Tim scream-yells, "Honest to God?" And Will text-messages me: "BUT MAYBE IN THE FUTURE AND ALSO YOU WILL GO TO DISNEYLAND IN THE FUTURE. AND YOUR LUCKY NUMBER IS 7." Tom asks her if Tim will ever slow down, meaning in his lifestyle. Lord, this is bullshit. Justine tells Tim that he is going to "turn around" at 53. I think that's when he'll die, or possibly come out of the closet. So many skeletons there, I don't even know what he'll be coming out of it about. Tom keeps asking her about Tim's health, I think to freak him out, and Tim starts yelling at him. "I don't see you in a position yet where what you're doing is hindering your health," Justine says. I hope to God they're all talking about a cleverly-edited-out heroin habit. She leaves, and Tim says, "Biggest crock of shit, ever." And I say, "Almost." In the hallway? Justine vanishes like a ghost...or this show. Back in the Bukkake Ultralounge, more of that money crap. So very obnoxious, I can't even tell you clearly. I refuse to talk about it again. There's like fifteen thousand years of it and I just send him a goddamned check for $5000. That's all I can hear is just different voices going "I fucking hate Tim Poster" at different pitches and with different accents. Like "Malkovich Malkovich Malkovich" but with pure and violent hatred instead. There's some kind of mitigating betting stuff that sounds kind of sexual, and they call either a card game or each other "Cowboy" several times. Ugh. Gamblespeak. Tim laughs and shovels ice cream into his disgusting mouth as Tom runs off to frolic or get another baggage-cart ride from the help.
And the ice cream? It's vanilla.