I went to the gym today. Thank you, thank you, oh, you're too kind! What a great audience, and here's a little number I like to call, "That's Gonna Hurt Tomorrow."

Ooh, it was great, though. I got all pumped up and sweaty and felt like a real bad-ass for 45 minutes. Very much, in fact, like I could beat the living hell out of . . . a pint of Chubby Hubby.

Now listen here: Why didn't anyone tell me about Chubby Hubby? It's very possibly the most fabulous stuff on the planet, and no one ever thought to mention this to me? All these years I've been passing it by in favor of Cherry Garcia, and . . . [sputter] and . . . [more sputtering].

Someone answered my personal ad. But it's a "collect call." Meaning that the guy, rather than spending a "credit" (credits cost about $1 each) to answer my ad, wants me to pony up a credit to reply to his collect call.

Well, heck, I don't have any credits either.

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