It's all Woody Allen's fault. I was watching the preview for his next movie on the boob tube. It's called Blue Jasmine. Everything was going fine. Okay, another Woody Allen movie, his 437th I think. I probably won't see it, but that's okay.
Then it just caught my earlobe and worked its way into my brain very slowly - "Andrew Dice Clay". My head turned a la Regan in The Exorcist. Obviously I had inhaled too many WD40 fumes at the cottage. Maybe some chainsaw oil made its way into my cheerios.
Nope. Andrew Dice Clay is in Woody Allen's movie. Go ahead, read that line again. It's true. Well, tear me another universe. I'm leaving.
Andrew Dice Clay is to comedy as Donald Trump is to bosses.
What happened at the auditions? Did Andy Clay wear a life-like Anthony Hopkins halloween mask? Did he bring a bottle of chianti to complete the guise?
Two weeks ago I just got over the fact that Mr. Allen married his adopted daughter. Two months ago I stopped puking at the idea. Now this.
I guess I can give Andy a chance. But my body gave the shingles a chance once and it wasn't pleasant.
I don't know. I'd say Mr. Allen is really rolling the Dice this time.
Excuse my insensitivity, but I hope Carrot Top passes away before Mr. Allen's next script.
