It's been rough couple of weeks to be anyone this July. Usually July is a quiet month except for inner city homicides. Other than that it's usually the most boring part of the baseball season with some tennis and bicycling sprinkled about.
But dang if you're Bill Walsh, Ingmar Bergman, Tom Snyder, Marvin Zindler, or Michel Serrault. Because you're dead. J.K. even killed off Harry Potter's sorry ass. But, dead happens and all. What can you do, right?
We feel bad for Robin Roberts. But, hell if you're Michael Vick. Or, damn bloody hell if you're Tony "snitches-get-stitches" Taylor. Oh, shit, what if you were Johnny Boy Roberts? Zing! Or, Tad "Big Porkin'" Stevens. Ha! Or, even two-bit celebs like Lindsay or Britney or Nicole (three of the melt-down quadruplets). And, there's Tim Donaghy. July...damn you!
Well, if you were W, you would have had a public colonoscopy this month (only to find your administration drooping around your ankles when you stood back up). If you were Big Uncle Dick Cheney, you'd have had your rrrrrobot batteries changed and would have had to turn over the Real Presidency over to your retarded step-nephew, Georgie, for two hours. Or, if you were Al(ibi) Gonzales, you would have been called a liar (well, you are, right?).
[I see Alberto G. as one anchor on the indictment scale to come and Uncle D as the other].
If you were Hillary everyone would have looked at your tits. Everybody all mock shock and jimmied-up outrage. Hey people, take a look, Barack Obama is black too!
If you were to be anyone this July, it would have been either Rupert Murdoch or Kevin Federline. Both will begin August in a better place than they were in July.
The Boston Celtics did OK too.
Here comes August!
