One day, years ago, Gregory Mcdonald was playing tennis with a man he'd known since they were both 12 years old. It was hot, the middle of summer, and Mcdonald was playing a good game--doing that tricky shit, making with the kind of moves that get under an opponent's skin and leave a deep blister on a scorching afternoon. Mcdonald's old friend was not amused. He was losing, so he did what all losers do. He slammed his racket on the ground, looked up at his old pal Greg and hollered at him. What the man said... More >>>
Universal City Studios, Inc.
This isn't Dr. Rosenpenis, Mr. Poon or G. Gordon Liddy--or, for that matter, Gregory Mcdonald. He's Fletch, and you're not.