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Friday 6th June

I was lifted out of my hyperbaric gout coffin by a devoted staff of under-butlers, footmen, and apprentice gentleman's gentlemen and laid out in lace and velvet finery for brunch with one D. Barrymore, who is only meeting me to flog her latest bit of flummery. A few blue pills, a voluminous bleeding, a leeching and a stern self-criticism later and I was ready for a few rounds with the tyro. She rose from the table at Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles with a winning smile and shook my hand firmly, sending gout-quakes resonating from the palm outward to the third ventricle, if that is the place I mean. I winced measuredly and looked her up and down. "Do my tits make my ass look fat?" she asked, pulling what appeared to be corn flax down from the back of her short-shorts. I was prepared for this parry, having read my comic electronic mails before breakfast. "Order the chocolate milk, darling," I bleated and she plopped down, apparently pleased with my response. We talked of this and that and would you believe the dratted luck, we are now engaged. I signed something under duress at the Chateau Marmont later, promising not to write about her for publication, and so I shan't, but the agreement only lasts so long as we're engaged or married, so I'll tell you all next week what really happened. Tom Green is greatly misunderstood, I realize now.

It was gratifying to hear from my devoted diary-followers while I was incapacitated with the portly fellow's bane. One correspondent felt strongly enough to send along a recipe for napalm, which, oddly enough is the same one I use for my Gstaad-famous "gas-o-rita" party cocktail, the hit of the Eagle Club and a pick-me-up for skiers everywhere. Another wrote, sneeringly, "tummy hurt?" For such verminous persons, I have only the following to say: "Oh yeah?" "Sez you!" and "What's the big idea?!" And though I would hesitate before harming a flea, I mean such words to sting.

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