Cindy Adams' New York Post columns appear to be produced by a random word-generator machine. Her visage appears to be produced by Botox and shellac. So it is unsurprising to find that she is a Helsmley-level ratdog nut.
Rebecca Mead infiltrated Cindy's aboveground lair in a Park Ave. penthouse and recorded these ramblings about the gossipeuse's Yorkies before being chased out by Cindy's bloodthirsty wolf-celeb hybrid bodyguards:
"My babies don't walk-they take a limo. Juicy's legs are two inches long! This is not a marathon runner. I have more hair under my arms than Juicy has on her whole body."
Relaxing at home, Cindy's wearing a black T-shirt with heart-shaped photos of the pooches on the breast. "My breeder makes them every Christmas or New Year's, or the day the incinerator got stuffed up-whatever day there is to celebrate," she says. "I have hundreds of them."
The fact that Cindy can reveal these psychotic tendencies for years on end and not be involuntarily committed just goes to show how great New York really is.