Ted C. Blind Item
Mercurial Manfred’s quite the entertainer. All the the social boys 'n' girls live for the multitalented dude’s in-demand party offerings (and I don’t just mean the pretty dudes M.M.’s known for bringing along—hmmm, wonder if that’s been a very expensive endeavor on Mr. M’s part?). But not only does Manny know how to sex up a Hollywood do, he knows how to croon for his supper, too!
And most folks—more so in the Kathy Hilton set, not the fried-to-the-hilt Paris scene—who invite M2 are only too ecstatic to get the guy, after great cajoling, to finally agree to belt out a song or...16, as it sometimes turns out to be. I mean, it’s not everybody who gets Mercurial Manfred to perform at their private dos.
But honey-pies, gotta tell ya: These lucky hosts don’t feel so damn fortunate once they receive a little thank-you note, always beautifully written and composed, from M.M. the following ayem. 'Cause along with the lined note is always one very nasty little something:
A turd, you wonder? Or a guide for better party giving, perhaps?
No. Worse: a bill. Usually to the tune of several thousand smackers.
Good thing more than a few (select) folks are saying good riddance ‘bout M.M. these days, wonder why?
