Where, oh where, is Barbara Billingsley when we need her? 
(Somewhere in the mists of heaven or the fumes of hell, Doctor Johnson, with or without his towel, is suffering through a pain so intense you'd think Alderaan had been blown to smithereens all over again.)
And in related Hoochie-news.... I guess all the tumescent teen-stalkers will simply have to wait for her to fall out of her clothes "by accident" again. Gawd that girl's just dyyyyyying to get out of her fabrics, isn't she? Not that I'm necessarily complaining, but one does start to wonder how guilty one should feel everytime one turns on the television set anymore.
So, all together now: ~~ It's a Nabokov world when the whistle blows, / No one owns a piece of my time / And there's a Nabokov me inside my clothes / Thinkin' that the world looks fine, yeah.... ~~
No? How about this one? ~~ Wastin' away again in Lolitaville, searching for my lost.... ~~
**Er, ahem** Don't worry-- I'll feel appropriately ashamed of myself sooner or later. Probably later. Definitely later.
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