Amazing how many submissions to the "David Patrick Columbia Defeats Death" contest included animals, mojitos, Brooke Astor, and doormen. You'll recall that we asked for 50 words or less describing how the driving force behind New York Social Diary confronted and overcame death. If only everyone could win, but sadly, even the actual winner doesn't really win much. As an aperitif, here's the second runner-up:

At a fundraiser for a neglected petting zoo, Mr. Columbia crushed large blocks of ice with his hands much to the guests' amusement. Into the pen of a puma with rickets a child slipped a crispy prawn with mango cilantro dipping sauce. The puma choked, and Mr. Columbia poured it a dry, citrus-y chenin blanc, averting disaster.

The ultimate victor and more, after the jump.

The first runner-up, continuing the bestial theme:

While Lady Beaton purred on his Schweitzer linens, David snuck into the night to answer gnawing questions about where she'd been all those previous nights. After paying off a Pet Taxi driver, he found himself at an orgy involving several well-known pets. It was shocking to see dogs with cats with ferrets with koi... but more shocking that he wasn't invited. He began to choke on the shrimp cocktail through his dog mask.

And the winner, eschewing animals for boldface names:

MUFFIE POTTER ASTON screamed as I was nearly decapitated by an ormolu dagger from ASPREY wielded by BROOKE ASTOR. Dear Brooke had merely tapped my forehead and anointed me the next WARD McALLISTER. I accepted. With ANNETTE de la RENTA at the wheel, the two doyennes sped off into the night.

So special! We'd also like to present one honorable mention, purely as a recognition of the effort involved and the nonchalant flouting of the 50-word limit. Enjoy.

Part I.



It was twilight along rain soaked Park Avenue and there was unease in the air. A certain pang of regret had haunted me for most of the day, but I wasn't sure if it was due to the old lover I'd run into the night before at the Bal Masque or the hideous blinis I'd eaten for lunch at L'Affaire de Twat. Something was bothering me, that's for sure, and the car service was running late again. Again! Was there no end to the inconveniences I was subject to? I felt as if my entire life was becoming a mistimed joke, like a runny omelet made with inferior cheese or a flatulent dog in the Baroness Von Stupp's dressing room. I knew I never should have fired that fucking chauffeur....

Part II.

Suddenly there he was, coming straight at me with a gun. The sidewalk in front of my building was steamy — and so was he. His name was Patrick Hernandez and until last week he had been my driver. I'd fired him for malfeasance, misfeasance, and because the insurance had simply skyrocketed after that last D.U.I. he'd gotten somewhere on Rockaway Blvd.(Imagine driving a Silver Cloud on Rockaway Blvd. The mind reels...)

In those few seconds it took Patrick to advance holding the tiny little pistol Nancy Reagan gave him years earlier, I was thinking what a poor time it would be for my funeral what with everyone who was anyone in Monaco or Biarritz. I had always planned on dying in season, but alas, it seemed I would not. I hoped William Ivey Long, the Tony Award winning Broadway costume designer who had acquitted himself so well at C.Z. Guest's memorial service, would read one of the eulogies. I thought of the flowers and the arrangements that would have to be made and wondered if there would be a quiet reception afterwards. Perhaps at Le Cote Basque or that little bistro on 75th nobody ever remembers.

Patrick stuck the little gun in my stomach. "You've had this coming for years," he snapped.

CONCLUSION



"Patrick, don't do it, " I cried, just as the doorman returned from his smoking break and surveyed the scene in front of him.

"Oh shit," said the doorman.



My would be assailant, Patrick, turned toward the doorman and I grabbed for his tiny gun while his attention was diverted. (I ACTED, you see! This is how I saved myself!) Unfortunately, the gun fired in the direction of the street, shooting the driver of a ubiquitous black Town Car — the one from my new car service, which had just pulled up. The driver, a Mr. Guido Leone of Staten Island, received a flesh wound. Patrick Hernandez ran down the street where he was almost immediately enveloped by a covey of young ladies wearing these really fabulous Betsey Johnson dresses.

And I will Never be the same.