Guess I’m not the only one who sleeps late around here.
Who’s gonna come with me to the big Hillary presser? Huh? Anyone?
P.S. The title of this post refers to the cliche of mostly 1940s-50s noir films in which the heroine/femme fatale at some point picks up a phone to call for help/alert her lover and is faced with a dead line (it having been cut by the murderer/hero). Where as most people might simply hang up, noir actresses try out their entire vocal range: Hello? HELLLOO? Hellll-ooooooh? There is never an answer.