Run to the Light, Paris Hilton!
Frankly, I’m still trying to grapple with the notion of Olsen Twin pubes. OLSEN TWIN PUBES! ACK! I curse Hugh fricking Heffner for cramming that image into my head. It’ll never scrub out now, dammit. Never.
Adrian Ryan
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Patrick Swayze Dying? No Ghost Jokes, Please!
Patrick Swayze’s not lookin’ too hot. Hell bells, to tell it true, the boy hasn’t looked too hot since 1984-ish, but how would I know that? I was barely even born yet maybe. But these days he’s looking especially not good. “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar” not good. Bad. He looks bad. Which makes sense, since he’s, um, dying. Of pancreatic cancer. Ugh.
A moment please.
Of course, doctors have confirmed this pancreatic cancer diagnosis- but his personal physician insists he’s not as close to death as reports suggest.
And you know what that means. Right. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Doctors: the most wretched liars of all.
The “Dirty Dancing” hunk’s publicist Annett Wolf adds, “Patrick Swayze has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and is currently undergoing treatment…Patrick is continuing his normal schedule during this time, which includes working on upcoming projects…The outpouring of support and concern he has already received from the public is deeply appreciated by Patrick and his family.”
But the real question on everyone’s mind, of course: will he haunt Whoopie Goldberg?
Speculation is pointless.
Now here’s something I can really get behind: Justin Long. I love him. I want to have his kittens. I want to lay him down, roll over him like Astroturf, give him a rose quartz crystal and a tongue bath. But maybe that’s too much information. (As if there could be such a thing.) Anyhoozits…I am beside myself with joy that Drew Barrymore, who I adore like Christmas, has finally found a man I can eagerly approve of. They are dating, you know. And that’s fabulous. And, um, hot. And, um, a vast improvement. In the past she has dated drugs, women, that nut with one nut, and others, but now she is safe in the arms (and six-pack abs) of The Mac Guy, who is just super adorable and stared in Dodge Ball, the only Vince Vaughn film that can make me cry, and Jeepers Creepers, the only horror movie you can masturbate to. Or that I can masturbate to. Whichever.
Too much information again? Whatever.
Adrian Ryan
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Mick Isn’t Murdered, Plus! Big Bellied Bimbos of the Stars!
We’ve spent way too much energy scrutinizing celebrity paunches lately, don’t you agree? Way too much—glaring and staring at this or that bimbos belly, trying to figure out, clinically speaking, if there’s a baby crammed up in there somewhere. And what the problem is is these damn starletts these days. They think they’re SO above the game.
Well, sister. Listen up.
If you endeavor to become famous, the world owns you. Owns you! Baring your bowel movements and boring crap like who you vote for, the public deserves and demands to know every bitty little detail about your wretched life. We all know this instinctively: It is the Immutable and Universal Law of Fame. Know I don’t really give two cents worth of crap if anybody is pregnant or not, unless it’s me (and it never is), but everyone else in the world seems to, and it’s my duty—my raison d’etre-–to tell them.
So why do we spend all this time lately breaking our eyeballs trying to figure out if all these famous biznitches are pregnant or merely suffering from inoperable uteran tumors? Why don’t they just come out and TELL US when their buns start baking? The world deserves to know, and they know it, and you know it, and I know it, and dammit, God knows it, even rocks know it. We should be officially informed the second the sperm penetrates the egg wall, and if the celebrity doesn’t immediately and willingly provide the public with the information, they should be punished severely for serious breach of social contract. Have their fame revoked and their baby fined. And their weaves pulled and their ankles twisted. And take their Starbuck’s away for, uh, one month.
That would fix ‘em.
And yeah, I guess Kate Hudson is knocked up (or living on cheese burgers and Mountain Dew) because she getting fatter by the second and not saying a word about it. Surely God is going to punish her. I’m tired of looking at her belly.
God I hate babies. And pregnant women. And birth. And famous people. And placenta. And so forth.
But I love you.
In other news: The Hell’s Angels apparently once tried to murder Mick Jagger. They declared a Jihad on him because he pissed them off a long time ago or something. The whole story has just come out in some weird documentary. Apparently they have not been, to date, entirely successful. The big pussies.
Adrian Ryan
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The Olsen Twins + Nudity= Death!
Alright. I’m ready to talk about it know, I think. Pardon me if I break into hysterical sobs and run screaming from the room. Which I will. Thank you.
Adrian Ryan
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His Name Is Prince, And He is Elderly!
Prince, who is very weird, has been very weird a very long time apparently, because he’s old suddenly. So old, in fact, that he fell down, and he couldn’t get fun-kay. So he wheeled his weird and aged ass to geriatric services, and had his poor creaky old hip replaced. Now he’s recouping, and drinking lots of fluids. (Which is always important.) When reached for comment, Diamond said, “Well, it’s about time, he’s stubborn as a mule!” and
Adrian Ryan
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The Tears of a Goldberg!
When Paris Hilton cries, the angels sing. It is fricking hilarious. When Whoopie Goldberg cries, it is not hilarious. It’s horrible. No angels sing. It’s painful to the soul.
Adrian Ryan
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Hello? Is this thing on?

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Prison Junking, Boob Showing, Jake Lovers!
Fascinating things are happening! Pipe down and pay attention!
I’m just kidding. You can pipe back up. I love it when you pipe up.
Here’s the “story”:
Amy Winehouses’ husband just overdosed on the horse, the junk, the magic dragon (as it were) yesterday, and HE DIDN’T DIE SOMEHOW.
You heard me. He. Didn’t. Die.
How is this possible, you ask? To overdose on the magic vein-mud and live to tell it? To be -oh-so-very polluted and live? Well. How very rude of you to ask. I could hardly know, being the girl scout that I am, and I resent the implications. But apparently such wondrous things are possible, and Amy Winehouse’ freaky husband did it. Somehow. I guess death was on coffee break. Or maybe he’s the Jesus of junkies. How can we know for sure?
And what’s most fascinating and hilariously shameful about the entire situation, come to think of it, is that Amy Winehouses’ freaky husband overdosed on heroine in PRISON. And there is supposed to be, you know, a rather strict “no heroine” policy in prison. Of course, he’s in a British prison, but I’m pretty damn sure “no heroine, please” has been graven into the stone doors of every prison since prisons began, and definitely extends to British prisons. The English are hard asses. So that’s no excuse. He’s a very bad, bad boy. And apparently he’s not the only one who OD’ed in that prison on that night:
“Blake Fielder-Civil overdosed on heroin along with several other cellmates. After guards were somehow able to distinguish he looked sicker than usual, Blake was rushed to the jail’s hospital where he survived the ordeal.”
And still, somehow, Amy Winehouse walks the night. Still alive too, somehow. A mystery.
Speaking of the most certainly doomed: Lindsay Lohan just posed rather nude and completely naked for some magazine, with her freckly boobs showing and everything, and if you think I have anything to say about it, you’re wrong. That’s what you are.
In less interesting drug addicts who never show their tits: Kirsten Dunst, who is often confused (by me mostly) with Claire Danes, is also in rehab (as you damn well know), and her so-called “friends” are no saying to anyone who will listen (who is tabloids mostly) that all of her drung and emotional problems stem from her tragically broken heart. And the tragic breaker o that heart? Right. Jake Gyllenhaal. Of course.
I know exactly how she feels. Exactly.
Adrian Ryan
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Jane’s Jai-Jai!
Listen! LISTEN! I command you! By the pink freckly nipples of Lindsay Lohan! I COMMAND YOU!
This is IMPORTANT!
Oh, wait. No. It isn’t. It’s just Britney fricking Spears…and she’s flashing….her…revolting…lunchmeat-like…labia…lips…AGAIN.
And of course it was all caught on film, like always, commemorated in celluloid forever for all future generations to enjoy.
I am so totally over this shit. Isn’t everyone?
Elsewhere: Bobby Brown is in court facing serious charges for something. Does it matter for what? Don’t be absurd. Of course not. But it’s cocaine anyway. Don’t tell him I told you.
I owe him twenty bucks. He wants to kick my ass as it is.
Have I ever told you that I actually know these people? Bobby Brown? Whitney? Their kids? Their parents? Don’t ask. Long story. And it involves luggage. And might be a lie anyway.
And like the old Ukrainian proverb says, “A story that begins with Whitney Houston’s luggage will end with disaster,” so it’s best we just let the issue drop. Thank you for understanding.
Anyhoozits: Pink just got divorced. I didn’t know she was married. Huh.
Speaking of remembering: You may remember Minnie Driver as that one English chick from that stupid movie you never saw. Well, she’s pregnant. How’s about that.
Ah. Sunrise, sunset. Or whatever.
And lastly (you’re welcome), like the other Old Ukrainian proverb says, “A tale that begins with a vagina will end with Jane Fonda”: Jane Fonda publicly apologized today for her accidental use of the word “C%NT!!!!” on live television by presenting a 25 minute slide show of the personal evolution of her own “c&nt” through the ages (from moist muffin with a smart Hitler moustache to fossilized mango with janky gray hairs) with an “empowering poetic accompaniment” of a lyrical hip-hop performance piece entitled “Yo, Yo, Ode to Mrs. Whiskers.” She hopes to inspire the world to “Just grow up and embrace the vagina and the plethora of beautiful words we have for it. God bless my Jai-jai!” Then she and Oprah French kissed. Paula Cole shed a tear. The end.
All of this totally happened.
Adrian Ryan
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The Gary Coleman Wife Bash, PLUS! Infected Scat of the Stars!
Now forgive me, but I swear that I was flipping through the channels yesterday and I saw something about Gary Coleman getting arrested for smacking around his new teen bride, but dammit! I can’t find a word about the story anywhere! Weird.
Please to note that this doesn’t mean the event didn’t happen. It just means that the story no longer exists. (At least I can’t find it.) Tres bizarre.
Strange things like this have happened before–some SCANdalous bit of news about a celebrity (if we can call Mr. Coleman a celebrity—he’s more of a grumpy Tootsey Pop, but he’s not here to defend himself, so I shouldn’t be so rude) breaks and suddenly POOF! The story is gone. It evaporates. It ceases to exist. The same thing happened when some guy claiming to be Eminem’s ex-boyfriend came forward with pictures and videos and a whole cache of alleged evidence to support his claims of their amorous buggery (which means “butt sex”), but, as I said, POOF! The story just vanished the next day. It was creepy. And rather alarming. I’m not ruling out Illuminati involvement. They might even be watching me right now.
Um…maybe you should forget I said anything about all that. And did I say Eminem? I meant Donny Osmond. Honestly.
Anyway, I think that at this juncture it is irrelevant if Gary is beating his wife or not, because, frankly, he will. That dude’s nuttier than a squirrel poop and angrier than a hive of coked-up bees—he’s sure to explode all over her at any moment. Poor girl. I hope she has strong knee caps.
In other “news” (bwahahaha!): A whole bunch of really famous people went to Ashton Kutcher’s birthday party, and now they are going to DIE. Or, their livers are. It has been reported that Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow and Salma Hayak and of COURSE Bruce fricking Willis (the old turd) were in attendance, and they were all served by a man who had Hepatitis A. The Board of Heath is all aflutter, and is sending out urgent communiques to the stars urging them to get their poop checked. Except for Madonna, of course, who contracted the disease while having sex with one or more barnyard animals circa 1983. Everyone knows that.
Adrian Ryan
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