God. Me Bond song gets flushed down the pisser…marriage all to shit…cops looming every which way…and two of me baby turtles have some kind of skin disease. Days like this, only one thing brings me sunshine: a wicked one-nighter. Maybe you're wondering: what's me standards for a meangingless shag? Time to play Who Would Amy Do:

Stevie Wonder?

I would, and it'd be epic for us both. See, there's this old blues tradition of a woman who can make the blind man see. Three rounds with AJW and Steveland's eyes would turn into bloody x-ray specs.

Leonard Cohen?

If his lyrics were people, they'd be brilliant fuck machines. But I heard what he done to Janis Joplin wasn't pretty. Might be worth it just to steal that cow Suzanne's tea and oranges wot come all the way from China.

Janis Joplin?

Uck. Too sweaty.

Me five Grammies?

No. They're more like friends. Totally supportive, really, but there's a distance. Besides, they're angry coz I used them as ice picks that one time. 

Your boyfriend?

Totally, utterly and mercilessly. Don't get sad, though. We'd spend one weekend in an abandoned fountain, rubbing each other with Chivas and lighting it with a diamond Zippo by Damian Hurst that he bought with your savings, feeding each other cherries dipped in horse tranq—the usual stuff. He'd leave me numb in a racetrack bathroom and then, clickety-click, he's yours again. It's how that shit always goes.