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by Brent Kellogg
Continued from previous page...

Christ, that conversation was almost as bad as the one where Victor Newman expressed concerned that he and Ashley fell out of love so fast. Victor, my man, you're old, but did you forget? She's crazy! Only a crazy bitch would snatch a man's baby away from him within days of its birth. Only a senile old man would ask if the bitch has forgotten who the father of her baby is. Too bad, it appears Victor won't be around much longer or he might wonder how it was that both Ashley and Sharon gave birth on the same day at the same hour at the same mental institution.

Speaking of nut cases, how crazy is it that Patty Williams had plastic surgery to make her look just like her shrink? How loopy that the shrink would be impressed that Patty now looks so much like her. Would you do this; tell your mental patient it's nice to have a look-a-like? Naturally, there's more than meets the eye to Dr. Pee, as Patty calls her, because why would she keep asking how you came up with the money for plastic surgery? Of what business is it of Dr. Pee's?

If Dr. Pee is in need of a new patient or two, what say we refer her to Nikki Newman? Can you believe this old cow still speaks to clueless private eye Paul Williams, or that he speaks with her since she pretty much left him at the alter? Did it make any sense for Paul to tell Nikki that he was going to the Shady Pines Nut House to see his sister because Patty is "cut off from reality"? Wasn't that the point of locking her ass up? She's bat shit crazy, although it can be difficult to tell the difference between crazy and sane in Genoa City as Paul said he fears telling his mother about Patty. And Mary Williams hasn't heard about Patty's reign of terror? Surely it was in all the papers. Given how Mary has avoided Paul for years, wasn't invited to his wedding near as anyone can tell, Mary may be smart to stay away especially when there are doctors like Dr. Pee saying to her look-a-like, "You must have had surgery." You think?

So, how many snippets of ugly do we want? How do we sift and sort the various spitballs of reality? The machine keeps churning out an endless cavalcade of hope and woe, pain and stupid, divine and beautiful, same as it ever was, except completely different. Shall we dance?

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