Welp, here we are. The end of the year. And, let’s face it, what a yeary, yeary year it was. Time to tote up the damage.

First, the jail sentences and/or arrests: Of course Keifer Sutherland still languishes in the iron hotel, and will for the next month at least (for DUI convictions, naturally), and Mischa Barton is headed to the pokey for a similar crime.

El Debarge blasted from the past to get hauled in for domestic violence, and Shemar Moore was caught doing the old glug-glug, vroom, vroom, too.

Some peeps called Ja Rule and Lil’ Wayne hip hopped themselves off to jail, charged with a little bit of gun possession, and some fool from “Labuna Beach” or whatever (tell anyone I watch it and I’ll murder you where you stand) was busted in Seattle for a little criminal trespass and assault.

Then Foxy Brown went to prison, but I think she was totally railroaded (don’t get me started), and some country “star” (and I do use the term loosely) got popped, as they say, for popping her own mother in the face with her little country fists (the ungrateful biznitch). Then, let’s see…

Vivica Fox was caught drinking and driving too (it was all the vogue this year), and something called a “Joe Francis” went wild and exploited a minor or two.

Lily Allen was arrested for giving a good Kung Fu “hiiiiiii-YA!” to a nosey paparazzi, but who really can blame her? I ask you.

And Kidd Rock was booked for a bar fight.

Shia Laboeuf was prosecuted for lingering around a bargain discount store (for Christ’s sakes) and Rebecca De Mornay? Well, she’s fond of cocktailing and road trips as well.

Hugh Grant was arrested again, but this time no hookers in sight: he was busted for busting some guys lip, and David Faustino, whom you don’t remember from “Married…With Children” was brought in for drug possession and disorderly conduct.

And let’s not even mention Britney Spears. Really. Let’s not.

The Busta Rhymes got a DUI. Other DUIs include one or more of The Black Eyed Peas. (It’s so hard to keep track.) Mike Tyson was charged with felony drug possession, but that’s just karma.

Then we have Daniel Baldwin, Amy Winehouse, and, of course, Lindsay Lohan.

I could go on, but my fingers are cramping.

Then, some nice celebrity divorces: Marilyn Manson stopped worshiping the dark lord long enough to kick Ditta VonTesse’s Betty-Paged butt to the curb (their divorce was official like ten minutes ago), Sean Penn’s pump just ditched his camera-man-ass-kicking fanny, and Scary Spice scared her husband far, far away… and, dammit, he’s taking the kids with him.

Christina Applegate finds herself suddenly unhitched, as does Wayne Brady, Kate Hudson (I wrapped Christmas presents with her one year long story), and something called a “Kevin Federline”.

Liza Minnelli kicked her “man” to the curb because he was pretty than she, and Hulk Hogan’s wife has had it, just had it!, thank you very much, and of course, super Mormon Marie Osmond stopped dancing with the stars long enough to lose her man, too. (Jesus is furious.)

Whitney ditched Bobby, which was the best move she’s made since 1989 for sure, and if getting arrested for drugs wasn’t enough, Michael Fausto (that Mariied with Children” dork) found himself espousally challenged as well.

Valeri Bertinelli left Eddie Van Halen after 2 million years,…and this is simply too depressing, let’s just stop. (Does love ever last? No.)

Maybe next year celebrity in general will learn how to stay together, manage their anger, and call a god damn cab once in a blue moon. Here’s to hoping.

Adrian Ryan

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We’ve got a lot to cover. Stay sharp. This could get messy. How messy? Well. Courtney Love messy, and baby, that’s a disaster.

So then, Courtney Love, who did not murder Kurt Cobain, goddammit, now please just drop it, has been plagued by…no, not piles and heaps of illicit drugs, no, not devastating collagen injections to her lips that make her look like she’s eating a rancid cow liver, no, not tortured dreams of the shade of Kurt Cobain wailing for revenge from beyond the grave…well, yes, by those things too, but also by imaginary burglars with a hankering for expensive earbobs. The full and official “shiznit”:

“Courtney Love is “devastated” after a pair of $100,000 pink diamond earrings was stolen from her New York hotel room on Wednesday. According to a source: “She had brought the earrings for Frances as her Christmas present. Frances hadn’t even tried them on yet”…But hours after New York police launched an investigation into the incident on Thursday morning, the diamond earrings mysteriously reappeared.”

Mysteriously reappeared, indeed. It turns out they were hiding under the talking unicorn that tells her to “Kill the pigs!” the entire time. Silly, silly Courtney.

Other sources report that Leonardo DiCaprio (AKA the fat woman of the sea) and some Hebrew hoochie called Bar Rafaeli are “dating”, completely ignoring the fact that he’s a big h-mo, and who the hell his paying attention to Leonardo DiCaprio these days anyway? How dreadfully last century.

Apparently there have been horrible rumors that the former and very bitter Mrs. Brad Pitt (AKA Jennifer Anniston, who, or so the old-timers tell it, was on something called “Friends”? I have no clue…) is pregnant somehow, but she smashed all of those rumors to bits by getting shitfaced drunk. Which, if you ask me, doesn’t really tell you that she’s not really pregnant, just that she’s a dr unk. “Sources” and their foolish assumptions. I say keep on the look out for little “Fetal Alcohol Syndrome” Anniston to be born in, say, 7-ish months or so.

No wonder Brad dumped her. The child-endangering drunk.

Adrian Ryan

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The age old question: Scientologist s believe in aliens, spooky UFO driving overlords that will soon return to enslave us all, and that every person on this planet, one way or another, is possessed by the spirits of grouchy E.T.’s but do they believe in Santa Clause?

The age old answer: Who the hell knows?

But they sure believe in Christmas shopping, for very (very very very) lapsed Catholic Mrs. Tom Cruise (Katie Something-something) was seen spending, spending, spending like the spirit of Christmas Capitalism itself, and she is rumored to have squandered over $100,000 dollars of Tom’s hardly earned money on expensive Christmasy trinkets and trash for her outer space obsessed brood. Of course, instead of wrapping the presents in colorful ribbons and bows and placing them under a gaily decorated piece of pine, she will transmogrify them with her flux capacitor and put herself under her gaily closeted piece of husband. Except for that last part, because, as I am sure he’s constantly telling her, it is totally normal for totally straight Scientologists to never ever have common human “sex” with their wives, “now here’s the damn Visa, honey go buy yourself something pretty while I catch up on these Men’s Health magazines.”

It’s all about reading between the lines in this game. But you know that. It’s why I love you.

Elsewhere: For reasons passing understanding, the hot blond Jesus loving 19 year old piece of wonderbread who knocked up Whatserface Spears’ 16 year old sister will NOT be charged with statutory rape for, well, getting the wee little girl knocked-up and/or totally pregnant. This of course sends a clear message to chicken lovers everywhere, and that message is, “If there’s grass on the field, play ball!”

If she old enough to pee…

Speaking of pee: Whatserface Spears’ children will get a very special Xmess gift this year, and it’s what every rich and famous toddler is dying for this season: the chance to pee in a cup! According to sourcey, sourcey sources, Whatserface is deflecting all of the negative attention she gets for her so-called “mothering skills” by accusing her ex husband of smoking the so-called “pot” in their presence, she’s clambering for the pair of them to be tested for secondhand highness.

The pee test: the gift you can’t return.

Adrian Ryan

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Winona Ryder? Well, she’s a chain-smoker, isn’t she. Indeed. And frankly, I am completely disgusted. Do hear me? Disgusted! Appalled! Revolted! Shocked! Hack-hack-hack! And here she is, darling as a tea cup, cute as a pickle, perky-perky-perky, a little sweetheart—felonious shoplifting habits not withstanding—but the horrible truth? She’s all nicotine stained and horrid-breathed and black-lunged. I never would have expected it of her never. Never!

My whole world has gone wonky. I just don’t know who I am anymore.

And do you know how I found this out? DO YOU? Star Trek. Star Trek! How humiliating. Observe (if you dare):

“Winona’s a heavy smoker and she was furious when the producers of the new Star Trek movie that she’s appearing in told her she’s not allowed to take a smoke break anywhere near the set because of a confidentiality agreement she signed. The film’s brass is hellbent on stopping photographers or details of the movie set or its stars getting out to the public. “Winona said she understood but she’s crawling the walls.”

Well, on second thought, affiliating oneself with Star Trek in any way whatsoever is about a million times worse than chain smoking. I’m sure you ageee. Word.

In other chain-smoking skanks: That bleach-blonde chainsmoking hoochie from American Pie (which I never watched) and, uh, The Josie and the Pussycats Movie (which I kind of watched) passed out at, oh Jesus, something called The Hooker’s Ball for Christ’s sake, and she claims that she just slipped on some “water” and it had nothing to do with drugs or booze or general skankiness, but Parker Posie, who is fabulous and definitely not a hooker, was also in the Josie and the Pussycat Movie, so just hush up about my tastes in film. Thank you. .

American Pie star Tara Reid has put an end to speculation over her shock collapse at a Christmas party over the weekend.

The party-loving actress was taken to a local hospital in Bali and treated for cuts and bruises after a mystery fall.

But while the Internet was flooded with allegations of a drug overdose, Reid is adamant the incident was perfectly innocent.

She tells MSNBC’s The Scoop, “I slipped at the pool and saw a doctor but I’m fine.”

The 32-year-old was in Bali after a promotional tour of Australia, where she hosted the Hooker’s Ball in Darwin at the beginning of December.

Adrian Ryan

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I am totally keeping my promise to not talk about Britney Spears, so just calm down. I’m going to talk about Britney Spears’ little sister, Whatserface Spears. (I refuse to commit her name to memory. I’m sure you understand.) And yes, she seems to have one, because everybody’s talking about her, and what they are saying is that Britney’s little sister, very much like her big sister Britney, is now quite famous… famous for being a retarded slut (bless her heart).

And no, I’m not being the least bit rude, hush your mouth: celebro-linguisits have officially declared that from this moment forward the word “Spears”, which for centuries meant nothing more than “more than one spear”, is now synonamous with the phrase “totally stupid pregnant whore”, and can be used interchangably.

An example: “Jesus! Look at the rack on THAT filthy Spears,” or “My mom was a Spears, so I never had a propper Christmas”. And why? Because Britney Spears’ little sister is 16 years old and pregnant as a spring pig. Even pregnanter.

Although 16 years old is considered an old maid waaaaaay down wherever it is that the Spears women come from, experts are horrified at what more random Spears DNA floating around out there will potentially do to the collective national IQ, which is already hovering around 68.

In other fat asses: Jennifer Love Hewitt and her enormous flabby butt have turned down a shitload of money to pose, totally naked and really rather nude, for something called “Playboy”. The trillions of trees that would have been sacrificed to make a page big enough to fit all of her celulite were, understandably, tremendously relieved.

Lastly: Matthew McConaughey, who is kind of a big douche, put a big gaping gash in his pretty boy face, and now he’s ugly, just like everyone else. The report:

“Matthew McConaughey has been left “dazed and confused” after he cut his face while training for an upcoming film role. The 38-year-old required stitches following the incident, which occurred while he was getting in top physical condition for his part in the comedy “The Grackle.” According to his representative, McConaughey was in the middle of “Ultimate Fighting Championship training” when he sustained his injury.”

Bless his heart.

Adrian Ryan

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Helena Bonham Carter and Tim Burton, who are married, had a baby, which is not married at this time. It is a girl. The baby, keeping in theme, ate its way from its mother’s womb, and, dripping placenta and steaming gore, it dragged its vicious and peculiar self across an odd black and white landscape of swirls and curls and dancing bats and burst into song. No one was much surprised. The couple has named the baby “Happy Sally”.

In happier news: Do you know what I hate? When I open my black little heart and admit to people that I love Tori Amos and then they say things like “ yeah, me too–when I was a thirteen year old girl, fag.” God, I hate that. And so does she. And if you say it to her face, she’ll throw your ass out probably. Because that what she did to these two other bitches, and all they did was get up to go to the bathroom or something. Check it out:

“Tori Amos was performing in San Diego on Wednesday when two girls seated in the front row of Copley Symphony Hall persistently left and returned to their places during her performance…she stopped and yelled, “Get the fuck out of my show! It’s a privilege to sit in the front row and I reserve those seats for people who appreciate music, get the fuck out!”

God I love Tori Amos. Shut up.

Adrian Ryan

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I know I’ve alluded to it–dropped little hints here and there–but the time has come to be what they call “explicit”. “Frank”. Ahem…”honest”, even. Indeed. And honestly? I would rather eat a plate of deep fried sheep shit than pay one single iota more attention to Britney fucking Spears, in any way, at all, ever, period. I have come to loathe and dread the very mention of her name. Overexposure? Thy name is Britney Spears. I am thrown into fits of contempt at the sight of her. How common she is, how repetitive, how dull. What’s that you say? No? Really? She missed another court date? She ran another red light? She drove a bus full of blind children off a cliff? She called in sick to some important hearing, and was humping a pole in some nightclub two hours later? She STOLE A LIGHTER? Surely, you jest! Fascinating. Really. Now pardon me a moment, won’t you, while I blow by brains out.

So this is my moment. I’m taking a stand. Someone has got to say enough, and that someone is me. ENOUGH! I don’t want to hear or read or see another peep about the bleach blonde biznatch that is Spears from the moment onward. This isn’t a request. It is a demand! And I will do my part by refusing to talk or write or even think about her ever again, barring the day she either a) opens fire in a mall killing 6 and wounding dozens, before turning the gun on herself, b) contracts Ebola a begins hemorrhaging blood from every orifice, c) is somehow eaten alive by her own vagina, d) explodes. Deal? DEAL?

Thank. The fuck. You.

Next, in annoying lesbians: ginormous dyke Rosie O’Donnell, horrified and furious at Jodie Foster for getting more attention than her lately (finger-jockeys—they’re SO competitive) has wrenched the terrible spotlight back onto her bitchy and corpulent self by picking a fight with Hulk Hogan. Here’s the “he said, she said”:

First HE said, “I wish someone would kick that big fat bitch’s ass!” or something. 

Then SHE said (or rather, blogged): “Oh yeah? Bring it on you big pussy! I’ll wreck you!”

Then he said, “I’d kill you with my bare hands, but I don’t wanna get any of your grouchy dyke juice all over my sexy, sexy leotard!”

And so forth. Experts who are mostly me agree that Rosie and Hulk are equally matched forces in every way imaginable (they’re practically the same person already), and, should this battle of words escalate to something more physical and dramatic, like J-Ello wrestling, they are certain to destroy each other. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

Adrian Ryan

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I think it is safe to say that Ike Turner will never smack the shit out of Tina Turner ever again, much as he might like to, as the inevitable course and relentless flow of time has seen fit at this juncture to deprive him of fists. And arms. And a body altogether. Because he’s dead—like every fricking body else around here. (I told you! Christmas equals death! Hide under the bed with a shotgun until the whole wretched thing is all over, that’s my advice.) When reached for comment, Tina Turner said, “No comment”, which wasn’t very illuminating at all, frankly.

Or was it?

In ever more impending doom: It has been reported that Liza Minelli, who is most famous for Arthur (my 126^th favorite movie ever, after Pee Wee’s Big Adventure), pills, more pills, Judi Garland, marrying waxy homosexuals, and pills has collapsed rather melodramatically “on stage” (as they say) during a “performance” (as SHE says) somewhere in Sweden, which is neutral and beside the point, but the fact is she didn’t pass out “on stage” at all, technically, he passed out RIGHT OFF the stage, falling several feet and crashing to the ground like a glass pelican. She was immediately rushed back to the United States, which apparently is the remedy for such a situation. The pills, when reached for comment, said, “Oh, poor Judy! If she dies…I just don’t know WHAT we’re gonna do! Retire I guess.” But that’s pills for you. Always thinking of themselves.

And then, in brighter news that has really made my fucking year: John Mayer, my new boyfriend, has been rejected by the stormy waters of Ricki Lake, who has refused and rebuffed those horrible rumors that she and John Mayer are two little lovers sitting in a tree—thank you sweet baby Jesus. She says:

“I met him at a party. He admitted he had a crush and I admitted, hey, vice versa. That was it. I wish there was actually something to tell. There was nothing. “He was adorable. Nice,” Lake told the PEOPLE reporter. “[But] I’ve been more intimate with you than I was with him.”

Maybe Christmas isn’t so bad after all.

Adrian Ryan

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Well, Jodie Foster is a dyke, isn’t she? Of course she is. You know this. I know this. The blind protean scum on the bottom of the boots of aliens from Pluto knows this. Its whatcha might call “common knowledge”, and, let’s face it, we’ve all discussed it openly, at length, at one point or another. Now haven’t we? Of course we have. And by “we”, I mean everybody on earth except Jodie fricking lesbot Foster. But not anymore. Now she just can’t shut up about being a lesbian. Sort of. Behold:

“In a surprising and moving speech on Tuesday, Jodie Foster, 45, thanked “my beautiful Cydney who sticks with me through all the rotten and the bliss” when she accepted the Sherry Lansing Leadership Award at the 16th annual Women in Entertainment Power 100 breakfast.”

Then she reportedly made a really lewd gesture with her tongue and two fingers, hopped on her Harley, and road that bitch outta town. Believe it.

All that really happened. Except for the Jodie Foster finally coming out of the closet thing, which might have only happened in my imagination. Thank you.

Or did it?

No. Yes. No.

Yes.

No.

Then, suddenly, without warning: Ike Turner, legendary wife beater and the second or third of many men who failed to shut Tina Turner up is dead. The former Mrs. Turner was laughing uncontrollably in a rather scary way and was unavailable for comment. The Devil, however, who was gloating over his soul, said, “Why, yes. We have been waiting for Ike for quite some time indeed, and all of us down here look forward to having him as a member of our team.” He was 104 years old.

Lastly: Jodie Foster is a lesbian. But I think I might have already mentioned that. In that case, in other news: water is wet and the sky is blue. Please try not to panic, or act too surprised. Thank you. 

Adrian Ryan

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I’m going to make this quite simple: If John Mayer is really dating Ricki Lake, like they say, I’m going to blow my brains out. Then I’m going o blow your brains out, then I’ll blow everybody else’s brains out, then, if there’s still time, I’ll blow their brains out. And that’s a whole lot of blowing. So you know I’m up to it.

Wait. WHAT? Why will I blow everybody’s brains out, you ask? Don’t be a complete douche. First of all, John Mayer is thirty years old. Ricki Lake, on the other hand, is 30 thousand pounds. John Mayer is a big star. Ricki Lake is “big boned”. John Mayer is an adorable, brown eyed thing whose body is a wonderland. Ricki Lake’s is a has been faghag whose body is a wonder land mass.

And don’t get the idea that I hate fat people. Quite on the contrary! I love them! I love them as they deserve to be loved: as our next greatest fuel resource. Once all the oil’s gone, the rendered blubber from the big fat asses of Americans in general (and Jennifer Love Hewitt in particular) will be heating our condos and fueling our super-futuristic jetpacks well into the future. That’s just scientific fact. 

And I know she’s relatively SKINNY at the moment (RELATIVELY!), but, you know, tick tock, tick tock. She may have been living on sesame sends and good wishes long enough to scale herself down to human proportions for now, but be pragmatic. Science has proven that people with, well, Ricki’s type of metabolism, never, but never stay skinny: someday soon she’ll succumb to the burning hunger that no doubt seethes within her night and day and she’ll eat at a tic tac or something and WHAM! Hello, Shamu. And when she does, who will adorable little brown-eyed Johnny cry to then? ME, that’s who. And that’s totally fucking awesome, so never mind. Yay, John Mayer! Suck on that flab!

I’ll be waiting.

Adrian Ryan

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