I can’t understand why people think I’m a bitch. Here’s a video of me being down with my peeps. I’m not bitchy in it. Right? I’m pretty hot and charming, right? Here, check it.

Dan Rather might call me a tart. But this tart is ready to go, Uggs or no Uggs.

I’m down, dawg. I’m no Dan Rather. He’s the type who spends thirty minutes deciding to wear a coat or not, if the coat’s collar should be up or down, if the coat should be buttoned, if a belt should be involved, and if it’s so cold his nipples will show through his Brooks Brothers suit.

Dan doesn’t know coats. I do. Uncovered buttons must be in the right place. If the coat is left open, the clothing underneath must be dry-cleaned. If the coat is closed, it must not make my shoulders as big as a linebacker’s.

I also know the gentile way of laying Jewish guilt trips on my bros. Dan, poor guy, doesn’t even know the gentile way of lawsuit-filing, which is the easiest Jew skill for gentiles to pick up.

Yo.