Hey Martha Stewart, you gloated about the death of a Post columnist — but I’m alive, bitch!

nypost.com:

the Domestic Dominatrix thinks she’s finished me off.It’s been 20 years since Martha Stewart traded her Manolo stilettos for ballet flats, her 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets for a lumpy, polyester blend-covered bunk bed — the bottom half, she moaned — and suffered through a diet of horrific coffee and fat- and carb-heavy grub as she became the most fabulous and furious inmate ever to grace Club Fed.Two decades later, she’s still fantasizing about (plotting?) my grisly demise.I made an uncredited cameo appearance in the new Netflix documentary, simply titled with her first name, “Martha.” Like Cher.

Or Osama.It’s about the life and crimes, hissy fits, grudges, vendettas and remorseless misbehavior of the New Jersey-born model-turned-stockbroker, then internationally celebrated purveyor of homemaker porn.Martha’s a perfectionist so petty and abusive, she was caught on camera in the doc berating a kitchen worker for using a too-small and “stupid” knife to cut an orange, then unsuccessfully ordering members of the film crew following her to cut out the vicious tirade.She’s an obsessive-compulsive so mean, she grew apoplectic at a lowly stockbroker’s assistant over the poor quality of the “hold” music she was forced to endure.

And so miserly, she came within a millimeter of losing a company once valued at more than $1 billion over an illegal 2001 stock sale that saved her some $45,000.

Then she demanded an underling reimburse her for $10 worth of coffee and snacks.After a strip search and a stretch in solitary confinement — punishment for touching a prison guard — during her five months’ incarceration in West Virginia’s notorious “Camp Cupcake,” one would think Mistress Martha would have mellowed.Instead, Martha.