Relax, big boy.
That ship has shown its bow and passed.
While Kurt Warner spent halftime of Sunday’s game popping Eucharists like Favre on a barbiturate bender, I visited the imprisoned remains of New York’s last beacon of public hedonism.
After peering down into the well of tits-gone-by, I actually got a little sad.
Who — on this 4.5 billion year-old earth — would castrate Gate D?
Oh, I guess it makes sense now.
What’s next, Sarah? Chastity belts for the bars around Wrigley?
Damn, she’s on fire!
