What's that peeking out of Vanity Fair writer James Wolcott's Christmas stocking? A shiny new tsunami!
If 7,000 despoilers of Mother Earth getting their due doesn't call for a fine cigar chez Wolcott, then nothing does.
Getting up towards 24,000 now. That should really make him happy. Remind me to blacken an eye or two and reduce his ability to reproduce, if I ever meet him in public. (Don't ask what I'd do if I met him in private...)
Posted by: Kathy K at December 27, 2004 08:11 PMI want a hurricane to hit his apartment.
Posted by: Donnah at December 28, 2004 10:06 AM