Bellavitae: A Frankless Task
Am I out of a job?
Perhaps it is only the burden of star-doling which incites Frank to write like Baudelaire, rolled up in an oriental carpet, shoved up an old man's ass, and lit on fire. Today, the Diner’s Journal is so…simple. Take a look at THIS abominable CLARITY:
“He and a business partner, Jon Mudder, have done a terrific job giving the relatively minimalist space - exposed brick walls, wide-plank pine floors - a fresh sheen.”
WHAT? A “terrific job”???? What’s next? “Kittichai was pretty sweet.” Or “Pasternack’s doing some great shit up in that bitch.” Someone needs to follow the strewn trail of silk scarves, adverbs, and stacked heels that leads to the closet in the Times building where he’s been bound and gagged, and where, deep in his purse, lies THIS snippet:
“Mr. Beramendi and his occupational bedfellow, Jon Mudder have put babies everywhere to a deep and perverted shame, by birthing in the space – baked-earth wallage and generously-hewn pine flooring – an albino virgin swan of architectural purity.”
Someone, track down this kid to go save Frank. Give him a gun. He’s so good with his hands, I bet he’ll be amazing armed:
C’mon, trust me, it’s worth it. I really miss the old Frank. I don’t even want to TALK about how judicious he was in his report on the choose-your-own-adventure menu trend.