Do you know what’s hot? Hotter than hot? Hotter than hell’s Fourth of July clambake? Hotter than Satan’s armpit? Woody Harrelson and Owen Wilson frolicking practically nude in a South American drainage ditch together. That’s what’s hot.

Scorching.

And it wasn’t some fabulous fever dream I just had, either: this shit really happened. They got rather quite nude (almost–boxers shorts, which you can rest assured were still on just for the cameras), and bathed together in a damn ditch, that’s what they did. In Peru. Which is where they are just now for some reason.  And that’s what you do when you’re hot, has been, post-suicidal, famous and rich and in Peru—you wallow in ditches.

Now the back story they created to explain all this illicit bathing in ditches together is as complicated as it is Peruvian, and it is this: They say they we’re there (together, almost naked, cleaning each other, in a Peruvian ditch) because of orphans. Yes, orphans. It’s all the orphans fault. As usual.

Woody, who is named for a boner, and Owen, who is named for that guy who made popcorn maybe (but we’ll call them “Potty” and “The Slash” from now on, respectively, for the sake of clarity) were allegedly “visiting” a so-called “orphanage” in this alleged “Peru” place that they claim to somehow “support”, and apparently they had spent all of their discretionary cash on weed and razor blades and couldn’t afford a proper shower. Or maybe “Peru” doesn’t have proper showers. Just Llamas and space aliens. And even big American movie stars can’t shower with a llama. That’s just science. And it does nothing to distract from the fact that I would have given all the ponchos in Pasco to be that drainage ditch for diez minutos or whatever.  Believe it. And now I bet all of the Peruvian peasants will start believing that the filthy ditch water has some sort of magical big American movie star dirt powers and start worshiping it and making long pilgrimages to there to heal their lumbago and junk. It’s just their way. And who can blame them? I ask you.

Ole! 

Adrian Ryan

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There’s been a lot of death around here lately. Evel Knievel. Whitney Houston almost. Amy Winehouse practically. Tara Reid’s career. My eyes after seeing Jennifer Love Hewitt’s ass. Kiefer Sutherland’s freedom. And so forth. And I’m really really sorry about all that. But it’s that time of year, you see, nothing to be done about it. The “holidays”. They are all about death. And you know it.

In fact, the only thing that seems to contain any vital life these days is Britney Spears’ uterus, which seems to be as fertile as the Nile River Valley, but more crocodiles. Indeed, wagging tongues, curse them, are claiming that the crazy bitchtart is, against all logic and wisdom and probably the order of the court, PREGNANT again somehow, and lord help us all.

Please, God. No.

“I’ve seen her during the last two pregnancies and she has the same look now,” a “pal who sees Britney every week” told the In Touch magazine, which I’ve never read nor heard of probably. “She’s heavier, but that’s not it. It’s the sparkle in her eye. She always gets that sparkle when she’s pregnant, like she’s relaxed and happy.”

Relaxed, sparkly, and spewing peanut butter like a geyser, apparently.

“The friends’ concern may help to explain why Spears seems not to have lost any of her pregnancy weight and why she has been getting sick lately. In one widely circulated photo, Spears was shown throwing up peanut butter and reports said she had been drinking, but according to ITW, Spears has been skipping the booze.”

Well, that’s a relief. If she really was pregnant, the LAST thing she’d do is skip the booze. Maybe she’s just fat and suffering from some nausea-and-no-booze-inducing illness. Like Hepatitis, or syphilis, or herpes of the esophagus. Yes. Herpes of the esophagus. That’s far more likely. 

Adrian Ryan

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Today is the memorable and much anticipated day that Kiefer Sutherland has been dreading since he was a cute heavy metal vampire trying to kill Cory Feldman and Cory Haim (and who can blame him? Really?). Longer maybe. Or maybe much shorter. Like, since his arrest and subsequent charging with a dreadful DUI, which wasn’t all that long ago, but which has landed him squarely in jail just today, and for the next 48 days, respectively.

This of course means that Kiefer will be locked up for the duration of Christmas, Chanukah or whatever (is he Jewish? Most famous people are a little Jewish), New Years, almost Ground Hog’s Day (I’m not quite sure when that is), and possibly this thing called the “writer’s strike” (writers get PAID?!), and he will spend each and every one of these holidays washing felons underwear and doing their dishes, dodging their homemade shanks and insistent penises and not sucking alcohol through every orifice in his body and then crashing into things, as is his usual holiday tradition.  

Then! Yesterday, on Ellen (remember her? The talking fish? Right,) welp, guess who she had on? Right. Jenna Bush. And guess what she got her to do? Right, phone home. Like ET, but with fascist parents. But Ellen totally dropped the proverbial balls.

The official report:

“Ellen didn’t scream at him, or vilify him, or call him a filthy lying bastard; she didn’t make a peep about Iraq or Iran or scream, “Hey, you fucking professional bigot fascist turd! Your daughter’s sitting here with a big old LESBO, whatcha think about that, daddy? And I think I’ll just reach over here and give her booby a nice squeeze” and start making lewd gestures with her tongue and two fingers or ANYTHING. She just sat there, all nice and smiley and Ellen, completely ignoring the fact that the retard on the other end of the phone RUINED THE WORLD.” 

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Adrian Ryan

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Amy Winehouse is going to die. She’s practically dead already.

I really hate to be the one to just come out and say it like this. I wish it wasn’t true almost. (Oh, merciful heavens, how I wish almost!) But it seems inevitable, doesn’t it? The writing is on the train. I can hear the wall coming down the tracks. The milk is spilt and the baby is crying over it. And so forth.

I am from Seattle, you see, where the smack runs fresh and free (figuratively speaking–it’s actually quite expensive) and musicians drop like stone pelicans. And if it one thing (if only one thing) that Seattle people can understand, its rock stars melting into a narcotic puddle of dead. It happens every ten minutes.

And do you know what she did? That made me give her up completely? Do you? Well, she went wandering around the shady alleys of London clad in only a dirty bra and jeans, no shoes for Christ’s sake, looking like she just suffered a pepper-spray blast to the face, snorted a pound of powdered chlorine, then watched an Old Yeller/Steel Magnolias marathon: swollen, chapped, droopy and wan, a jaunty shade of red peppering her waxy jaundiced face, stumbling around and mumbling. Her hair was pretty much the same, though.

It was 5:40 a.m., they say, and she was “leaving a friend’s house”, which in England means “shooting the horse”. A report: “Amy came out and started stumbling around. She popped her head over the fence like she was looking for something. It was freezing and she had no shoes and just a red bra. She was mumbling something incomprehensible. It wasn’t the behavior of someone in the right state of mind.”

So. I wonder if I’ll be invited to the funeral, which doesn’t really matter, because I’ll crash either way. Funeral food: the only real free lunch.
Adrian Ryan

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Whitney Houston isn’t dead yet. Or, she’s not as dead as most people expect her to be. And apparently, she really needs you to understand that. So do you know what the old bitch did? So that you’d understand it? Do you?

The old bitch “came back”.

That’s right, like that fucking cat in the scary nursery rhyme, Whitney Houston came back. Not the very next day—years and years later—but come back she did and now here she is again, and we all have to put up with her shit again, and we may never get rid of her.

Experts agree that I want to vomit out my eyes and shoot puppies now.

See, I’ve met a lot of celebrities in my day (they just fly at me from all directions— I’m a big black hole of the stars), and of all of them, Whitney Houston was the meanest, dirtiest, most demanding and unreasonable bitch ever to put on a wig and jump into Kevin Costner’s arms. (Remember? The Body Guard? Me fucking neither.)  I’ve got a grudge, you see. Don’t try to understand it.

Of course, she had to go to all the way to fricking Malaysia to “come back” properly, as Malaysia is probably the only nation on earth she hasn’t completely alienated with her crack-addled bag-lady bullshit. So she went there last weekend and performed at something they have there called the Live and Loud Music Festival, and they say the creaky old cow was “dazzling”. Dazzling!

“Wearing skin-tight pants and a colorful top, the soul star sang her greatest hits to a crowd of 10,000 people in Kuala Lumpur. It marked her return to the live stage after divorcing husband Bobby Brown and undergoing rehab for a well-publicized drug problem.”

So maybe it is time for me to bury my Whitney Hating hatchet. I’ve proposed this before, and it hasn’t worked out too well, but this time is going to be different; this time I’m going to make it. And maybe with a little hard work and a lot more no drugs, Whitney can make it too—make it all the way to a civilized country. I wish her the best of luck.

Wait. No I don’t. 

Adrian Ryan

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The ghost whisperer has a big fat ass, and the world just can’t get over it.

Indeed, I will admit it: even I was shocked. And appalled. And rather horrified. And a smidge traumatized. And I shoved just a few rusty nails in my eyes. And, Loretta, I’ve seen some ugly asses in my day. And yet still I must ask, what’s the fuss? What’s the bother? And why is everyone freaking out about Jennifer Love Hewitt’s BIG FAT ASS?

I’m just kidding. I TOTALLY get why. Eww. Really. EWW.

Pictures were recently taken, dear God, and then lamentably released, of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s ass. Wet. In a bathing suit. And Houston, we have a problem. A cottage cheese, mashed potato, flubber, blubber bubble with flab ridges and cellulite canyons problem. 

Words fail.

Wait, no they don’t: It was like a waterbed with acne scaring. Like a giant tapioca pudding. Like a Biggest Loser relapse wrapped in J-ELLO.  Like a beanbag with no hope. Like the saddest sack of flour on the bakery floor. Like a mudslide that lost its edge. And so forth.

And I ask you, what happened? She was so perky, so tiny, so spry! This bitty little WASP, darling as a teacup, waling around with some serious Baby Got Back black girl bootay. That shit just aint right. But still she insists on defending herself:

“I’ve sat by in silence for a long time now about the way women’s bodies are constantly scrutinized. To set the record straight, I’m not upset for me, but for all of the girls out there that are struggling with their body image … Like all women out there should, I love my body.”

The above message appeared on Jennifer’s so-called “blog”, which is either an online journal of some sort or the noise her ass makes when she’s waddling around looking for pie.

In other news: Evel Knievel is dead. He tripped on a toothpick.

Then: Sources so boring my fingers can’t even type their names for fear of falling into a coma report that Reese Withespoon is making the most money of any Hollywood star per picture, but nobody has exactly explained why, because, well, she’s okay I guess, but THE HIGHEST PAID (Julia Roberts must be throwing up—and not for fun this time)? Unless, of course, it’s just extra for dating Jake Gylenhall, in which case I understand completely. The bitch.

Adrian Ryan

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I warn you. I am about to say something about Britney fucking Spears. Many things, perhaps. There’s nothing either of us can do about it, and I am sorry. Really. But I have no choice. The Voice gets really angry when I don’t do exactly as it says. And please forget that.

So then. Barfbags a-ready? It begins.

Britney Spears arrived just a wee bit fashionably late to the set of her new “video” (do they still make “videos”?) that she was shooting for some wretched song she wrote called “Piece of Me.” As in “the court takes a piece of me every week and test it for crystal meth!” And just how late is “a wee bit fashionably” late? Why, I’m so glad you asked!

12 hours Late. 12 HOURS! And in some circles that’s half a day. And the dancers and staff? Why, they were just thrilled to pieces about it!

“In the video, Spears and four look-alikes — dressed in black newsboy caps, sunglasses, black trench coats and short blond wigs — to try trick the paparazzi. Spears used a “body double to shoot all the scenes that don’t require her face,”

That’s the report some of those thrilled dancers and staff leaked to media about the event, just to get back at the dizzy twat. And who can blame them? I ask you.

THEN! The aforementioned dizzy twat flipped out large when she was told by revolted salespeople at the West Hollywood Hustler Store that she wasn’t supposed to be trying on the nasty thong panties she was, indeed, trying on—right in the middle of the store, in view of 15 or more people. “The employees kept saying ‘Don’t change out here!’ She’s just like, ‘Well, I couldn’t take them in the fitting room!’ It was like dealing with a child.”

Then, when the staff moved to make her pay for the now soiled short-shorts:

“She rolled her eyes, but paid with a credit card…but on her way out, she went up to a mannequin, snatched the wig off the head, and stole it!”

Experts agree that at least she’ll WEAR the damn wig. The panties, on the other hand, are a total loss.
Adrian Ryan

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