I decided I couldn't stand anymore. I picked up a large glass statue of the Archangel Michael from my coffee table and hurled it through the 50-inch screen of my HD TV, swearing I would never watch Midnight Movie Cable again as long as I lived. It was very effective. A screech and an explosion of glass shards, and I had heard the last of Dildoni, Kenya and the irredeemable ragamuffin characters who slopped around with them.

I walked into the kitchen in my bare feet and threw back another shot of Jack Daniels, thinking I might be able to sleep now. But I knew, deep inside, that the pictures weould come back. Not the glitzy moronic tales from the television; the pictures of her. Of Glenda.