That's right, Hamlisch. It's on. Prepare to get your arse kicked, Wonderhorse style.

You've been going on too long - talkin' smack about me, and I've had it. I don't know who you think you are, but the days of you picking on me are over. In the words of Paddy Chayefsky, I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore.

Look at you.  Thinking you're so bad with your little stick. Don't let the tux fool you, folks. This is a heartless, killing machine. That's actually a blow-gun he has in his hand. Turn your back on Hamlisch for a second, and you'll wake up 12 hours later in a hotel in Budapest with a dart in your neck and a dead hooker on the floor. I found that out the hard way.

Me and Hamlish go way back, see. For as long as I can remember, he's had a beef with me.  I'll tell you what I told him: It's not my fault that "The Way We Were" makes me lose control of my bowels. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is. It's a horrible song, and it make me shit myself. Sue me.

So ever since I told him that at one of Robert Evans' coke-fueled orgy/fondue parties, he's been trying to beat me up. Frame me for crimes I didn't commit. Hamlisch, it's not my fault Cop Rock got cancelled, okay? Deal with it.  Jesus.

This one time I was at the Pump Room with Bea Arthur and Adrienne Barbeau, and he comes over, and gets all in my face, and actually tipped the table over. It was quite a scene - Bea was covered in hollandaise sauce, and let me tell you, you do NOT want to get hollandaise on Bea's Bob Mackey. I mean, the guy has some serious rage issues. I once watched him punch Red Buttons right in the face. Completely unprovoked. And Buttons apologized to HIM! I couldn't believe it. I went up to him and, "Red, what are you doing? You don't have to take that shit from him." Red, being the class act he was, just kind of laughed it off and went on with his day.

So that's it. I'm done running from you, Hamlish. You've given me an atomic wedgie for the last time. Next time you stick your foot out to trip me, you're going to pull back a bloody stump. Never again will you pour my pudding cup over my head. You're nothing but a bully, and the only words bullies understand are action words, so I'm calling you out. Time to put your money where your mouth is. You're nothing but a yellow-bellied, 'roid-enraged coward, and if you have the guts, I challenge you to some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. Meet me behind the Brown Derby at noon. Wait, better make that 12:30.

My flight from Budapest doesn't land until 11:15.