Well, you might have heard already that the ex decided to put out a hit on the wind-up midget butler avatar, or maybe it was an attempt at reconciliation that went horribly awry... I'm not sure. The logfiles got cleared, the snapshots and recorded movies all got corrupted.

All that I know is that the midget avatar was trashed, my carpet needed replacing, and the insurance company gave me a loaner while repairs were being attempted.

Yeah, it's a chick. But when you've got events and parties to plan for a high-profile island well-known for maxing out its Sim with happy, shiny virtual people, you ignore the "Torley Linden" jabs and get your pretty nose to the grindstone.

Oh, the catcalls... the names... Crapette... The So Ho... Cee Rap... Barbie-Q... Cee Cee Crapman... and a scatalogical twist on Britney Mason's name that does not deserve the honor of print, utterance, or impression into a gold necklace.

Me, I was under the impression that when you trashed your Beemer, you got a Taurus to tool around in until the Nazis back in Berlin bash your bumper out of the Bauhaus shape you crafted on that light pole. Instead, I got a replacement av that ended up getting second-best-dressed honors at the Nowhereville Yellow Party on Friday night.

Yeah, I know. I said the valet wasn't schooled on aeronautics and rigging, but the truth is... um... yeah, I insisted on parking it myself. (This is happens when you fill the airbag with cookie dough... mmmm... cookie dough)

I have found that in my temporary new shape, the men of the world dance much, much closer. Almost in scandalous proximity.

Remember who's in this bag of gears, guys. And just like you never buy the insurance option for the loaner, well, I opted out of all the other "extras" just to get back out on the road.

Speaking of which, Marlo, resplendent in her raven-haired radiance as always, has a noir moment with me at her loft to discuss the exciting developments on the border...

I feel like this needs to be in black and white, and a cigarette hanging from her lips. Damn you, cruel PhotoShop!

That twitch in her eye... is it getting to her, or is that just the damned Linden script fluttering her perspective once more?

Anyway, SoHo is on the verge of expanding into SoHo-Podshow, with the ribbon-cutting waiting for MB to get a decent gas-powered chainsaw.

I hope it's a rental, because if he leaves that thing around the gophers, I'm not terribly secure with knowing Happy is near such a deadly implement. One tongue-lashing from Pearl, and we're talking Leatherface.

I also hope that he doesn't turn that sucker on Andrea, because the stress has got to be immense with getting the island planned, build, debugged, and the calendar filled with attractors so the rental property is filled. It's to the point where she keeps getting her Pepto Bismol and her shampoo mixed up.

Still, we love her. Every scar upon our hides, every scorch-mark from her wrath's blistering fury... we know that she's just trying to get the job done and motivate us all into doing the best we can. crap is destined to Roll Downhill, and it is our job to keep it from raising crap on Queen Pinky Tuscadero.

Or, as I like to put it, "Eggs on shirt, good. Eggs on face, bad."

The repair shop called and said they had some parts on backorder, but I could still take the little guy out for a spin to see if I could still steer him around.

So, I went to a party with my new neighbors on SoHo...

The worst part about catching fire at a party is that you scream for water, but the bartender bot just hands you a glass of it every 30 seconds.

Not cool.

In the meantime, I've got to limit appearances as the little guy while slumming it with the supermodel...

Not sure why people call this going out in drag and cross-dressing, because it's the same damned tux, right?

Perhaps MB can lend them the chainsaw so they can butcher the English language further.