Phyllis Abbott - News Archives 2004
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Phyllis Abbott 2003

Perpetual Lunacy

December 8, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

You'd like to think that these are the final days of idiocy in Phyllis Summers' life. You'd like to think that after the scene she made this week at the Genoa City jail that someone would toss her in a cell, throw away the key, remember to turn off the lights and never come back.

There she was on Wednesday. Still trying to pass herself off as a man and probing professional criminal Dominic Hughes' mind. What got him locked up? What major capers has he pulled off that might in some way compare to the extraordinary crimes she's committed? Why won't he prove to her that he's no snitch? Why won't he tell her what happen in Alcatraz or San Quentin? And what about those two people who want nothing more than to waste him?

Oops. Did Summers really say that? Did anyone but she and Hughes know about this? Was it in all the papers?

It cannot be overstated: Summers is dumb. She moves from a unified incoherent defensive posture to an aggressive, roguish, preemptive-strike attitude, kill first and ask lots of questions each one giving her further away and that's exactly what happened. It took Hughes only ten minutes to figure out who she is. He called for the guards to fetch detective Hank 'KGB' Weber who just happened to be in the building perhaps abusing prisoners or trampling on the Constitution.

And as you might expect, when Weber walked into the cell block to see Summers standing there wig-less, the Barney Fife guard nearby began jumping up and down and jabbering he had no idea the man was a chick.

Asked by Weber what she was doing there Summers sneered. She was doing his job. Just trying to entrap a man into confessing to a crime he may not have committed and having whatever case she may have thought would ever reach the inside of a courtroom tossed out on its ass.

For her trouble, Summers was charged with obstruction and tossed into the female fish tank but not before again adhering to the stereotype of refusing to go as if she had any choice.

It is ongoing. It is never-ending. Perpetual lunacy. Perpetual tattoo parlors selling disguises. Perpetual mistakes of law enforcement officers not bothering to pat down detainees so that they might get into jail with a concealed tape recorder. Said perpetual detainees moving in on the new fish like vultures on a dead carcass. Said fish asking too many leading questions, unable to give convincing answers to questions asked of them and thusly giving themselves away like cheap whores.

They don't really care. Ignorance is bliss. Nobody will notice the flagrant errors and massive blunders as they turn the corner, sharp to the right. This is not the last we've seen of Summers. There are many more fun-filled days of atrocious schemes and asinine testaments of insanity ahead. Plenty more elite citizens waiting to lunge down the wickedly aggressive path to make fools of themselves hoping to catch you unprepared without a supply of industrial strength barf-bags.

The Final Flush

December 7, 2004
by Brent Kellogg 

The last shred of credibility, the last shred of dignity, the last reasonable doubt that someone could have come along at the last minute to save the case against crime suspects Phyllis Summers and Damon Porter has been flushed straight down the toilet. No swirling in the bowl. Straight down into the sewer from whence it spawned.

That this was yet again another miserable attempt at writing crime drama became apparent when Summers went to a tattoo parlor to buy a disguise so that she could dress up like a man and, as she did Tuesday, have herself arrested for drunk driving.

The scene: A Genoa City highway. Noticing a vehicle crossing the center line a number of times a cop pulls it over. The driver reeking off booze says, "I'm not from these parts" when asked for his license. The cops wonders. Gosh fella, have you been drinking? The driver burps the standard "a couple of beers" line before asking if the cop will let him drive to his house which is only "a minute" away although he'd just said he wasn't from these parts.

Noticing a bottle of booze on the car seat and smelling it on the driver's breath, the cop makes a DUI arrest and takes the driver to the city jail without following standard procedure which is to physically check for weapons or contraband.

At the jail the drunk is tossed into the tank with others who have been arrested without being searched. One cop even mentions that the detainee was not frisked which, conveniently, one of the fish overhears.

John Doe apparently wasn't carrying any ID and so Summers' act so far was working to her advantage. Not a single male cop on duty was suspicious that this "man" looked very much like a woman. Looking around, Summers quipped how odd it was that Dominic Hughes, the real man she's trying to entrap, was nowhere to be seen. What made her think Hughes would be there at all is shocking in that the last Summers knew, Hughes was still a patient at the God Have Mercy Medical Center.

Adhering to the stereotype that all fish in the tank are piranha waiting to feast on others, like when Victor Newman and Kevin Fisher were locked up, the fish began moving in for the kill when Summers gurgled that she was about to toss her cookies. This, of course, caused the fish to back away.

Then, in a wondrous sense of good timing, Hughes was tossed into the tank while a cop barfed that because the county jail is filled to the brim Hughes would have to wait it out at the city jail for an opening.

Naturally, this gave Summers the opportunity to tell Hughes she'd been busted for grand theft auto and breaking into a jewelry store. At first Hughes did what any good fish would do. He kept his mouth shut until the "man" began asking what his story was. Just as Hughes was about to maybe admit how he'd tried to kill two people damn but what a cop didn't notice; Summers was yapping like a skunk on Meth.

Alarmed, Summers turned off the tape recorder tucked deeply away in her pocket.

So there you go. You are not supposed to question. You are not supposed to think. You are to buy into this concept that in times of bogus terror alerts and colorfully elevated security threats not one cop would think to screen an arrestee for weapons. Not one cop would think: if one of the inmates is perhaps killed by another the City will be sued for millions. At best I'll lose my job.

The convoluted story so far did not end there. It just so happened that at about the same time - and keep in mind it is so very late at night no reputable stores selling disguises is open - the creepy Christine 'Bug' Blair had returned to her office from two hours of driving around the streets burning expensive gasoline and asking herself how she could have dumped Summers as a client.

Also burning the midnight oil this night for no apparent reason since he has not a single case in progress was private detective Paul 'Clueless' Williams. Williams was working out of his broom closet when the Bug slithered under the door and right away knew pretty much what was troubling the critter: Deep down the Bug can't abandon anyone especially during times of need.

"You're such a Goody Two-shoes," Williams actually said, which was true because the Bug said it was true.

"I'm not used to bailing on people who are counting on me," the Bug squealed, adding that she should have her head examined for taking the case in the first place. Again, a true statement as the Bug should have known that nothing good could have come from getting involved with Summers on any level.

But sadly, Summers' kid had begged the Bug to take the case so she somehow felt an obligation in as much as she'd done so much to keep Daniel Romalotti away from his biological mother all those years.

Looking back on Summers' case the Bug suddenly thought, my, how strange that police detective Hank 'KGB' Weber is doing his dumbest to get a confession out of her.

As bizarre as it all is, and knowing very little about the case, Clueless volunteered to help the Bug solve it although it meant he might have to go out of town to do so. Out of town? For what? To see who? What does it matter now that the case has lost all credibility?

And just so you know, in case there was ever any doubt, Summers' big scheme, this shoddy piece of kindergarten writing is about to blow up in her face. A big time backfire.

She's Got Balls!

December 6, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

You aren't supposed to think. You are to remain ignorant and shielded, and, if you're like most, you have been very carefully conditioned to think that a tattoo parlor is the place to go if you're looking to obtain a disguise. Not just any disguise, but one that will, if you are a woman, make you look like a man. And not just any tattoo parlor, but one run by a man named "Worm" which incidentally is the same as the one where three of Genoa City's most notable pitchfork-wielding teens recently obtained tattoos without parental consent.

And hence this is where Phyllis Summers went Monday to gnaw on and deeply horrify "Worm" by saying she needed a disguise as a means to "save my life". She was doing what any woman being persecuted would do to prove she didn't conspire with anyone to do anything much less attempt to kill a man as the cops allege.

Like most tattoos shops across the land GC Tattoo and Disguise had just what Summers needed to make her look manly minus a pair of bitchin' night-vision goggles. It was a good thing too as no other shop selling disguises was open at the late hour or had posh employees willing to custom-fit the disguise while making smart-assed remarks such as what a breeze it would be to "make a stud out of a babe like you" and "they say clothes make the man".

Within a matter of moments Summers was looking very manly and Marlboro mannish. The only thing missing - besides goggles - was a dirt-encrusted mug which might have caused her to become an instant icon for the war and whisked off the street as the ideal military recruitment tool before she'd been able to accomplish her goal, whatever that may be.

All studly and badass, Summers was ready to rock. Had the hour not been so late small children and senior citizens out in public would have needed to be warned: this is very graphic content. Horrific and deeply disturbing Summers looked to some as though someone's death was impending. Not that she's capable of harming a fly, mind you.

Meanwhile, the man, Summers' so-called partner in crime, the one person who should be charged with a crime had a crime been committed, Damon Porter was having his hand held by Summers' long-haired son, Daniel Romalotti. The kid was to take Porter home immediately following his release from the God Have Mercy Medical Center where he'd been treated for a gun shot wound.

Before going on her mission Summers revealed to Porter that she was taking the bull by the horns and in essence doing what Porter should be doing had he not been satisfied playing the feminazi and letting a woman do a man's work. Porter hemmed and hawed; he's still recuperating from his wound. It's not like he's a complete man. Then too, there's the justice system. Surely if they placed their faith in it, or that horrendous creature passing herself off as a lawyer, they'd be out of the pickle in no time so why not cut the bull?

Summers told Porter the time had come for them to seek the facts. They had to dare to take it in, to see if they can, in fact, handle the truth.

It would not easy. It definitely would not be pleasant. But in this time of ever escalating numbers of flagrant Hank Weber lies and sanitized legal mumbo jumbo about the real effects of their jam, all coupled with a simmering plan to attack first and ask questions later and maybe trap real criminal Dominic Hughes in the process, seeking out such truth was no longer just optional. It is, perhaps, the most idiotic thing Summers can do. If Porter doesn't have the balls to go along with her and maybe get himself a disguise making him look like a woman, Summers would have no choice but to use the spare pair she took off Jack Abbott long ago.

Nothing Left to Lie About

December 3, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

With police detective Hank 'KGB' Weber reaming Phyllis Summers and Damon Porter on just about every possible front, is implosion imminent?

The flagrant Weber bitch slappings of the general public, the jabs straight in eye of common sense with the ice pick of utter BS, have just reached some sort of critical mass, some sort of saturation point of absurdity and pain and ridiculousness and you just have to stand up and applaud.

Really. It's almost as if you should cheer the creativity, it is so spectacular, unprecedented, the tower of absurdity reaching the point where you, jaded and benumbed, are forced to either recoil and ignore and deny, succumb and scream and laugh, or, like Weber himself, just sort of stand there, wide eyed, dumfounded, blinking hard, looking more blank and confused than ever, as the Phyllis Abbott/Damon Porter what-the-hell-did-they-do-that-was-so-wrong front begins to gloriously unravel.

Without telling Summers what new evidence he has concocted against her, Weber asked again on Friday if she'd like to cop a plea to something she didn't do. He thought that like most poor saps hounded and cajoled into confessing to crimes they didn't commit Summers would like a felony conviction on her otherwise spotless record and spend a good five years on probation. Besides, it would save the fine taxpayers of Genoa City the expense of prosecuting her when persecuting her was already running into the thousands.

Summers was baffled. What was Weber talking about?

It was then that Weber proudly hauled out the smoking gun. The single most damning piece of evidence yet. Summers was Porter's bitch! Well, not in so many words. Weber had a copy of Summers' telephone records which therefore makes him the Justice Department's bitch in that the JD just hands over what should be private and confidential information to anyone in exchange for criminal proceedings against suspected terrorists.

Summers was taken aback. She gasped, them asked her mouthpiece - the creepy and going along with this sinister obfuscation - Christine 'Bug' Blair, "Can they do that?"

Can pigs fly? Of course they can do that and have been doing that since before American law enforcement began kissing Saudi rings. Shhh. It's the new American Pie, baby.

"We can and we did," Weber oozed, a big smirk on his face now that he had a huge chunk of "proof" to support Summers' purported criminal doing.

So what did Weber's latest rather embarrassingly staged hoax so full of overblown and awkward twists show? Summers called Porter minutes before she dialed 911 on that day she went to Dominic Hughes' motel room. This, according to Weber's brilliant deduction, proves Summers was at the motel.

That Summers was at the motel is not being disputed. She admits she was there. She called the police from there following Hughes' botched attempt to kill both she and Porter.

Seriously now. Does Weber really believe this is evidence even in his most drunken and heavily Vioxxed state?

Oh yes! In Weber's warped mind Porter was laying in wait. He was dying so to speak to learn from Summers where Hughes was. When he found out Porter raced to the motel carrying a freaking samurai sword as if to say to those he passed along the way, "Look at me! I'm looking like a bad Tom Cruise movie off to kill me a gook. Want to be a witness?"

According to Weber, the plan fell apart. Porter never suspected Hughes would be packing heat. So when he burst into the motel Hughes shot him with a gun he shouldn't have been in possession of and which makes Summers guilty of a crime.

All together now. Let's say it again. There is no case against Summers. There might be one against Porter but with Summers as his witness no DA in his right mind would dare touch it. There is no case. And there never was.

Hell bells, but what the Bug was outraged. Not at Weber's outlandish detecting skills, but at Summers for not telling her about the phone call!

The list of misinformation goes on. The list is growing and expanding and now threatens to split and explode and spread like some sort of giant viscous blob and induce onlookers to slap their hands to their faces and scream while Weber and the Bug conspire to slowly steamroll the commonsense.

There appears to be no end. There appears to be a limitless supply of half-truths and outright lies Weber can invent on the spot, and the Bug can savagely go along with and then squash her buggy-self and not ask why am I sitting in a law office pretending to be an attorney?

And yet here is another, openly and shamelessly befuddled legal case leading Summers into a vile act whereas she will have to prove her own innocence so as to prevent her first and fifth amendment rights from being trampled on the way an abusive priest treats an altar boy.

This is where you have to laugh. This is where you applaud. Stand up and cheer, for it has been a masterful performance, a rather unprecedented series of blunders and well-orchestrated cop maneuvers and outright piss-poor legal representation unmatched in recent history. Hell, the epic scale of the Bug's atrocities alone make whatever Summers and Porter might have done seem like a jaywalking violation.

Is now the time? Is this is where we start to notice how it is all coming unraveled, Weber's snide web of lies just too flagrant and too insulting for too long? The chinks in the armor now becoming cracks and flubs and stumbles?

Is this why we keep following these misadventures? Because we're just too stunned, too frozen in disbelief at the mounting mountains of evidence that have been duped and misled and lied to on a scale we can't really begin to assimilate?

It could very well be because the tower of lies, oh how it teeters, how it quivers, how it feels so ready to fall.

Beyond a Shadow of Doubt

December 2, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

Watching the lawyers and private dicks and police detectives in Genoa City put together a law case is like watching water run uphill. The harder they try the worse it gets.

The legally bitter and devoid of evidence case Hank 'KGB' Weber is building against Damon Porter and Phyllis Abbott grew into a frantic hiccup on Thursday. Their little speed bump on the great and beckoning highway that will lead them nowhere though often agonizing dialog a first year law student can only laugh at and not take seriously spun out of control when lawbug Christine 'Bug' Blair pulled Summers into the law offices of Baldwin, Williams & Associates.

The Bug's theory, the thread her representation of Summers hangs by, is the off chance that a recording was made of the conversations Summers had with prison inmate Dominic Hughes during her many visits to the Georgia penal colony. Such a recording will show beyond a shadow of doubt Summers never had any intention of luring Hughes to Genoa City so that Porter could slice him into fish bait.

Such a recording will further prove that what Summers did or didn't discuss with Hughes has no bearing on the case and in fact there is no case unless one can be made against Hughes for attempting to kill Porter and allegedly attempting to rape Summers.

At first Summers appeared to get her hopes up. Would this maddening nightmare she craves like a monkey yearns for bananas be ending soon? Isn't it well-known that under the Patriot Act all conversations between prisoners and their lawyers and outsiders they converse with are recorded? Had the Bug obtained the prison surveillance or audio tapes? Was that why the Bug had summoned her away from the office?

Hell no!

The Bug had no idea what she was doing. She had no clue that this case should be an open and shut one because that would be too simple. She had no idea that until Summers is actually charged with a crime she can then act on whatever evidence the prosecution has manufactured.

If the case weren't as bogus as they get every one involved might actually have to find something worthwhile to do instead of rehashing pointless scenarios like, Weber's idiotic conclusion that the word of a convicted criminal carries more weight than the word of a woman who allegedly burned down the Abbott pool house and sent Sasha Green to a fiery death.

Why the Bug allows herself to be hoodwinked by a dork like Weber boggles the mind. Yet there the critter was this week yapping that she'll show in a court of law that Hughes was trying to get Porter off his back by proving he had reformed and, and, and, well, there is no and. That's it. That's the basis of the Bug's defense so far.

What this has to do with anything is anyone's guess. The City has the burden of proof. Prosecutors must prove Hughes' contention that Porter and Summers wanted to kill him. Until that time Porter and Summers and their attorney need only sit back and shut the hell up.

Clearly, there is no merit to this case despite how hard Weber oppresses and protests and clamps down and miraculously comes up with what he claims is damning evidence against the suspects.

For someone who claims to know the law the Bug should be calling Weber's bluff. If he's got the evidence make him lay it out. Get off this crooked road that leads, despite all the sour prognostications otherwise, toward a dead end - and dead people now living again as drifter Malcolm Winters has morphed like mad cow disease into this story promising to help - when he's not busy serving coffee - Porter "take care of the problem."

Meanwhile Summers continues to rant to no avail that Weber is trying to frame her since he did it before and never went after Diane Jenkins like he said he would when she all but confessed to setting the Abbott fire. Just like Weber has yet to nail Kevin Fisher for the many crimes he's committed or looked into why Otis Ellwood was tucked neatly away in a Montana cabin during the disappearance of Izzy Williams.

As if this loosely termed case weren't already dead in its tracks Weber stunningly announced Thursday that the District Attorney is prepared to accept a plea agreement if Summers confesses. This, even before Summers has been officially charged with a crime! What's that? You did nothing wrong? There now. It's okay. Just say you did so we can justify keeping our overly-paid jobs while you serve out seven years on probation.

Not ready to arrest Summers or Porter because he's still "investigating", Weber told the Bug he's prepared to roll out more "evidence" to further keep Summers fearful and her 10 year-old son just turned 17 fearful for if mommy goes to prison whatever will become of Daniel Romalotti?

Weber did not, of course, say what the evidence is and the Bug, of course, did not ask because neither want to get to the meat of this matter. They'd rather chew the fat, drag the gristle through their forked tongues until Summers is forced to do something more stupid then when she first poked her snout into Porter's bile.

Call it the slingshot effect: the harder they try to convince us there is a case and yank us into their legally shrill view, the greater the distance we will catapult forward when their tenuous case blows up.

It's all a matter of time, isn't it, before it will all erupt back to the surface and spread like hot butter across the city. When that time comes, we shall look back on Victor Newman's commercial bribery conviction as truly a legitimate example of law enforcement upholding the law's dignity in the same way people look back on old terror alerts and laugh and point and shake their heads and sigh.

Bug Will Sit Romalotti Kid While Mother Catches Midnight Train To Georgia

October 8, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

She's only said it a few thousand times: She didn't and doesn't want or appreciate that the creepy Christine 'Bug' Blair - who worked so hard in conjunction with washed-up rock star Danny Romalotti to keep her son away from her - anywhere near Daniel Romalotti.

So what did Phyllis Summers Abbott do this week?

She asked the Bug to baby-sit the teenager while she, an unemployed single mother, travels to Georgia!

The Bug was happy to oblige in that it would give her bugness a chance to stay in the horse manure-smelling Newman ponderosa tackyroom for at least one night and maybe explain why Mr. Rock On has been gone so long.

It all came about on Friday and was, of course, perpetuated on yet another lie Summers told when, posing as an attorney, she miraculously managed to reach via telephone the Administrator of Georgia's Parole Board.

Claiming to represent Damon Porter - another unemployed Genoa City resident with money to burn on the finer things in life - Summers said she was calling to inquire about the forthcoming parole hearing for the evildoer who killed Porter's son. As a lawyer, Summers said she needed to know whether Porter's absence from the hearing would amount to a hill of beans in that so long as the killer has served his time and shown to have been rehabilitated the prisoner would be released.

Acknowledging that this is how the justice system in America works the Administrator intimated that because prisons in this country are filled to the brim with marijuana smokers and non-violent criminals every opportunity is seized to release violent offenders to make room for more innocent victims caught violating archaic laws. Subsequently, it's a good bet that the man aggravating the monster inside Porter will be released.

Angry that eight years is not enough for cold-blooded murder Summers had to be reminded that it is when you're the killer. So what if an innocent person lost the rest of his/her life? It's the criminal society wants to protect. So what if a person has been convicted eighteen times of DUI and ran someone down in a crosswalk while driving drunk? Hell, slap them on the wrist then set them free to do it again.

Hearing the man say again that the killer will probably be released Summers had to ask, "So you think this inmate will be released?"

And again the Administrator said yes.

And what if Mr. Porter testified at the hearing?

The Administrator said in essence it couldn't do any harm so long as the monster inside Porter didn't get out but that even if Porter was on his best behavior his presence would unlikely influence the board's decision.

Either she couldn't believe that American justice can be so Nazi-like or hadn't cleaned her ears in about three weeks, Summers asked again, "You don't think it will change the outcome?

Just when it seemed as if the Administrator wanted to scream, "Listen fool, I'm a busy man! I've got inmates to coddle. Why do you keep repeating everything I say?" Summers asked if the hearing couldn't be postponed. The Administrator was outraged. The nerve of that woman! "We're talking about a man's life," he honked.

Pointing out that Porter's life would be tragically affected should his son's killer be released Summers slammed the phone down.

"Bastards! Always coddling the criminal," she must have thought, and then, as if going there in person will make any difference, planned to leave for Georgia.

And what does Summers expect to accomplish in Georgia? God only know and He's laughing so hard at the absurdity of it all He ain't saying.

Well Fed, Fear & Insecurity Are Back!

October 7, 2004
by Brent Kellogg 

Let's be honest. Percentage-wise, few people in Genoa City have much of a brain. This is what we at the GCN hate so much about the elite who live here. This city is simply jam-packed with people who have no time for anything but themselves or any interest in getting a good education.

It seems hard to believe. But the general rule of thumb is let someone else do the thinking. Even the Internet, that deep pit of news and information pouring in from all over the world, draws far more people to its porn sites than into any information page where one might find, for example, how State Parole Boards function.

Maybe that's why nobody has any idea who the Mayor of Genoa City is or why Lorena Davis is running around putting kids up for adoption. Maybe too it's why Phyllis Abbott ran straight to Michael Baldwin's apartment first thing Thursday morning to first smear his "freaky" brother behind Kevin Fisher's back and then asked if the mere testifying at the parole hearing of the man who killed freaky Damon Porter's son will keep the man locked up.

Detached and intellectually lazy, Abbott would have known the answer to that question if she'd only stop wasting money of expensive taxi rides for her spoiled rotten son and instead invest that money in a TV, a book, a newspaper or a magazine. On television alone there are numerous shows about the law and the courts. A&E often airs a program about actual real-life parole board hearings. By watching just one of these Abbott would have known that just because revengeful family members of the victims gripe about the injustice and demand the perpetuator remain behind bars, the Parole Board's decision has little to do with what victims or their families want.

So, what's the solution? It's as simple as pulling Abbott out of the gutter and hosing off the delusion that she's this in-demand unemployed webmaster making $140K for working one day a year. It's the cleansing of her apathetic ignorance that allows her to see Porter as the man of her dreams who now - since the monster inside Porter will do something wicked and evil should the Parole Board set a killer free - is on the verge of being lost to her forever just like, gasp, Sharon Newman thought she'd lose her entire family should she be sent to jail for something she said she didn't do.

Oh yes, it's back. The insecurity and fear. Well fed and and reinforced by the Powers That Be, fear has crawled back into Abbott and insecurity is smiling again knowingly, nodding, and whispering in Latin, "There there now. It'll be all right. Just go back to sleep."

Taxi Usage, Amazing Security Breach, Throw More Doubt On Common Sense

September 30, 2004
by Brent Kellogg 

Like anyone with a remotely sober intellect believes for a moment that Phyllis Abbott has so much money to burn she can afford to send her son back and forth to school in a taxi? No wonder she's living in remodeled manure box. The way she pees away money she'll never be able to afford a place of her own.

And there she was again this week calling to ask if Daniel Romalotti had already called a cab. Don't want to be late for school. Keep in mind, Son, it'll take the taxi at least an hour to get to the Newman ponderosa and another hour to get you into town so don't dilly-dally by chatting with Kevin Fisher who isn't supposed to be at our tackyroom much less speaking with you. I know he's there. That's why I called. So get going. The meter is running.

Can't you just see it? The Genoa City Cab Company raking in the big bucks and reporting record earnings now that Mrs. Abbott has become its best customer. One might wonder, gosh, what was that first call to the cab company like?

"Hello? Genoa City Cab? This is Phyllis Abbott. You may have heard of me. I'm an in demand webmaster at Newman Enterprises. Yes, you can assume that I draw down an incredibly large salary for doing nothing and reporting to work for an hour once each week. My son and I have moved to the Newman place and I'll be needing a cab to take my son to and from school on those days he actually agrees to attend class. Are you guys up for the job?"

"Yes we are, Mrs. Abbott. But are you aware that in addition to the trip to Walnut Grove Academy - that is the school your son attends isn't it? - there will be a flat rate for when the cab is empty. We don't ride empty outside city limits. We also expect payment at the time of service. We take cash and credit cards."

"Oh sure, that's not a problem. And yes, it's Walnut Grove. I know what you're gonna say. I never registered my son like other parents in this city have had to do nor did I call my son's school in the Swiss Alps to let them know Daniel wouldn't be returning this semester. What's that? You don't care? Silly me. There I go again. Oh! Before I hang up there's one other thing. Tell your drivers not to get confused. My son may look like a girl but take my word for it, he's a boy. So no funny stuff, okay? Bye-bye now. What now?"

"Not that we're complaining mind you, but I was just wondering, Mrs. Abbott. Why can't your son catch the bus like the Newman kids do or have him ride in with the Newman slave? Doesn't Miguel drive those other kids occasionally?"

"Not that it's any of your beeswax, sir. Miguel only picks the Newman kids up from school. He does take them to school on days Cassie Newman misses the bus because she's ripping that lying mother of hers a new butt. So you see it just wouldn't be feasible."

"Yeah, Mrs. Abbott. I think I understand. The school bus goes way out there anyway, but because the Newman kid misses it your son does too. Forget I asked. We do appreciate your business."

"Hey Mister, before I let you go there's a little favor I'd like to ask. For, say an extra $20 could your drivers let me know if they see that creepy Fisher dude hanging around with my son? Don't tell Daniel! Put it down as a tip on my charge card. Bye."

"Wait! Mrs. Abbott! That's not our job. If you need a minder for your son you might wish to contact Brad Carlton. My suggestion though would be to alert Newman security. They're pretty good at that sort of thing."

Meanwhile in a related development Kevin Fisher had indeed slipped past the ever vigilant ponderosa security guards again on Thursday. Taking a tip from Alex the drug dealer who eluded capture last week by slipping off Newman property via the woods, Fisher slipped onto the property the same way.

So what, one might wonder too, was Fisher doing where he shouldn't be? What had driven him to hitchhike some twenty miles? Nothing, really, except to ask Romalotti if they were "still cool", to regurgitate his infatuation with old lady Lauren Fenmore and to perform Romalotti's trigonometry homework which was the only slightly believable thing Fisher has done all week.

Although nobody for a moment believes that a sprawling farm owned by the rich Newman's would not be surrounded by a high chain link fence, with the elite in Genoa City it's never a difficult leap from the seemingly impossible to the utterly mindless. Didn't Abbott say she was going to alert security? Isn't she worried that the bogey man might come back to eat her son? What the hell is she doing then leaving Daniel alone?

Do we really not see? Are we really this gullible and lost and easily misled? Do you already know the answer? But aren't you noticing something missing? Something obvious and slimy and yet somehow utterly ignored during the entire Alex fiasco and the taxi service to and from? Of course you don't - you're not supposed to. This was the whole point.

And do you hear that? That cackling, hissing laughter? It's coming from the brilliantly orchestrated scribes, all giddy like greased pigs at how they can so effortlessly pass their absolutely miserable weak little characters and plots off on you to swallow like yummy trans-fatty McDonald's fries.

Homeless, Jobless and Brainless

September 28, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

When last we left our sneering caped crusaders, Michael Baldwin thought he was part of Phyllis Abbott's grand plan to save her son from the evil doing drug dealer "Alex" and should she need him Baldwin would zoom to the Newman Ponderosa making the one hour drive in about five minutes provided Abbott could find his number on her speed dial.

On Tuesday Baldwin was mumbling into his hand puppet about how he was utterly shocked and appalled and was blaming the whole thing on his crazy brother who really must get some professional help lest Kevin Fisher does something looney which, of course, he will given that by the time Baldwin gets off his ass it'll be too late.

Wondering just how Abbott's plan went down last week, and unable to use the phone because it was the sensible way to communicate, Baldwin summoned Abbott to ask in person how she had handled "that psycho" with the baseball bat.

Told the plan came off without a hitch and that the police were never called Baldwin puffed out his chest.

"So our plan worked," he hacked, as Abbott oozed with pride how she had told Alex to get out of town and if he didn't she'd sic the great Victor Newman on him.

Relieved, Baldwin again spewed it was a good thing because had the cops been called his brother might have been implicated and Lord knows Fisher couldn't stand more jail time. Something had to be done and some heads were gonna roll and the cops should have been called. But it's a good thing the cops weren't called was the general Baldwin flip-flop of the day.

Then, noticing Baldwin didn't seem to be himself, Abbott asked what was bothering him so? Was he worried his brother might go to jail? That Fisher needs his head examined but Baldwin wants to wait until Kevin goes psycho again? What, pray tell, was it?

"I can't help but think what could have happened to Lily [Winters], to Daniel [Romalotti] and to you," Baldwin actually said which was such a damn lie because had he really been worried he would have gone with Abbott that day. Not that it would have done any good, but at least he wouldn't have to seem completely out of touch after the fact wherein he scrunches his face all tight, furrows his brow and wags his finger and says such asinine things.

That Baldwin has ever thought for a moment about Lily Winters is nearly as big a joke as when he reiterated that if Kevin keeps "pulling these stunts" there's no telling how many innocent people will get hurt and by god, "I've got to do something."

It is the eternal Baldwin conundrum. How to appear sort of blank faced and ignorant of the true atrocities your brother commits so as to avoid any sort of direct accountability, and yet still pretend to be a savvy, aware, tough-guy who gets things done.

Oh yes, Kevin needs "serious therapy," Baldwin whined, and then in the same breath lamented gul-dang it, Kevin won't go on his own. Woe is me - what should I do?

Baldwin's Forrest Gump-style dunderheadedness was defused when Abbott picked up on the fact that his admit-no-mistakes, bomb-first-ask-questions-never approach might put her son at risk. To hell with law and order. If word gets out that innocent baby-faced sissy-boy Romalotti was mixed up with the drug deals and attempted rapes at the Newman Wreck Center she'd be, "homeless, jobless and childless."

That Abbott would become homeless and jobless and childless is merely more proof that this woman is delusional. She has no clear understanding of how the justice system works - especially in Genoa City - since it's been said time and again there is no chance in hell Romalotti would ever be charged with a crime.

But it gets worse. Baldwin is now under the impression that Victor Newman is taking what happened at the wreck center "very personally" and is on some crusade to find out who was responsible for the drug deal and the attempted rape. To that end the great man may ask Baldwin to help bring the evil-doers to justice and has even put in a call to the city's most clueless detective.

"Isn't that great?" Abbott asked, making herself appear more contradictory and unstable and inconsistent, which is exactly what she's doing right now unless privately she knows that Paul Williams can't find Genoa City on a map and has a success rating matching her IQ.

So then. You gotta admit, maybe Abbott isn't all that stupid after all. Maybe she's not the smirking aww-shucks simpleton she appears to be lately, the one who takes on evil-doers all by herself and struggles with telling the police while at the same time not wanting the police to find out because her son might go to a gulag - or something.

Or, rather, maybe Abbott really is that stupid, just not in the ways anyone really imagined. Maybe she's stupid in a way that is far worse, and far more dangerous now that the monster living inside her gorilla boyfriend has taken to playing with swords.

And so maybe, ultimately, it all comes back to us. Maybe it is the majority of people in this flag-wavin', happily deluded, fear-drenched city who can't believe it could happen, who simply, you know, misunderestimate just how poisonous Abbott's savage brand of stupidity really is.

What Goes Around, Comes Around, Mom Wants Fantasy Come True!
July 21, 2004

by Brent Kellogg

"What's wrong with you, Son? Why wouldn't you want to move into a small apartment with me and my lover?" Phyllis Abbott might soon ask Daniel Romalotti assuming that the 16-year-old would appreciate having to share what amounts to an opium den where the resident monkey climbs around on the furniture like a gorilla on Meth.

Really, this is what any astute, intelligent mother back together with her son for the first time since birth might be asking now that Abbott has posed the question to Damon Porter. Why can't they all live together like one, great big, happy family?

Is Abbott out of her mind? As always, it's a rhetorical question. Of course she is. It's easy to tell just from the mindless statement she made this week that working with Dru Winters is "killing" her.

Work? When have Abbott and Winters worked together? When has there been any constructive performance on what is supposed to be the Consolidated Cosmetics Division at Newman Enterprises? The only sweat these two women have worked up is when they argued over who'd get the biggest office and then agreed to share it.

To his credit, the barely able to speak the English language Porter recommended that if Abbott hates the job so much she should quit.

"Newman Enterprises needs me!" Abbott hacked, as just about the entire business community broke out in collective laughter.

Why do the elite who work at NE continually delude themselves into thinking that they have "demanding" jobs and are essential to the company's continued success? Newman Enterprises may need a lot of things but it has never needed Abbott.

For all the pressures placed on them, Winters and Abbott find plenty of time to stay away from the office. Since the start of her new job - one given on a silver platter along with a slap on her nepotistic ass - Winters has spent a majority of her time at the Victor Newman Memorial Center trying to save the life of an unwanted kid she barely knows simply because she's suddenly remembered that she was once no better off than Devon Hamilton. Lately, Winter's boss/husband, Neil has become a regular fixture at the recreation center too.

Same goes for Abbott. For a woman who claims to "love" her job so much she's spent the major part of her time away from the office worrying about how she's going to bond with her teenage son.

With Daniel in need of a place to stay Phyllis should have picked up the scent. Spend some bucks. Get a pad. Pretty simple, except that in Genoa City nothing is simple. If it so much as looks like a pimple is going to turn into a boil the people here get all testy. They fret and wring their hands. Oh Lord, what will become of us?

Abbott wants her cake and eat it too. Moving into an apartment with her son might require that she stop screwing like a rabbit. Better to have the son move into the boy friend's pad so that he can listen to his mother having sex in the next room. How thrilling.

"Good morning, Daniel. Did you hear me and Damon going at it last night? Did you get turned on? Did I ever tell you it has always been my fantasy? It's true. Just ask Jack Abbott," Phyllis might say.

Again, it took Porter to bring this woman back to reality. A 16-year-old doesn't want to live with his mother's shack up. There will be plenty of opportunities to have sex. It's not like either one of them has a 24/7 job. Strike while the iron is hot. Besides, Porter said he could use the time alone to work out the demons from his past. Speaking of which, has anyone seen Vanessa Lehner lately?

Real Time Make-believe
July 1, 2004

by Brent Kellogg

It's been said here in these pages and wherever intelligent Genoa City observers congregate: The employment of Dru Winters by Newman Enterprises is an insult. Not just because Winters doesn't have the education or the skills required to slop pigs but because CEO Victor Newman told her to get out of the building and never show her face around it again.

But because Winters' husband in now running the show it's to be believed that she could be hired without Neil Winters first obtaining Newman's permission. It is to be believed merely because the helmet-hair implanted in her skull is there now making an ass of herself and not at Jabot Cosmetics making an ass of herself.

It is to be believed because Winters now scowls at the newly rehired newly-renamed Director of Internet Content Department, Phyllis Abbott, and acts all manly wanting to duke it out with Abbott just because she can't have the big office.

That Abbott went back to Newman Enterprises was somewhat tolerable in that she's allegedly a webmaster. To believe this the imagination must be stretched to the breaking point.

What is it that NE sells that would require it to have a web site? Safra cosmetics? Just how many different items are there in this product line? More importantly, who buys the toxic crap from the web site? So, okay, maybe NE doesn't generate many sales this way. What else does the company market? Business acquisitions?

That this seems to contradict everything imagined about a corporate giant it cannot compare to what happened Thursday at the company.

After staying up all night Abbott proudly announced that she had set up a network of expensive laptop computers and created what would rival the command center at NORAD. Single-handedly Abbott had launched what she called the "Newman Cosmetic Division."

It was odd considering that just a few days earlier Dru Winters had said the new division would be called "Consolidated Cosmetics Division."

Abbott's boss was impressed. But instead of asking who authorized the spending of so much money for so many computers or thinking that right now something like thirty employees were looking for their laptops, Mr. Winters' only concern was why Abbott needed so many computers.

"I've connected these laptops to one server so I can work on more than one page simultaneously," Abbott actually said.

Anyone outside Genoa City who currently designs or has ever designed a web site must have been rolling on the floor laughing their asses off. It's common knowledge that with a single slow poke computer it's easy to work on more than one web page at a time. It's called multitasking and goes way back to Windows 95.

A pin could be heard dropping when Abbott added that in addition to bouncing back and forth between laptop screens sucking up all that unnecessary electricity, she can, thanks to the network, make changes to the web site in "real time"!

For a woman claiming to be a webmaster Abbott is so far out of touch with reality it's not remotely funny. If anything, the idea encourages those that know corporate, and not so corporate web page changes are already made in real time, to snicker and point fingers and maybe say, "Phyllis, you are such a fool."

A child of four knows only one computer need be connected to the server in order to make web page changes in real time.

Other than Dru saying that Abbott was up to "something sneaky", although she isn't quite sure what them new fangeled gadgets do besides help her daughter troll the Internet for sexual predators, there was no debate. There was no discussion. How nice of Mrs. Abbott to bring Newman into the 21st Century. Gosh, what would a multi-billion dollar company have done without her?

Neil summoned it up best when he told the girls to stop fussing and feuding and to learn to play in the sandbox together. The insipid idea that either one of these women work for anything outside the realm of a fast food joint is just that; of little kids playing make-believe.

Killer Bees Meet at the Hives
June 9, 2004

by Brent Kellogg

Like most everything Phyllis Abbott does, she never gets it quite right.

Take Wednesday for example when Abbott summoned the very creepy Christine 'Bug' Blair to this week's Genoa City featured restaurant, The Hives.

Stealing away from her love bunker for a change the Bug slithered up to Abbott and from the outset began ejaculating venom. Did Abbott think she could get away with calling her holiness out when she may have had more important matters but came anyway?

Abbott got right to the point. From now on ... but before she got more than a few words past her lips the snarly Bug rudely interrupted to leverage the hell out of all of it, whatever it was Abbott wanted to discuss, to make it personal, spin it all her way even though Abbott hadn't said anything.

Did Abbott know that her son had almost jumped on a plane for the return trip to the Swiss Alps after meeting with him earlier? Did Abbott know that the little puss she tricked into marriage was helpless to stop a 16-year-old boy he calls "son" from getting on a plane whenever the mood strikes?

Instead of slapping the creature down and telling her, listen your slimy slug this is my show, sit down, shut up and stop flapping those wings like a mad killer bee, Abbott had to ask, golly. Where was Daniel Romalotti going?

Why Phyllis, wherever do you think he was going? Let's think for a moment. Did you hear the statement? Let's recap: The Bug said your kid almost got on a plane. Now where could he be going? To Louisiana to help Brock Reynolds build homes for the homeless? To Los Angeles to become a rock star? To Montana to check on Otis Elwood or back to Switzerland where he lives?

The Bug had to give Abbott the answer. Switzerland.

According to the Bug, Romalotti was planning to flee because Abbott had "ambushed" him. Actually had the gall to speak the truth by telling the kid that she is his birth mother. How horrendous can a woman get? It took a lot of bug power to get the kid to change his mind.

As usual the critter was careful not to mention that the real reason Daniel wanted to leave town was because he was horrified to learn that she had thought of him as her own son and had discovered that both the Bug, and that sissy he calls "dad", lied to him years ago about his spawning.

And like most liars once the Bug got started she couldn't stop. She told Phyllis that Daniel "confides" in her, that he's upset that Phyllis pulled a Pearl Harbor on the Bug's lily-white, crystal clear character and is, in general, immature and thoughtless and had Phyllis been patient the Bug might have allowed her to see the boy.

Just when it looked like the Bug had her prey thinking she was weak and that some awful terrorism would swoop in and eat Daniel and that she should have known not to confront the Bug because she's powerless and small, Phyllis said what she came to say.

Unless the Bug tells Daniel that he needs a relationship with his "real" mother - something Daniel shouldn't be able to figure out for himself - Phyllis will tell the boy who his real family is and that it includes only one parent, her.

Boy, was the Bug scared. Oh yes! She would scurry right off and do all that.

These are the dark storm clouds of sadness and savage pain that settle in over the collective soul of Genoa City, as Phyllis snatches total control and promises to further her agenda of fear and intolerance and lies, the Bug just sighs. Ptew! Spits on Phyllis and glares that blank stare.

In short, Phyllis needs to cut to the chase. The truth will set her - and Daniel - free. The longer she keeps the secret that Danny Romalotti is not Daniel's father the bigger it will get and the more deadly it will be when it bites her on the ass.

Sorry, there is no other way to put it. Stop jerking yourself around, Phyllis. Stop the empty threats and wasting time. Unless, you plan to get creative. Give the Bug and that sissy an ultimatum. Since they perpetuated the lies give them 2 weeks to tell Daniel the truth. If at the end of the deadline they haven't, rent a car and run them down. Only this time, don't blow it.

Abbott On Her Knees, Begs For Job
April 9, 2004

by Brent Kellogg

"Thank you for your interest in our company miss, what was your last name, Abbott, or is it Summers again? but we've filled the webmaster position at Newman Enterprises and really, we don't have the need for even one web page designer right now. As a matter of fact, the job requires so little skill I'm thinking of getting a monkey to do it for free. We'll keep your application on file should the situation change. Now please, get the hell out of my home and never come here again uninvited. You got that?" the great Victor Newman should have told Phyllis Abbott this week when she showed up at his home unexpectedly.

Aware that Newman was much too busy with personal matters and that it really wasn't a good time to come calling and not wondering, damn, I'm sure lucky those security guards at the front gate are still letting just anyone wander onto the ranch, Abbott flicked her former boss' subtle hint - that she wasn't wanted - away like so much dried up nose snot.

"To hell with your personal problems, Victor! This is about me. Phyllis Abbott. I'm almost as filthy rich as you are and don't need to work for a living, but gosh, do you think you could give me my job back? What's that? You've hired someone to do my job and if you fire the person just to rehire me that person will be on the long unemployment lines? Too damn bad. Don't you think you owe me after what I did for you at your hearing which really didn't sway the judge at all?" Abbott did not exactly say, but this was the gist of her glaring self importance.

Reluctantly, Newman let the bitch in.

Thinking only of herself, Abbott rambled on that since she and her husband are getting a divorce it was additional justification for Newman to grant her wish.

"There is zero conflict of interest. Zero reason for you not to hire me back," she said, carefully avoiding telling Newman that while she may not be sleeping with the enemy anymore, she is sleeping with one of the enemy's most treasured lab rats. Not that it should matter since Damon Porter rarely shows up for work

"Please! This is just not the time," Newman begged, only to have Abbott surmise that his dinkwad son must have already told him what a tragic mistake it would be hiring a woman who lies and deceives to get what she wants.

"I'm fighting for my job here!" Abbott snarled.

Instead of telling the slime he doesn't give a crap what she's fighting for, Newman confessed that he had recently received some troubling news which could explain his lack of interest in such trivial matters as former employers who think they are entitled to their jobs.

Pretending to care, Abbott pumped for the details. Had somebody died? Had another Newman subsidiary gone belly up? Was it, duh, something personal that is no concern of hers and she should maybe leave and have a better chance of getting her job back by catching the man at the workplace some day when he wasn't so troubled?

"Is is something complicated you want to act on but you're not sure how?" she had the gall to ask.

And as if she were some freaky incense-sniffing Karma Sutra guru like Porter, Abbott promised not to say a word if Newman chose to confide in her his most deepest, personal thoughts.

Incredibly, Newman did just that.

"Gosh Mrs.... Phyllis. Since just about the entire city knows that my sperm flows freely and I've sired almost every bastard kid living in these parts, you may as well know too. I have a child I didn't know about," Newman said.

"So what's one more kid you didn't know about?" Abbott did not reply, but did volunteer that she lost a child of her own once and my, oh my, it can be devastating. Nor did she tell how in all the years the child has been out of her life did she so much as make the slightest inquiry as to the child's welfare, let the likes of that restaurant working pig, Gina Roma, keep information from her and never once sought legal action to enforce visiting rights.

Perhaps realizing what an ass she had made of herself, Abbott said on her way out the door that they could talk about employment at some other, more opportune time.

Her tiny little voice fading, fading, drowned out by sunshine and laughter and dogs barking, Newman should have said "bye bye Phyllis, you bring nothing of value and before I ever again make the mistake of hiring you I will check and double-check your background and your cheesy relationships. My son Nick may be a prick, but refusing to take your sorry ass back was one of the best decisions he's ever made."

Dogs In Heat Commit Adultery, Betrayal, Spread Germs and Disease
March 22, 2004

by Brent Kellogg

Just in case Genoa City hadn't been recently induced to sufficient levels of creeped-out nausea via the general oozing of dogs in heat Nick and Sharon Newman, concern was raised Monday that Jabot Cosmetics top lab rat Damon Porter did not change the sheets prior to porking his employer's wife.

The adulterous affair with Phyllis Abbot may have left behind infectious sexual diseases which, if spread, could cause a major city-wide breakout. Also of concern was the fact that neither Porter nor Abbott apparently showered after the porking or bothered to wash their hands.

With body fluids still dripping from her crotch Abbott said, somewhat creepily, before pausing for a really weird 10-second lull during which her eyes glazed over and she took a slow pan around the bedroom and apparently had this sudden revelation of where she was and what she was doing and how she is still legally married to Jack Abbott, that it was so nice of Porter to have stuck her.

"I'm glad I could be of service," Porter smiled, obviously pleased that he had proven to the white girl, if she didn't know before, that it's true what they say about the endowment of a black man.

He probably went on to say "Grrggle grrggle pbbbttthhht!" and then spun around like a drunken pinwheel and passed out, quivering and twitching, given how Porter is a self-righteous ideological orchid-slapped incense-sniffing dinkwad.

Giddy, and maybe wondering why she wasted all that time in the sack with her wimpy husband when she could have been feeling the manly power Porter has to offer between her legs and what Diane Jenkins sees in Jack Abbott, an invigorated Mrs. Abbott remarked, "I feel like a woman of action" and then raced to Newman Enterprises where she demanded a job, she was told only a few days ago is no longer available, be given back to her.

Unable to find Victor Newman in his office, Mrs. Abbott located the great man's son, Nick.

"I'm here to get my old job back. When do you want me to start?" she actually had the gall to ask young Newman who responded by informing Abbott that he, not Victor Newman, has the power at the Newman empire now and that she could damn well forget getting a job at the empire now or in the future.

As much as Nick Newman is hated it was refreshing to see him kick someone so presumptuous and disgusting as Abbott out on her ass. At the very least she could have waited for the divorce process to start and could have shown some dignity by not sleeping with one of her husband's employees.

But this is how slimy the elite and Genoa City are. Without blinking an eye they'll have sex with anyone, anywhere, anytime, not wash up afterwards, eat from the desktops they've screwed on and sleep on sheets covered with dried sperm.

Phyllis Abbott Gets Cold Shoulder
March 2, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

Genoa City's most sought after webmaster Phyllis Abbott walked into her husband's office this week like she were walking into the Presidential Palace. Her bra was strategically dipped below one breast and her eyes looked around for a mirror so that she could watch the fool she has become grovel once again for a job she does not need.

As the girls in the secretary pool drew straws as to who'd be let go to make room for another worthless employee, Abbott probably thought they were fighting over who'd be her personal secretary. That's how vain Mrs. Abbott is. She thinks companies like Jabot Cosmetics and Newman Enterprises have nothing better to do than pad its payrolls.

Abbott knew several years ago when she was still quite naive that getting ahead in the world meant getting a college education. But going to school and studying was too much like work. So she went to New York, drugged some pus-head rock star and convinced him she had given birth to his baby. By the time that plan had gone South Summers had found herself living all alone in a tiny apartment and needing a means to pay rent.

Looking around, Phyllis noticed many other women in Genoa City equally as uneducated. Most notably were Sharon Newman who had married into money and Grace Turner who had slept her way to money. To avoid having to actually work for a living, Phyllis locked onto money bags Jack Abbott, but after a few rolls in the hay it wasn't working so she returned to New York.

When she came back to Genoa City a couple of years later and asked Jack, "Do you remember me?" is was expected that Jack would say, "How could I forget? You gave me some of the best sex ever. Better than anything I ever got from the old Vietnamese broad."

Actually, Abbott didn't seem to know Ms Summers at all!

He did vaguely recall that she had been playing him for a fool in exchange for money from Victor Newman.

"Are you here to screw me over again for my arch enemy?" he asked.

"Come on Jack, you know I was spying for Victor for the money. I was divorced from Danny and had lost my son. I admit it was a dumb move," she replied.

She also announced that while she had been away she had become a "web expert" and had returned to Genoa City so as to "make up for my past indiscretions" if only Abbott would give her a chance.

At the time, Jack was eager to get the Glow by Jabot website out of the hands of those inexperienced Glow Kids so he immediately planned to put Phyllis on the payroll. A short time later, however, Jack changed his mind.

"Genoa City is a small town with small minded people," Phyllis snarled when she found out her services were not wanted. She told Jack he could take his job and shove it.

Phyllis was on her way to Genoa City's International Airport when she stopped by the RoadKill Cafe. Following an ugly chat with the very creepy Christine 'Bug' Blair about the critter's inability to give birth, Phyllis went back to Jack's office to say that if he still wanted her she'd reconsider working on the Jabot website just for the summer.

Phyllis got the job and at the end of the Glow campaign was told by Jack that thanks to her expertise, website cosmetics sales had skyrocketed and that he wanted her to stick around. There was, however, the small matter of having her continued employment approved by the board of directors.

My but how some things have changed. Since the Jabot board is pretty much extinct the likes of Dru Winters and now, the boss' wife, can be hired without board approval.

It had to have taken some gall for Phyllis to ask her estranged husband for a job.

With the company on the edge of bankruptcy and a step-son in need of a mother, Phyllis choose work over baby when choosing the later could have given her the edge on getting rid of her husband's most recent useless hire, Diane Jenkins. For weeks Phyllis has whined that Diane is trying to steal Jack and that her step-son doesn't seem to know who she is. She could have at least offered to baby-sit considering that both the boy's parents rarely spend time with him and has been spending way too much time doing funny things upstairs at the Abbott home with his grandfather.

Besides the obviously out of whack reality that Phyllis doesn't need a job and that she would either be putting another person out of one or exerting further strain on the struggling Jabot by hiring her as an additional webmaster - or something - Phyllis said on Tuesday that her employment at Jabot would be contingent on the dismissal of Jenkins!

Jack Abbott must have wanted to roll over in laughter. Is this not the dumbest thing he's heard since hiring Dru Winters as a spokesmodel for products the woman never speaks about? Did Phyllis really think he'd dump a woman who has pumped millions into a failing company when all she has to offer is to pump him occasionally? Sure, he's squandering the money Jenkins gave him by allowing her to remodel just about the entire building, but hey! His son has a mother. When you're running a toxic chemical company you've got to set priorities.

And so now that she's been rejected twice in as many days Mrs. Abbott is forced to play dirty. Forced to perform another act of extreme obnoxious deranged psychosis.

That bastard! I'm going to tell the judge he's just as slimy as Victor Newman. That oughta teach my husband not to mess with me!

Indeed, it probably will and is likely to be the end of Jabot Cosmetics if somebody doesn't step in and kick Jack Abbott out first which in the end will be the only socially redeeming value to come out of what was an otherwise convoluted mess.

No Jobs at the Empire for Useless Boobs Like Phyllis Abbott
February 26, 2004

It's a wonder Phyllis Abbott hasn't opened her very own "Passion of Victor Newman" store complete with cross-adorned coffee mugs, an exact replica of the one Newman drinks from every every morning. The money she'd haul in would be phenomenal and eliminate the need to be crawling around kissing Newman's feet begging for a job like she did on Thursday.

Reminding Newman of the promise he made when she quit just a few weeks ago and is already back with hat in hand, the great man told the sniveling bitch he never promised her anything. All he said when she voluntarily left the empire on January 7 was that if she ever changed her mind, "a job will be waiting."

Of course, that a job may be waiting doesn't mean it's waiting for Abbott. It could be waiting for one of the many unemployed in Genoa City. Those actually out of work who need work and aren't the dainty wives of rich corporate scum bags like Abbott.

No matter how many times Newman told Abbott he wasn't in the hiring mood, Abbott couldn't get it through her thick head. She moaned and groaned that her marriage is on the rocks, that another woman is after her man and even went so far as to say her own biological son wants nothing to do with his pathetic mom.

The mention of a son disowning its parent caught Newman's ear. Would this be the same child Abbott had with that singer, what's his name? The one-hit wonder?

"That's the one," Abbott lied through her sad little teeth.

And because Newman cares nothing about this woman and considers her a snarky little gag which always got a handful of chuckles from drunk web site managers and former cokeheads in accounting when she was posing as the Newman Enterprises webmaster, the name Danny Romalotti didn't enter his head. If it had he might have asked why Abbott was lying again and hadn't Brian Hamilton sired her kid and was she ever planning to tell him that half the staff at Jabot hitched a ride to Japan aboard the Newman jet?

Told point blank that it's not a good idea for her to be working for him when her husband wants nothing more than to see him behind bars, Abbott still didn't get it. She did, however, have a brain fart when Newman said that he had offered Jack Abbott 75-million to get off his back and had turned it down.

Abbott proposed that if she could convince her husband to change his mind that surely would be deserving an award. Again, Newman said no, adding that after the sentencing if Abbott still wants a job they can talk about it.

Incredibly, after being told in about a hundred different ways and in five different languages that he doesn't want her lazy ass sucking money from his payroll doing the job a monkey could do in half the time and for a quarter of the money and that he had already weaseled out on what she interrupted as a promise, Abbott quipped, "I know you're a man of your word."

Besides the fact that she's a freaking useless boob and that Newman would be making a big mistake by rehiring her and would probably have to fire someone truly in need of a job to feed the kids to make room, Abbott doesn't need a job.

For the sake of argument, let's say she got the job back. What guarantee is there that she'd be on the job for much more than an hour when the call came in that her son is in town? She must know Newman heard her tell him this. Based on the working habits of the elite in this town, Abbott would be out of the office more than in it, running about, trying to bond with her son on Newman's dime. Hell, just trying to prove to Saint Danny Romalotti and his fat-ass sister that she's worthy of seeing her son is going to be a full-time endeavor.

Newman made an excellent decision when he told this woman to beat it. If she's really got time to play employee in today tight job market she can get a job hawking cheap-ass Jesus-branded "Passion" movie tie-in swill when the movie opens at the Genoa City Bijou theatre. She could call it a way to spread a message of hope which will inspire people like her washed-up rock star sissified brother to share the kid he has zero blood connection to and should be hauled into court for taking the boy out of the country without permission. That's another, at least part-time job Abbott could get involved with if she really gives a damn about that kid.

The lesson here is simply a reminder easily forgotten amongst the hype and the creepiness. All Phyllis Abbott wants is a job she doesn't have to go to except when she wants to feel powerful and important. In today's economy one doesn't quit a good paying job and six weeks later expect to get it back.

Additionally, she doesn't need a job and could better spend her time working on a way to regain full custody of her son. This is what a real mother would do. Sadly, this is not who Abbott is. Nothing is sacred - especially that which is supposedly most sacred of all.

Biological Mother Begs Man who Kidnapped Son for Visitation
February 25, 2004

If there isn't one thing more annoying than hearing Malcolm Winters speak of Nate Hastings as his "son" or Ryan McNeil speaking of Phillip Chancellor IV as his "son" whom he refused to adopt, it's Danny Romalotti speaking of Danny Romalotti Junior as his "son."

Romalotti's case is particularly sickening and reminiscent of a pedophile trolling the men's room for little boys. Granted custody years ago by a sleepy judge who had deemed Phyllis Summer's to be an unfit mother, Romalotti took the boy out of the country illegally.

As far as anyone knows the boy has never had a mother-figure in his life and oddly, now that he's reportedly a teenager, Danny Jr. never once inquired as to who his mother might be.

Overhearing the washed-up rock star talking about her kid this week, the now Mrs. Abbott got in Romalotti's face and demanded he bring her up to speed. She whined on and on that she hasn't seen the boy in years and wonders if he'd even know her. Does Danny Jr. have friends? Does he do well in school? He is all manly and play sports and maybe belch "Hoora" repeatedly when watching WWF Smackdown?

Without offering a photo any good father carries in his wallet Romalotti babbled that the kid is happy and is, most importantly, good looking with lots of friends. Except for the fact Danny Jr. has developed a "special interest" in computers, he's otherwise a well-adjusted boy and knows all about his mother, too. Why, just looking at the Newman Enterprises website gave the kid a feeling of closeness knowing that his unskilled-skilled mother created the site with her own two hands before she gave up the plushest job in town, Romalotti did not add.

Abbott's whine was relentless. Just when she had pretty much forgotten about her own child and had traded him in for another woman's son, that boy too seems to want nothing to do with her. Making matters worse she can't have any more children of her own and adopting a truly unwanted child is out of the question given how the elite in Genoa City shun adoption like the plague.

Feeling sorry for the woman who tricked him into a bad marriage Romalotti announced the arrival in Genoa City soon of his "son" and said that if Abbott is nice and Danny Jr. approves, they might all get together for dinner sometime.

It's hard to feel empathy for Mrs. Abbott. That she hasn't seen her son all this time is due to her own negligence. She's had more than one opportunity to pursue legal action against Romalotti for taking her son out of the country without permission. She had visitation rights but not once sought to have a court intervene. For her to snivel and grovel at Romalotti's feet is unbecoming a woman capable of murder.

Abbott has fought tooth and nail to get what she's wanted in the past. But when it comes to seeing her son she nervously squeezes her most favoritest rubber ducky really really hard and dunks it under the bubbles and makes gurgling drowning-ducky noises, and giggles as the likes of Romalotti and his sexless wooden mannequin token sister, Gina Roma, with the heavily shellacked hair and a smile that gives children nightmares, a woman with zero discernable feminine characteristics, had to have her arm twisted before she'd let her see a photograph of the kid, keep her cut off from her own son.

When asked just what the hell is wrong with her and why she is such a simpering suckmonkey, Abbott jams her fingers into her ears and squeals " Diane [Jenkins] is trying to steal my husband" over and over again.

It is hoped that the inevitable paring of mother and son won't result in another Jill Abbott/Katherine Sterling scenario where Abbott turns into a raging alcoholic and Danny Jr. sets off to discover who his real father is. Or worse, turns into a re-run of the angry Colleen Carlton story where the parents simply cannot tolerate the thought that their kid will have deep juicy sex while they themselves never will again because they have beaten themselves silly with the pointy stick of uptight sexual ignorance and timidity.

The message is this: Abbott needs to get off her ass and stop acting like a diarrhea-relief product. No dignity can be gained by allowing a man with no blood connection to her son to have any say whatsoever in whatever relationship she might want to cultivate with the boy.

Abbott to Seek Reinstatement at NE?
February 18, 2004

When Newman Enterprises webmaster Phyllis Abbott quit her plush and mostly meaningless job on January 7 she did not reveal that she had given a not so rare but very valuable and dead orchid to the competition in return for a roll or two in the sack with an estranged husband who had, for all intents and purposes, ostracized her from the Abbott family.

But the plan - if it could be called that - backfired. Jack Abbott was not as appreciative as he could have been and was later caught in the arms of employee Diane Jenkins who Mrs. Abbott has assumed is trying to "steal" him.

Because of the tragic events Abbott said this week she wants Newman Enterprises to re-hire her.

Under normal circumstances it could be asked, "Why would anyone hire this woman once, much less twice?" Plus, wouldn't a Fortune 500 company like NE already have filled the webmaster's job?

Logically, Abbott's odds of getting her job back are slim. Illogically, she probably will given how Victor Newman said at her termination, "I appreciate loyalty and if she ever changes her mind a job will be waiting."

Abbott quits, says husband will pay!
January 7, 2003

Newman Enterprises webmaster Phyllis Abbott said Wednesday she knew damn well what she was doing when she gave a rare orchid found only in Japan which is not really rare at all to competing Jabot Cosmetics CEO Jack Abbott.

"I went to him in good faith to repair our relationship," Mrs. Abbott barfed, in an attempt to make it sound as if she didn't know what she was doing when she handed over the orchid said to contain an extract which will revolutionize the personal grooming industry in exchange for another roll or two in the sack with a husband who had all but banished her from the Abbott family.

Told by Newman Enterprises' right-hand man Neil Winters that she had been betrayed and won't be able to work in Genoa City again if the big boss man finds out, Mrs. Abbott snatched the opportunity to shift the blame to her husband.

"This burns my butt! I'm going to make him pay," she said of Jack Abbott before slithering off to turn in her resignation.

Like all gutless weasels unable to speak the truth Abbott did not tell CEO Victor Newman the real reason she was terminating.

"I appreciate loyalty and if she ever changes her mind a job will be waiting," a clueless Newman was heard to say as he gave Abbott a good-bye hug.

Abbott sticks knife in Newman's back!
January 6, 2004

Those who know what a conniving, murdering, unfit mother who should be slapped upside the head with a dead fish Phyllis Abbott is were not shocked and awed to learn Tuesday that the traitorous bitch has sold out her employer in exchange for another chance to have lousy sex with thieving pip-squeak Jack Abbott.

The betrayal emerged when Mrs. Abbott handed over to her husband the rare orchid plant smuggled out of Japan and which is thought to be the "silver bullet" in the on-going cosmetics war between Newman Enterprises and Jabot Cosmetics.

Thrilled that his company now possess the only two of its kind orchids in America and noting that it means Newman is "out of the running", Abbott asked his wife if betraying an employer who trusted her when it should have known better was something she really wanted to do.

Without batting an eye Mrs. Abbott smirked, "Yes, I do" and then had the unmitigated gall to tell her employer's right-hand man that she had given the prized orchid to the enemy.

Newman CEO Victor Newman was not immediately available for comment, but to be betrayed by Abbott after he went out on a limb to take a lowly webmaster into his confidence knowing that her ultimate loyalties lay with the competition should be a lesson he won't soon forget.

That Jack Abbott thinks he's got Newman by the short hairs is laughable since all Newman has to do is jet back to Japan to pick another orchid from the many growing in abundance on the grounds of most hotels there.