Her Wednesday column is as incomprehensible and disjointed as anything she's ever written. She's crafted a rambling word salad that would make Sarah Palin green with envy.
It's so cryptic and meandering, I'm left wondering just how many hits of brown acid she took before writing it.
Some of the the highlights:
The squirrel who made himself at home on the branches of my Tree of Gold is sparring with the stray cat lounging below on the picnic table.
I instinctively close my eyes and step on visitor dog poop, which we all know is not the same thing as stepping on your own darling mutt’s excrement.
Now, where is that loathed New York Times op-ed writer when you need her? This is a perfect example of why Pamela Druckerman grew up in Miami thinking her life plan was to marry a plastic surgeon. Even libraries have to pass the glamour test. Maybe this is why when prodigal, third-generation daughter Druckerman returns to assess our evolution for the Big Apple, profundity still not her strong suit, she concludes: “There was a lot of pleasure in Miami, but not enough surprising interactions and ideas.”
Ah, the local noise, so much like the cranking sound of overpriced animal feeders at ZooMiami.
But there are bigger birds and louder squawking in Paradise — nothing as colorful and contentious as the beak-to-beak governor’s race.
Everyone knows that if you’re not Miley Cyrus, it’s not a good thing when the old rocker publication focuses on your tongue. Hats off to the candidates for playing their part to make “The Florida Farce” reach a new smoky audience. I value good writing more than sanity.
Who cares if/when I watch too much TV, I start to think of the fellow moaning in the Ponzi schemer campaign ad as part of the cast of Scandal?
Smoke, mirrors, and noise — the game of our times.
It’s a jungle out there.
Sing, little bird, sing.
Click here to read the complete column, if you dare.