How unfortunate

I admit Christina Ricci was growing on me a couple of months ago. Then this happens. She shows up at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Gala looking like a whored out E.T. Meaning, if I stuffed her into my bicycle basket and rode over a cliff, I probably wouldn’t fly. Instead, my body would fall just long enough to reach terminal velocity before hitting the ground with an anticlimactic thud. Fortunately, my plan wasn’t to cast an unfamiliar shadow in front of the moon. It would be much more devious. When the police find a spatula big enough to pry my pancaked head from the ground, I’d grab the officer by the collar and gurgle, “Did I kill it? God, tell me I killed it.”