She first afflicted my life back in the 1980s, back when STAR San Diego held sway at State, Mad Magazine was gleefully rotten to the world, and the San Diego Comicon was just another convention instead of the bloated lump it is today.
Her name is Emily Brontesaurus, and she is a fraud. <but a fraud with Panache>. She is a refugee from the Jurassic <bad lawyers>, and the instigator of such literary crimes as Withering Thighs <as compared to his output?>
She is obese <70 tons of sauropod pulchritude), usually dressed in a fake Victorian get up, and ever ready to insult people. <And as soon as I get him back from the dead Ray Bradbury is going to learn why you don’t dump your sweetie at the altar, even if she did leave the Mt. Rushmore of poop in your bathtub.> (Burying your bathtub if you want to know the truth.)
So be warned, she could pop up at most any time. <Especially now that I’ve recovered an old hard drive of Alan’s.>
That means I need your help. I need to find a place to stash some old things where she can’t find them <his fading collection of tazzie porn for one, and the copy of his appearance on “Praise the Lord and Pass the Morning After Pills.”> Please help sponsor old Lizard Hips’ Fund for Keeping Sauropods in the Dark, And maybe you could help me find out how she learned about that damn asteroid 65 megayears ago. <Who do you think called it?>what you can <and make Alan fret endlessly about what I know.>
Emily Brontesaurus, Dame Edith with class.<And ever grumbling gut flora.>