First of all, Ms. Jameson, you burst into here, threatening my client, threatening to expose him and knowing that your threats were backed up by your posse of Metrosexuals. Using the finest voodoo taught to me at University of Chicago School of Law, I was able to blunt your vicious attack only by calling down a former Bears lineman-turned-legal hawk and his team of Superbowl Shufflers.

Next, you suggest poor Cleetus - quite possibly, and I am not shitting you here, the nicest guy on earth, except for his desire to exterminate 1 million people of Arabic ancestry and all that - brush up on his sweeping skills so he can excel at his future career in the janitorial arts.

Then we seem to make some kind of breakthrough in our relationship and then you wake up, guns blazing, and come back in here to poke us with a stick. I mean, I haven't felt this sense of deflation since I found out that Scientology wouldn't give me super powers to crush cars into little metal cubes with my bare hands.

We are a small but proud people, we welcome you but you... you just piss right back in our face.

I will be on hiatus, out in the desert, praying, until I can make some order of the chaos in my soul.