Sources are saying (because that’s what sources do-they say things) that Angelina and Brad are, dear Mother of Mercy, pregnant. As in, with child. Well, more Angelina, technically speaking, than Brad, but you know what I mean. Pregnant! They’ve got half of a Malaysian orphanage on back order, and now she’s pumping out more of her own biological brood? Is this woman a Mormon or what?  Honestly. I demand an answer.  

Does she have ANY idea of what the CARBON EMESSIONS are? Does she know how much of them she is responsible for by procreating like this? From burned fossil fuels? Electricity? Entropy? Does she understand what she is unleashing upon this ever-warming world by bringing (and/or nurturing and/or supporting) even more digestive tracts into it? Does she know how much jet fuel she alone expends every time she goes to get the mail? Let alone the rest of her high-rolling family; a family that she just keeps making bigger and richer and bigger and richer and bigger and richer? If she had been a responsible human being, and hadn’t adopted those poor children (God love ‘em) and dragged them into her rich American lifestyle, do you know what they’d be doing right now? Not shopping and driving around in SUVs with the DVD players in their Nikes and their GAP clothes that their blind and probably polio infected relatives back home slaved to make for 20 cents a week, that’s for sure. They’d be sitting in ditches, eating the flies in their boogers, trying to outrun Sally Struthers.  

I think somewhere here I lost my point.  

Then: Britney Spears got bored of acting crazy, so she bought a car instead. A Mercedes of some sort. She’s another one, with the carbon emissions. The crazy, crazy carbon emissions!  

Suddenly, somewhere else: Experts and sources and sourcesperts and exerces all agree: Lindsay Lohan is a drinky-drinky freak again! (God love her.) Reports are flooding in from every watery corner of the ever-watery tabloid press, and they all insist that Lindsay is swilling hooch from the bottle like a flapper on the lam, and wailing at people like a banshee for no good reason other than she’s Lindsay Lohan, godammit, quit gawking and get out of my way!  

None of us saw this coming. None of us.

Adrian Ryan

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Um. Really. I just don’t know what to say. Except, “Why, God! Why is there no justice in this world! Why can’t the children roam safe and free! WHY!?” maybe. Look:  

“Pop superstar MICHAEL JACKSON has vowed to “surprise” his loyal fans with a host of celebrity collaborations on the remake of his hit album THRILLER. The singer will release a 25th anniversary edition of the 1982 LP later this year. And Jackson has promised a number of big names will feature on the release. He says, “I’m coming back. And I’ve got a very special treat for all of my fans. “I have been recording Thriller: 25th Anniversary, with a lot of surprise guests.”  

Surprise guests! Like no 12 year old boys!  

Yeah, that’s be a surprise. A big mother fuggin surprise.  

Elsewhile: The world went totally insane today as some agency that I’ve never heard of announced that it shall, in all seriousness, award Britney Spears their Best New Album of the Year Award. This, of course, is pointless, as at this point she thinks she’s a lemon. (And where is Madonna in all this? I ask you.) Experts agree that it is all probably just some mad scheme Paris Hilton cooked up to get Britney alone on stage to accept the phony award so she and her pals can dump a bucket of pig’s blood on her head so she’ll snap and make everyone explode with her hellish telekinetic powers. But I think that’s a little too original for Paris Hilton. Who has “man feet”. Or so her uncle says. No kidding. Man feet.  

Um…and how does HE know, exactly? Exactly.  

And Madonna has her own problems. Believe it.  

Anyhoo. 

Adrian Ryan

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Carol Channing. Well. The last time we heard from her, which I bet you thought was the last time we’d ever hear from her without a Ouija Board (me too!), she had risen from the grave to reclaim her stolen dress and to drag the thief screaming to hell. (Believe it.) But, lo! We are hearing from her again somehow (a miracle of modern geriatric medicine!), but her tune is pretty much the same: She’s been robbed…and she’s completely incoherent about it!  

Now, before we proceed, and for the benefit of those few sad souls who are younger than 85 and are not screaming homosexuals, Carol Channing was whatcha call a legend. Old Hollywood. A Star. Today she is a raisin, a puff of dust in a white wig, rather frightening. Still, I’m not saying she’s not fabulous–she is—but that’s just my inner screaming homosexual coming out. Again. Guurl. Whatever. The point is, she’s a famous old broad (famous enough to even have her own Wikipedia entry, I bet! I’m too lazy to look!), and, baby…she attracts crime like a Guatemalan hooker. Last time we checked in, her bazillion-dollar “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” dress had been stolen, and then mysteriously returned. This time, she was held up in a bank, at gun point, in a crowd, just like a scene from a corny old Hollywood movie, which leads me to suspect that the whole thing was a big stupid publicity stunt, and something Tom Cruise would do before a movie release. but what the hell does Carol Channing need publicity for? Her wake? She’s practically transparent.  

Well. If New Kidds on the Block can make a comeback, I guess there’s hope for anyone. Even corpses. Which brings us back to Carol. The story:  

Carol says, “Well, along with a lot of other people, I’ve been robbed, we just bought a new house. It’s really the first house I’ve ever had and not a hotel. This is our house, and they robbed us.”  

Well. That was very confusing, wasn’t it. But considering that humanity didn’t even evolve the gift of language until she was a teenager, she holds her own, I guess.  

Lastly: You know? I just bet Britney Spears did something today. Just, you know….something. Don’t you wonder what it was?  

I don’t.

Adrian Ryan

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Britney. Well, we haven’t heard from her in about 16 seconds, so guess what she did to remedy the lapse? Can you guess? Guess, I say!

If you answered, “Well, she went even crazier, if that’s possible?”, YOU ARE CORRECT, SIR! Or MADAM! Or WHATEVER!

Good for you. But that’s only half the story. She also terrified little children. How? Like this:

Britney Spears caused watcha call a “shitstorm” of terror and kiddy confusion at a Los Angeles school when she allegedly turned up, twitchy, dressed like a whore, and confused as Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah, and insisted she was there to “pick up her kids.” Which would have been illegal, if her kids actually went to that school, which they didn’t. According to a source: “She was just rambling and confused. She said, ‘I’m here to pick up my kids.’ But then she said, ‘They aren’t my kids; I have a new attorney, and I came to pick them up for her.’ All I could think was, ‘Who in their right mind would let her pick up their kids?’” The witness goes on to add that the singer’s chain smoking, skimpy outfit and erratic behavior scared the children, insisting “some of the kids were freaked out.”

The drama ended when she was gently but firmly escorted, as the say, from the premises, whence she drove off, childless and alone, into the crazy, crazy sunset to chase other crazy adventures. The end.

Crazy!

Then, Owen Wilson has done many shocking and terrible things in his life. Cutting his wrists. Overdosing on pills. “You, Me and Dupree.” Not loving me like I deserve to be loved. But of all of the shocking things Owen Wilson has done in his life (which includes bathing in a ditch with Woody Harrelson), buying a big honkin’ bong (whatever that is) earlier this week is not numbered among them. But buy a “bong” (whatever that is) is what he did, or so they say, and he did it in a shop somewhere in Venice, Calif. (wherever that is), or so they also say, and if it is true, which it is, it explains at least “You, Me and Dupree” and the naked with Woody Harrelson in a muddy ditch thing. But who’s complaining? Whatever it takes, man. Whatever. It. Takes.

Then: Madonna and Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have come forward with their bold new plans to adopt each other. “It was only a matter of time before it finally happened,” Madonna said from behind the giant Jackie O sunglasses she’s wearing these days to hide all of the indiscriminate eye-jobbing that has her face looking like rotten carp. “It was inevitable,” agreed Angelina. “We all new deep down that someday it would come to this.” Brad explained how it would work, “I’m adopting Madonna, Madonna is adopting Angie, and Angie is adopting me. Then all of our kids are going to adopt us, then they will adopt each other. We’re confident that this is the right decision for everybody. Adopt, adopt, adopt.”

Lastly: I’m off to dig up Owen Wilson, a nice eighth of ganja (whatever that is) and a bucket of mud. Hold my calls.

Hold ‘em between your knees, like a ham sandwich.

Adrian Ryan

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Well the good thing about Heath Ledger’s death is that we got to ignore Amy Winehouse for awhile, which is quite a fuckucking silver lining, if you ask me. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t do anything felonious. Or scandalous. Or crack-ulous. Quite the contrary… She did crack aplenty, on camera, in her wretchedly untidy London “flat” (which is what those tea-drinking freaks call an apartment and everyone else calls Amy Winehouse’s chest, har-har…), as she babbles like a charming British brook (on crack) and advises her pet cat to pack up and evacuate for it’s own good. The video had landed her, as they say, “under investigation.” As a wise (and surprisingly lucid for, you know, crack addict) preemptive strike, Amy threw herself into a rehab as soon as the video was leaked, which was about 6 years too late. But still. At least she’s changed hair back to black (har-har again), so at least she isn’t quite so anorexic-rat looking. That’s a plus.

It is. Admit it.

And Heath Ledger is the dead one. Is there no God? No justice? Honestly. It’s unfathomable.

Am I obsessing? I’m obsessing. Sorry.

Then suddenly, with no warning, like a terrible storm: Brad Pitt looks more like a saggy bulldog by the minute. Let’s face it; there’s no use ignoring the fact anymore. And believe me, this terrible fact brings me no joy, mind you, and I’m not gloating. It kind of makes me want to kill myself, the once hot-hot-hotness that was Brad Pitt looking so saggy and old and potatoe-like. I mean, Jesus Christ. But that doesn’t seem to keep Angelina Jolie from hanging around him all the time, God bless her, and it won’t prevent both of them, together, from adopting a so-called “hurricane Katrina” orphan. Which I hear are hotter than Teacup Poodles. A ‘report”:

“Star magazine claims the couple has fallen in love with a girl whose parents were killed in the Katrina devastation, and they want to add her to their expanding family.”

Although, please to note, I have never read “Star Magazine.” Ever. Thank you for understanding.

Where can I get a Kartina orphan? I never get anything I want.

Adrian Ryan

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The terrible and still not satisfactorily explained death of Heath Ledger (Reese Witherspoon did it with witchcraft… I’m telling you… why won’t anyone listen to me?) has left me broken and rather depressed, lying on the floor, curled up in a fetal position, in the dark, listening to The Smiths over and over and drinking whiskey straight from the bottle even more than usual lately (I clock 30 or so hours a week, easy), so we’ve missed a ton of gossipy stuff. Hang on, there. We’ve got to get through this quickly, before I throw up again…

Lenny Kravitz was once a notorious manwhore. A boyslut. A rake. But that was then. The Lenny Kravitz of now claims that he has given up, yes, the sex. Completely. My hand to God–given up sex! He says he refuses to have sex until he gets married (like a common Christian or something), and he refuses to get married to anyone at all, so, there you go. This strange state of affairs has led him to the most unfortunate position of being celibate as a neutered nun… for the last three years, at least. Which totally explains that groaning noise always coming from his crotch. And why he’s such a has been. And why nobody cares.

Poor Heath Ledger.

So then… how long does it take to regrow one’s “guy-hymen” (or “guymen”)? Only Lenny Kravitz knows for sure.

Then: Madonna (who had sex with Lenny Kravitz too, so it all ties in somehow–isn’t that neat?) has added fuel to the rumory fires that claim she has suffered (even more) plastic surgery in a desperate and valiant attempt to hold back the landslide that was her face. Apparently she was snapped hiding dark bruises around her eyes with a big pair of scary Jackie-O sunglasses, and this has fueled these lies. And they are lies, oh yes indeed, for dark bruises and swelling and dark sunglasses DO NOT mean that Madonna has had plastic surgery even one little bit… they simply mean that Guy Ritchie has been beating the shit out of her again. And who can blame him? (I ask you.) But if anyone asks, she “walked into the door again.”

Oh, Madonna! She so stupid!

Then, some actress called “Jenna Fischer” has “laughed off” so-called “reports” that she’s dating David Spade, because, well, wouldn’t you?

Lastly: Lindsay Lohan is going to publish her personal diaries which will “detail her rocky rise to fame” or something. Which, you know, explains just about everything she’s ever done. Finally. The manipulative, capitalist, media whore.

I love her.

Adrian Ryan

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Have you ever heard of the “Razzie” awards? No. Of course not. Who has. But apparently there are awesome enough to have nominated her not once—not three times (which would have been excessively awesome)–but TWICE for their “Worst Actress” award. Apparently she appeared in a film called, “I Know Who Killed Me” back when she was killing her career, and she was so awful in it, that, well. Two nominations. According to the AP, which usually isn’t quite so bitchy, frankly:

“‘I Know Who Killed Me’ is the most fabulously brainless movie since `Showgirls,’” which Razzie voters picked as the worst movie of the 1990s, Wilson said. “By the end of it, you still don’t know what happened. Are they twins or aren’t they? Did she imagine it? Can I please have my hour and 50 minutes back?”

Whoa. Bitchy!

In, uh, yeah, her: Britney Spears is now denying that she ever porked that photographer she’s been porking–and there are even rumors that she’s taken out a restraining order against him. Although this might seem like some sort of retrn to sanity, no. Now she is claiming–in a British accent— that she doesn’t even now who he is, that she never has met such a person, and has nary the vaguest clue what anyone is talking about. Here is a report from people who apparently know something about it:

“When asked about Adnan, Britney says “I never met the man before.” She does it all in a British accent and then takes off after saying “I love you, men.” Hats off to the pap who asked Britney “What part of England are you from?”

“What part of England are you from?” For that, the paparazzi in general should be given their own national holiday. And a parade maybe. Really.

Adrian Ryan

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There is only one story in the whole world wide today, and it is the sudden and tragic death of Heath Ledger—accomplished actor, beloved father, Brokeback Mountaineer.  

Heath was, as I am sure you know, found dead early Monday morning in an apartment that has SOMETHING to do with Mary Kate Olsen somehow. The details are fuzzy. Like his cute little dimpled chin. Was. He was merely 28.  

Ohhh, this is all just too wretched for words.  

The gossip vultures, true to their character, were all aflutter from the moment the news of his death was made public, and wild rumors flew in every direction like a flock of startled canaries; depending on whom you were listening to (and bear with me please, as this gets slightly nauseating): he was found unconscious by the maid, he was on the floor of Mary Kate or Ashley or whosever’s New York City apartment, he was surrounded by a dramatic spray of pills in a very Valley of the Dolls tableaux, he was found in bed and had died peacefully in his sleep with any and all alleged “pills” safely in a bottle on a bedside stand, that it was an accidental overdose of illegal drugs, that it was an accidental overdose of prescription drugs, that it was an on-purpose overdose of one or both, that it was foul play, that it definitely wasn’t foul play, that the apartment really had nothing to do with either of the Olson Twins in any way whatsoever, that Heath had been terribly sick with pneumonia when he died, and that in some weird way that no one can quite satisfactorily explain, a masseuse is involved. The masseuse is the only factor that seems to be consistent. Personally, I suspect Reese Witherspoon and witchcraft are somehow all wrapped up in this, but this is no time to get into all that. But the most comforting and clarifying story comes directly from Heath’s own poor mom and dad, from way down there in Australia:  

We, Heath’s family, confirm, the very tragic, untimely and accidental passing of our dearly loved son, brother and doting father of Matilda. He was found peacefully asleep in his New York apartment by his housekeeper at 3:30 p.m. U.S. time.

We would like to thank our friends and everyone around the world for their well wishes and kind thoughts at this time. Heath has touched so many people on so many different levels during his short life but few had the pleasure of truly knowing him.

He was a down to earth, generous, kind-hearted, life-loving and selfless individual who was extremely inspirational to many. Please now respect our families need to grieve and come to terms with our loss privately. 

And still Britney somehow walks the earth. It’s confounding. That’s all I have to say. Confounding.  

Adrian Ryan

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The best thing that happened this week is that Lindsay Lohan was ordered by that hilarious old prankster called “the American justice system” to carry out the million and a half hours of public service she owes society for all of that glug-glug-vroom-vrooming she was doing in a morgue. A morgue! Where the dead people live! And what will she be asked to do there? Pickle the brains? Mop up the lungs? Wallow in pools of clotted blood? Shoo-away the horseflies? String the intestines up like streamers for old Ed’s retirement party? We may never no for sure. But I hope so.

Then: Kelly Osbourne, who is quite bloated and rather hideous, has, as they are wont to say in the gossip business, “blasted” those “other types” of spoiled Hollywood girls like, oh, let me think, off the top of my head, Britney Spears and that Paris Hilton tramp for their hard-livin’, coke-hoovering, blow-jobbing, drunk driving ways, insisting that their collective, and I quote, “need for attention is just absurd.” But of course she’s just a jealous bitch because they are pretty and famous and she’s just fat. And rather maggot-like when you think about it. And you shouldn’t.  

In other things: Britney Spears. You know she did something.  

In really other things: I heard this amazing story that claims that the father of Britney Spears’ little sister’s baby is not the father at all, but just a cute boy Britney’s mother paid a million dollars to pretend to be the baby’s father, because the real father is really some much, much older man who is somehow connected to Britney’s mother’s new television show, and if he came out as the father, it would, let’s face it, be rape technically speaking, but like I said, it’s just a rumor, and you didn’t hear any of this from me anyway so just keep walkin’, bub.  

Yes, I said “bub.” Keep walkin’!

Adrian Ryan

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Now, when I said just a few weeks ago that Eddy Murphy slept with a drag queen, what I meant to say exactly was that Eddie Murphy had sex a man, with a penis, dressed as a woman. At least that was the word on the street. (And in his police file circa the early ’80s… Wikipedia that shit!)But now one can’t help but wonder, does that whole “having sex with drag queens” thing have anything to do with his marriage to some actress called “Tracey Edmonds” two weeks ago crumbling just two weeks later? Does it? Does it?
We’ll never know. All we know is he got married two weeks ago, and today he isn’t married anymore. Go figure. As the Hebrews or whatever like to say.

But the only huge, tragic flaw in this scenario, the fly in the ointment of this drag queeny theory, is that I love Eddie Murphy too much and would never say anything so salacious as “he had sex with a drag queen” about him, and I’m not saying that now either. And neither are you. So we’re in accord, then.

Alright.

The French would say, “d’accord”, of course, but I won’t be saying that either, as I’m not the slightest bit French, and would never presume. But here’s the vague details of the couple’s disintegration, if you’re curious, straight from the publicist’s mouth:

“After much consideration and discussion, we have jointly decided that we will forego having a legal ceremony as it is not necessary to define our relationship further. While the recent symbolic union in Bora Bora was representative of our deep love, friendship and respect that we have for one another on a spiritual level, we have decided to remain friends.” 

And if you really read between the lines, you know exactly what this tells us, don’t you? Don’t you?

Neither do I. But I bet it had nothing to do with drag queens. All we know for sure is that they aren’t married anymore. And that’s enough for me. Because I don’t care. So there.

DAMN DRAG QUEENS! 

Adrian Ryan

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