Phillipe returns! Plus, road rage and the hell of war
Phillipe, who gave up his decades-long co-authorship of this column several months back, made a shocking and unannounced return last week, putting quite a start into his old writing partner Jorge, and setting the Cool, Cool World into full lock 'n' load on whose what is where when and how in the Biggest Little.
The Oscar Mayer Weinermobile parked with two tires in the herb garden and the empty Pernod case in the fountain should have been a tip-off, but nonetheless Jorge shrieked, "You scared the salsa out of me!" when he came through the verandah doors of Casa Diablo and encountered Phillipe for the first time in months. P. was sitting in the ultrasuede-covered Barcalounger, dandling the tittering, Speedo-clad Moammar, our Filipino cabana boy, on his knee while reading to him from Seal Team Six. A rerun of Fashion Police was playing on the Jumbotron HD TV in the Boom-Boom Room, drowned out by Esquerita blasting from the eight Dolby Surround Sound speakers.
"Bonjour, mon cher," Phillipe responded, completely at ease.
"Where have you been?" Jorge inquired. "You said you were just going out for a quick Botox injection, and never came back. I've been worried sick. Well, not sick exactly, but it did give me a reason to see how many Lunestras and Limoncello shooters it took to make Entourage bearable. They actually fired Chief Esserman for not being able to find you, and covered it up with some bogus story about his daughter having a party with Purple Jesus punch and blunts all around while Dino was watching porn in the man cave with his community policemen. You've been harder to find than someone with a double-digit IQ at a Tea Party rally."
P. replied, "I finally just got fed up with all that nonsense about not being able to find bin Laden that wouldn't pass a laugh test, and him cranking out those appalling videos from Pakistan. So I gave my old buddies in special ops a call to see if they wanted to join me for a little adventure. It wasn't what Osama had to say — 'Death to America,' all that trite bullshit — it was the production quality that finally put me over the top. I suppose the director has never heard of backlighting? And who was the set designer, Fred Flintstone? Couldn't they just do something to soften Osama's features? Christ, anyone who ever saw what they did with Joan Collins in Dynasty knows all you have to do is smear a handful of Vaseline on the lens and, Bob's your uncle, you've got a teenager looking into the camera. I just snapped, and said we're ending this outrage to all things artistic right now."
"I would have been back sooner," P. continued, "but I made a quick killing, so to speak, with a jury-rigging job in Florida. Talk about dumb crackers. Thank God The Donald let me lay for free at his golf course every day I was down there.
: Phillipe And Jorge
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