Bad hair life

In the ongoing CF that is the Chris Christie CYA shuffle, it would appear that someone has finally figured out one crucial detail—if you get Bridget Kelly to talk, you're finally going to get some answers. I mean, everybody has just let her hang out for the four months and let her IBS blow up. (She always looks like someone whose latest attempt at IBS relief has just gone bad … very bad.) So please, give this woman immediate immunity. Millions want very much to hear what exactly she has to say about this little dustup.

Because leave us not forget her memo in early August about how it's “time for some traffic problems in Fort Lee,” and its reception by David Wildstein (“Got it”), making very clear that there was a plan of some kind already in place. A plan that was discussed, considered and approved, in advance, by somebody besides her and above her. I'm having a tough time believing that Ms. Kelly somehow “went rogue” with this action. But then again, I'm leftist hedonist scum who has a ball watching power mad blowhards like C.C. squirm a bit.

And where the heck is Bridget's superior, her immediate boss and Christie's chief of staff, Kevin O'Dowd. What rock did this dude suddenly crawl under? Why the hell hasn't anybody picked up that rock and said, “Hey! Kevin! What up?” Where the hell is this guy? Doesn't anybody want to talk to him about his part in this whole passion play? I mean, he's only the governor's chief of freakin' staff, meaning the one link between Christie and Bridget.

There's one thing I'd like Nevada's most dangerous Republican, gambling tycoon Sheldon Adelson, to do. Well, two things. One—lose his checkbook. Without Sheldon writing 90 million to various turkeys, tea drinkers and troglodytes, he's way less dangerous and detestable. Two—shave his head. I mean, jeez, this guy has the all-time hair-don't. He looks as though he loses every long, strandy hair on his dome in the shower every morning, and then has an underling meticulously scrape off all those strands from the hair-catcher and slaps them back in roughly the same place as before. Shell, baby, take it from a guy who wants to help—it's time for the razor. Seriously. It's too late for a rug. Transplants would be a nightmare. The only way out is the Mr. Clean scene. Shave it. I mean, hell, Shell, you're 97 or some damned thing! Then, grow out a nice little goatee or Van Dyke. You know how it goes—when the northern hair is gone, you gotta balance the scene with some southern. No soul patch. Add a nice pair of timeless Ray-Bans. Overnight, your image would go from that of doddering, demented political meddler to semi-Satanic, quasi-cool, Vegas version of Dr. Evil.