My personal assistant has been fired. FIRED.
When was she planning to tell me that stamps went up to 37 cents?
Why did I have to find out on my own late last week — just by happening to see a sign posted on the mobile post office on Sixth Avenue near 23rd?
I am taking applications for the personal assistant position. The job itself isn’t that difficult, but the person I hire must genuinely regard me as the most stunning, fabulous, witty, intelligent, well-dressed chick north of the Mason-Dixon Line, east of the Mississippi River, south of the North Pole, and west of the Atlantic Ocean.
Let me know if you know anyone. Ass-kissers, either amateur or professional, need not apply.