Once again…from the sweltering Summer of 2006:

The very best part of being on location (well, aside from the coke and hookers — and snorting the coke off the asses of the hookers) is staying in luxurious hotel rooms. Ah! The room service! The thermostat cranked to 50 degrees whilst I disingenuously call down for more blankets and pillows so I can pretend it’s winter! My very own bed! The absence of surly teenagers asking me for Starbucks money and a ride to Starbucks!

And so it was this trip. After a hard day at work, toiling in the heat, we would head back to the hotel rooms, put on our jammies, and get our fucking room service on: pizza, nachos, chicken strips, cheeseburgers, and on and on, ad nauseum (quite literally.) This trip, thanks to that JonBenet killer-wanna-be, we also got to do the perpetual CNN tango. Lord, I love me some vapid, endless, meaningless news updates…that contain absolutely NO NEWS! Needless to say, we were glued to the screen. Though I fervently believe that guy isn’t the person who killed that poor child, I must say he is one of the ugliest bastards I have ever seen. That pasty freak looks like he was eaten by a wolf and shit off a cliff…but I digress.

On Saturday night, we locked the thermostat on ICE AGE, ordered up some grub, and dialed in The JonBenet Channel. And then, the Emmy Text Messaging began. We laid around, commiserating about our sweaty cooters, and watched the insane chief of police in Bangkok (the biggest market for kiddie poontang in the fucking world) tell us how the 38 year old John Mark Karr and 8 year old JonBenet Ramsey had been deeply in love before her tragic and untimely death (you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.)

In between completely pointless updates, we waited, with bated breath, to find out if our friend, Leslie, had won the Emmy in the category in which he was nominated: Outstanding Guest Actor in a Comedy Series for Will and Grace. He was most definitely in good company — Jon Stewart, Patrick Stewart, Martin Sheen, and Alec Baldwin — but we kept the faith. When we finally got the call (or the text, rather) that he had, in fact, won, it was absolute and total bedlam in rooms 4614 and 4616. A cantankerous 300 year old security guard even had to come and beat on our door to tell us to shut the fuck up.

Leslie, you old hooker — we love you.

Another of our Jackal bretheren has nabbed a statue — and we couldn’t be prouder.

ps) Unfortunately, the coke and hookers thing is a total and complete fabrication: my fatass was in my footies and in bed by 11:00. I’m a real fucking lady, I am.