Mort!

Well, everybody, there comes a time in everyone's life when he has to say goodbye, and so today I wrap up my notepads, inspirational poster depicting a basket full of puppies and Quicken Deluxe 2004 into a little hobo knapsack on a stick and wave goodbye.

I'm leaving. Please! No tears--that violates summer watering restrictions.

Heh heh. Seriously, people, this will be Mort's last column. The real story is that wifey Henrietta is preggie again--who knew I had so much ink in the ballpoint?--and I have to take on a little supplemental work to round out the family budget.

Of course, word about my impending departure from the hallowed pages of Mercury World Report has been circulating for weeks, and the many personalities who've appeared in this column--usually in a less-than-flattering light--were good enough sports to throw yours truly a farewell party at one of the hottest, most exclusive nightclubs in tow--aw, who'm I fooling? It was at Olive Garden. Through the unhappy fog of a red table wine hangover, Mort takes up his pen one last time to thank the following attendees for, um, attending, for taking this column's numerous barbs and zingers in stride--and for all the, ahem, interesting gifts! Thanks to Kenny Guinn for the, er, oleander bush with the home-brewed tea recipes; thanks to Mayor Goodman for the pair of exotic, poisonous Amazon tree frogs; thanks to Siegfried and Roy for the souvenir tiger trap (and--yeow!--yes, it works); thanks to Robin Leach for the fancy champagne that looks mysteriously like window washer fluid; thanks to Nina Radetich for finally giving me her phone number (um, weird...how come Buffalo Jim answers every time I call?); thanks to Wayne Newton for the Abandoned Refrigerator Backyard FunKit; thanks to Erin Kenny for the clock radio/scented soap bath basket; thanks to Steve Wynn for the How to Win at Russian Roulette book; and thanks to Bob Beers for the fireplace logs that have what looks like a large fuse coming out of them. Finally, thanks to Dario Herrera for the excellent service. You earned every penny of that three-dollar tip!

Well, it's been real, people, but duty to my family calls louder than any police scanner frequency crackling about a Myrna Williams-shaped vampire monster stalking the streets at night. Of course, I'm not going very far. If you ever wanna share some juicy gossip for old time's sake, it won't be hard to find me: I'll be at the shiny new Red Rock Station in a promising "public relations position"...graveyard shift...with gloves and a mop. Ciao!