Poor Lil’ Carly
I don’t attack people. Especially models. But I WILL spank that ass if you make me. So when Lil’ Carly Bates went on Letterman one night and suggested for laughs that I retire, I had to take her down, right? I was about thirty-five then but not too old and feeble to trip her up—twice—on the runway during Fashion Week. That was fun. Then I had a friend pose as a taxi driver and when Carly hopped in and fell asleep, he took her to Harlem. And not the cute, gentrified part, either. He dumped her out under a funky bridge near the river. That fucked with her pretty good, too. But it was running into her movie star boyfriend at a party that nailed it. I batted a lash, he was all over me, and pictures showed up EVERYWHERE. Online. On TV. Everywhere. Carly cracked, packed, and ran back home to Montana. I dumped her guy a couple of days later. Okay? Never come for me, children. Ever.