Associated Press

“O” followers and nonfollowers–who must live under rocks or in caves–alike, prepare yourselves for my latest “O”riginal creation.

As it is written: I awoke in my diamond-encrusted canopy bed with a divine sweat (my perspiration formed a perfect “O” in my 3 billion thread count sheets) and summoned Gayle, my disciple/editor/homegirl.

I sayeth unto her: “Wake up! I am in need of counsel.” (And by that, I meant for Gayle to massage my bunions and agree obediently.) “So, how can we assuage the masses of middle-aged, badly dressed women who leave my talk show studio feeling empty upon the painful realization that their lives have climaxed in a single, magical pilgrimage to my mecca of self-help and celebrity couch antics that lasted only an hour and a half and didn’t include a car giveaway?”

Gayle held her tongue, as she is a true believer and knows all my questions are rhetorical and not to be answered by chicken-headed hood rats. Then, as is customary, I had one of my celestial “O” moments, which is basically a sweet wave of revelation that swells up from my soul and ravages my being three to four times each hour.

“We’re gonna build an ‘O’ store across the street!!!!” I screamed hysterically, the veins bulging on my forehead and my eyes rolling back in my head like they do when I feel the force of my own sacred inspiration.

Gayle kissed my hands and cried out, “As you wish, Great One!”

Then we did a little high-five booty dance, and she went back to her cage to make the appropriate phone calls.

It was so, and I saw that it was good.