Why My Wipeout Beats Geraldo's

So, Mr. "Rivera" thinks he can splashdown in Galveston and soak up half the Gulf in his big, floopy moustache, huh? Well, THAT'S NOT A KNOIFE! You call something a hurricane wipeout, you better burst through jagged lumber, breakdance with a few fiddler crabs, come up with sand dollars in your eye sockets, break something! Hell, I've used drive-thru wet-naps with more accumulated moisture! That's why I'm dredging up this fabled clip, a primary source of edit bay guffaws since a storm named Gordon kicked me so square in the keister some 14 years ago. It ain't pretty! But with Mr. Moustache (whom I once chatted up at a Hollywood press junket) congratulating himself for being so damned tough, I felt it was necesarry I set the record straight. So instead of presenting some smarmy litany of reasons my unscheduled dip is the bestest, I'll skip right to the end, with the number one reason why MY wipeout beats Geraldo's...

1) No Geraldo.



Be safe, Texas...