right now.

He's pretty jazzed about it even though we haven't told him yet.

But you a daddy I can sense when the kid is jazzed.

And he's jazzed.

Boy ... is he ever jazzed.

Actually, he's not even closed to being jazzed.

But these tickets cost me $86.60.

And we are on the next to the last row on the floor.

The kid had better get damned jazzed in a freakin' hurry.

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