The Day the Laughter Died
Dear Andrea Grimes,
It is indeed a sad day for Dallas. It is as if scientists reanimated JFK only to re-assassinate him, then the Cowboys and Mavericks and Stars were all killed in simultaneous yet completely separate bus accidents. It is truly that tragic. This is the day the laughter died.
It pains my soul and pangs my heart to read of your impending departure from the pages of the Dallas Observer so that you may immerse yourself in Austin-based academia. I do not know how I will carry on. I do not know how we as a city will persevere without your hackneyed estrogen-infused wit and your perfunctorily developed punchlines. Even now as I think back on all your fanciful exploits, I am quite literally urinating on myself, a physical reaction no doubt due to the odd mixture of impenetrable sorrow and joyous nostalgia that so overwhelms every fiber of my being.
I had grown so fond of your "Girl On Top" column, the hilarious antics in which you would partake, the zany situations wherein you would find yourself. It is as if Lucile Ball, Laverne & Shirley, and Kathy Griffin had somehow been genetically fused into a seething ball of unflappable unfunnyness. Oh, how the urine streams down my legs as I relive each hilarious moment! Whether it had to do with dating, hair, shoes, or some well-tread combination of the three, it was always an exquisite recipe for forced, shrug-filled smiles. Ah, the urine pools at my feet like a boisterous laugh's liquid aftermath; a laughtermath, if you will. A laughtermath of warm urine.
I had grown so fond of your "Girl On Top" column, the hilarious antics in which you would partake, the zany situations wherein you would find yourself. It is as if Lucile Ball, Laverne & Shirley, and Kathy Griffin had somehow been genetically fused into a seething ball of unflappable unfunnyness. Oh, how the urine streams down my legs as I relive each hilarious moment! Whether it had to do with dating, hair, shoes, or some well-tread combination of the three, it was always an exquisite recipe for forced, shrug-filled smiles. Ah, the urine pools at my feet like a boisterous laugh's liquid aftermath; a laughtermath, if you will. A laughtermath of warm urine.
Alibaster Abthernabther