Friend Tim Shakes Hands With Perfect Specimen

I Like 'em Big. And Stupid. Don't Tell My Husband.

It’s My Own Fault, Really. For Believing In Fairy Tales. Not That I Ever Mistook Them For Actual Historical Fact, Or Anything. But I Did Grow Up Believing That For Every Girl, There’s A Prince Out There Somewhere. All She Has To Do Is Find Him. Then It’s On With The Happily Ever After. So You Can Only Imagine What Happened When I Found Out. That My Prince Really Is One. A Prince. No, I Really Mean It. He’s An Actual Prince.

I’ve Never Enjoyed Myself More Than I Have The Past Forty-eight Hours, During Which I’ve Been Trapped In A Car With One Of The Worst Drivers I’ve Ever Seen, Run Up The Spanish Steps And Then Down Again So I Could Be On Time To Wait In Line To Perjuer Myself At The American Consulate. And I’d Like To Continue Doing Those Sorts Of Thing With You On A Regular Basis For The Foreseeable Future.

Lana Looked At Me Like I’d Just Said I’d Never Watched Bring It On, Or Something.

I Have Nothing Against Sean Penn. I Don't Even Mind That He Ended Up Divorcing Madonna. I Mean, I Still Like Shia Labeouf Even Though He Chose To Star In Transformers, Which Turned Out To Be A Movie About Robots From Space. That Talk. Which Is Just As Bad As Choosing To Divorce Madonna, If You Ask Me