Two people on the east side of Cleveland are fucking dead.
It happened around 11 p.m. Tuesday night, about an hour before we go to press.
Rita the copy-editor says to me, she says "you can't write that your drunk."
That's what happens when you call me at Flannery's.
But I am a professional, and a professional knows how to work under any condition.
After all, you have report the news when it happens.
So you don't have to be so negative, Rita.
Anywho- police responded to a domestic disturbance on East 112th St., only to find they were too late.
Its sad.
Like, really really sad.
Neighbor Jenna Wilkenson, a first-rate busy body, said they were arguing over an affair Mr. Jefferies disputed having.
Oh- their names were Rhonda and Woodward Jefferies.
They were married 6 years and Woody shot her then himself.
That's why I don't keep a gun in the house. When Cynthia starts bitching, I could easily see blowing her away.
Fuck off, Rita- it's almost done.
Rita's bitching about going home.
Go home. See if I care.
Quit being such a dick.
I can give this to the page designers.
Anyway, I just want to say- I believe you Woody.
I hate getting accused of something I didn't do.
Women always do that. I think its their insecurities.
And Woody couldn't just let her leave, especially when she was wrong.
I get it.
So, to sum up- Woody and Rhonda are dead, Cynthia's a pain in the ass and Rita's a total dick.
There.
Made deadline.

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