D-Day, or toast and roast in Texas

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This is it. Roast or toast. Invade or be conquered. Texas and Ohio. And a couple of other states someplace. Virginia and New Jersey, I think. No, no. It’s Vermont. And Rhode Island. Who goes to Vermont this time of year? And why is it called Rhode Island when there’s no island?

Anyway, D-Day is here and I am sweating like a whore in church. Ohio looks tight. Texas is tighter. My pantyhose is even tighter. Maggie hasn’t been able to step up to handle my shopping details like Patti could. She can’t get the color right. She can’t get the size right. I’m one shade too dark and two sizes too tight. Now my feet are numb.

I’m going to roast Mark Penn for that dumb-assed email he sent to the Los Angeles Times telling them he didn’t hold any responsibility if my campaign fails. He’s already laying out his parachute. I had Howard send them an email telling the paper that Mark was to blame for everything. He’s toast.

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