OFF THE leash THE BEN TROVATO COLUMN
Dec 09, 2019
4 minutes
Every thirty days I have to get the crowbar out of the garage and use it to unclench my sphincter. The problem is, you see, my foofy valve snaps shut when the unhinged editor of this edible magazine sends me his monthly email full of crazy notions and threats of physical harm should I fail to meet my deadline.
He outdid himself this time, shouting about rock, paper, scissors and warning me that he knows where I live. I asked if they were all on drugs over there in Morningside and he went very quiet, which is exactly what you’d expect a person on drugs to do.
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