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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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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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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In the broader sense, the universal sense, I guess it doesn’t matter. Nope. Not a bit. We’ll all laugh about it some day. And heck, in a hundred years, as they say, who’ll give a crap? Right. The super intelligent cockroaches who will rule the earth then. They’ll give a crap. And a-plenty. But we’re not talking about them. We’re talking about Gary Coleman’s wife. Yes, Gary Coleman’s wife. He has a wife.

You heard me.

Finished? May we proceed?

Now?

Thank you. Well, it all happened so suddenly, and he’s so damn short, I’m not surprised you missed it. I bet he missed it. But somehow, SOMEHOW, after suffering more humiliation and indignities than Carrie, Milli Vanilli and Carrot Top combined, the little bugger who buggered his little black butt into the hearts of televised America has finally (FINALLY!) scored himself some ‘tang.

Nobody knows exactly how he did it. I suspect Voodoo.

I always suspect Voodoo.

And while we’re on that subject of voodoo, let’s face it: the infamous “Curse of the Child Stars” has not been kind to Gary Coleman. Sure, he’s not dead. That’s a plus. And while it’s true that he has somehow heretofore been spared a horrible demise like the rest of the cast of Diff’rent Strokes (he’s the only survivor—Mrs. Garrett was found face down in a pool of her own vomit last week, true story) but, um, don’t think for a moment that The Curse has spared him. Oh, no sir. The Curse has ground him into a twisted and bitter speck of a man. It has dealt him the cruelest fate of all: the fate of living while being Gary Coleman. And that sucks ass, Loretta.

I mean, when I sit down and think about Gary Coleman, and his life, and his kidneys, and his life, sometimes my poor little heart just wants to cry. After it stops laughing. And when I saw the picture of him and his new wife, my heart wanted to cry, and laugh and laugh and laugh and cry a little more than perhaps ever before. And if you look at their wedding picture, you will laugh and cry too. But don’t look too long. (They say that if you stare a the picture for more than 30 seconds, Gary Coleman’s image comes to life and announces the date of your death….don’t try it. He’s like the Bloody Mary of twisted midgets.)

But see, the problem is the breeding, as in, DEAR JESUS! What if they DO!? I know, I know. But calm your self. There doesn’t seem to be any chance of that. And why? Well. Because, you see, The Curse has affected every (and we talkin’ every, Willis) aspect of Gary’s poor little life, including, let’s be frank, his twisted little libido. He’s 40 years old, you understand. And he is still a virgin. This is not a joke. This is not a drill. And like my great aunt Countess used to say, “Child, if one waits too long, it becomes psychologically impossible to lose one’s virginity—best to do it while one’s young, like you.” I was seven. She drank.) So instead of consummating his new relationship, he has pitched temper tantrums and thrown small objects at her instead. It’s a very serious situation (and a better option than bopping his wife—you’ll understand when you see the pictures–DON’T STARE!). I heard all about it on Inside Edition. Which I never watch. Screw you.

So Gary popped the question… but when will he pop his wife? That’s the unpopped question. And it’s unpopping as we speak. If you get my meaning. Which would be surprising, because I’m not sure I do. And I forgot what I was talking about twenty minutes ago. Congratulations, you twisted midget! The whole world is watching your crotch! That should calm him down.

Adrian Ryan

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One year ago, Britney Spears shaved her head. It is the anniversary. Hooray.  

Why did she do it? It’s a valid question, I think. For really, that was the definitive moment—the moment her cracks began to show. Hacking her hair off in those big wet chunks with that look on her face—that creepy, creepy look! Like someone had attached a car battery to her nipples.  

It was the same look she had when she kicked the shit out of that Bronco with an umbrella. Well, it was asking for it.  

Before all of that happened, Britney was just Britney, and I just ignored her as any toss-away teeny-bopping trash deserves to be ignored. Contemptibly. Like Tiffany. Like Debby Gibson. Like, for God’s sake, Hanna the fuckuck Montata (which sounds like the an awful like a really dirty limerick if you ask me). But when she shaved her head, well, something happened. Some force was set in motion, some terrible cause whose only possible effect could be….well, this.  

On THAT day, ladies and gentlemen, she was sending us a message. A Big one. A loud one. You and I. All of us. And it was “HELP! I’ve just gone completely BANANAS!”  

And so she had.  

Heiney sight is so totally twenty-twenty. Or, um, something.  

Personally, I’m celebrating with a cake. Shaped like a big bald crazy head. You can get them from Safeway, if you call ahead.  

Ah, Safeway. Is there anything it can’t do? 

In other news: Paula Abdul, who is a drunk, i

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Something amuses me. Amuses me! And I’m relatively confident that it will amuse you too. So I am going share it with you. That’s how much I love you.

In the last, what? Six months? Six weeks? Six minutes? The celebrity headlines have screamed “REHAB!” and “JAIL!” and “REHAB!” and “JAIL!” like they have Tourettes syndrome and a rather limited repertoire. It has been tragic. And tiresome. And relentless.

But I’m sure you haven’t noticed. You’re a busy person. And you look lovely in those pants, may I say.

To illustrate my point, an “actress” calling herself Bai Ling or what-have-you, got herself all caught and apprehended and arrested “pulling a Winona”, by which I mean, shoplifting her rich and privileged Hollywood brains out. Any why not? She’s Bai Ling, biznitch!

…and she hasn’t really done anything of note since playing the insane and incestuous half sister of the long-haired mob boss who was psychic or whatever in The Crow. So maybe she was, you know, hurting for cash. We’ve all been there. Except me. As I’m quite rich.

Rich, I tell you!

(Umm…And was she psychic? In The Crow? Or was she just constipated and cryptic? It’s pointless to speculate. Which brings us to another interesting thing of note: The, um, grave of Brandon Lee, the star of that film The Crow who died tragically while filming it, lies about 100 yards from where I sit typing this. Please do not come try and find me. Forget I said anything.)

So maybe she was broke. That’s why she did it. Or crazy. Or, uh, broke. But that’s not what she says of course, because, you know, Asians and their stubborn pride: she claims that, yes, she’s a big rich Hollywood person who has worked with the late Brandon Lee (rest his soul), and she could easily afford the lousy $16 for the magazines and batteries she ripped off, thank you, and she only did it because of “boyfriend troubles”. Which, of course, makes perfect sense. To a monkey.

I bet she was broke.

Anyway, while most stars like, um, Bai Ling are out there getting their asses hauled into prison for this and that, here is the latest headline concerning, um, Bono, and THIS is what I find AMUSING:

“Bono’s Charity Gig Exceeds Expectations!”

EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS? Bono’s CHARITY EVENT? Surely you jest! Stop the presses! Hold the phone! Call the president! Riot in the streets!

Ohh…that BONO! Exceeding all charity expectations, just like a REAL rock star!

Indeed.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call AMUSING.

Well maybe you had to be there.

Never mind.

Adrian Ryan

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Well, let’s just have out with it: “C&nt”, that’s what she said, and “c%nt” is what she meant.And especially for the benefit of you poor lost souls dangling under the tyrannies of office jobs, here it is again in your singular “Safe For Work” lingo: “C*nt”. C#nt. C%NT!”

Yup.  That’s what she said, all righty.   And of course we’re talking about dear old Jane Fonda, whom many have said is something of a c*nt herself, and she said c%nt on live teevee. And, as we all know, C%NT is not something one is “allowed”, as it were, to say on live teevee. Indeed, no. It is not.Now, dear old Jane. Before we continue, let us consider her. Thank you.  

If you think about it, Jane Fonda is now at that “certain age” (Jurassic) in which saying things like c!$%nt on national television could possibly be viewed as something of a quaint eccentricity on her part. Like some sort of dear grand auntie whom suffers from terrible turrets syndrome, and shouts things like “C#NT!” and “N@gger!” when she means “Sugar bowl!” and “Please let the cant in!”

And maybe in Switzerland or Norway or some civilized country, this excuse might have “flown.”  But this is America, and we all know that’s not what really happened. And if we don’t, I’m about to tell us. Because I’m a patriot. That’s why.  

What really happened is that the old bat was on the damn Today Show or what-have-you, and she was talking, for reasons known only to herself and her God, about the damn “Vagina Monologues.” Now, nobody, but nobody, wants to hear about the damn “Vagina Monologues” let me tell you—vaginas are terrifying enough without them launching into speech. I’m sure you agree. (Also, that crap is so ’90s.) Anyhoozits, in order to liven up the bit, I guess, when it started to drag (and how couldn’t it), she just launched herself right into the conversation with something like,  “Well, when they called me up and asked me to be in a play called “C%nt”, I just thought, I have enough problems already…”,  which, of course, is slighty amusing but makes no sense at all, because the play is not called “C%NT”, it is called “Vagina Monologues” (pay attention!), and nobody wants to talk about it. And there is no play called “C%nt”, and there has never been a play called “C&nt”, and there never, ever, God please, shall be a play called “C%nt”, so it follows that no one asked her to be in a play called “C&nt”.  So what exactly the hell is this woman talking about?   

C%nt. That’s what. And I don’t want to talk about it. 

Oh, Jane.   Adrian Ryan

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It’s like, well, God or the Universe or whatever really wants to do two things. One of these things is prove my earlier point that drugs are AWESOME. (Not that I’d know personally, of course, being a devout Mormon girl. Vote Romney!) The other of these things is to kill Amy Winehouse, with, well, um, drugs. And fame. Two great tastes that do not necessarily go great together.

What the hell am I talking about? Well. I’m so glad you asked. I am talking about this:

That, of course, was her performance of her song “Rehab” at the Grammys last night. The irony of that song is rather crushing, all things considered—to say absolutely nothing about her sly, knowing little smile during and after the song. A little bit much, if you ask me, in light of the fact that she is exactly one popped pill away from total disaster.

But that’s not the worst part, her snarky little smile. The worst part is that she won, like, FIVE fuckuckta Grammys last night! This, of course, will only encourage her suicidal druggings, for if she is winning Grammys while she’s higher that a sorority girl’s skirt, why ever stop being high? Exactly. The Grammys are rewarding her for killing herself with chemicals. Now, she’s only encouraged, and it’s full steam ahead from here. She’ll be stone cold dead by Easter.

So when Amy Winehouse and her beehive and her tattoos and her missing teeth are found floating face down in a cold bathtub of dirty water in three weeks, blame the Grammys—the enabler of award shows. It’s really rather horrible, when you think about it. Which is why I choose not to.

Shame on you, Grammys. Shame on you!

Adrian Ryan

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Do you wanna hear a rumor about a celebrity that is totally true? Are you sure? Awesome. Rob Reiner picks up migrant workers from the Home Depot parking lot and pays then to choke him in his shower. 100% true story.  

Isn’t that an absolutely fascinating complete fact?  

Most complete facts are. Like this one:  The Grammys are on as I type this. My television, however, is off. You can deduce from these factors one of two things, and they go like this, a) that I am sitting in the Grammy audience, typing this on a laptop I guess, or, b) I’m not watching the damn things at all.  And if you picked answer “a”, well, you’re retarded. That’s what you are.

I haven’t gone to the damn Grammys since 2002, when Usher puked on my shoes. Since then, I’ve ignored the Grammy’s completely (whether or not that actually happened–which it possibly might have).   But I ignore this year’s Grammys most completely and especially, despite all of the drama that is sure to ensue. Such as? Well.

Will Amy Winehouse be let into the country to perform–or did she flunk her pee test again (and did her pee eat through the plastic cup, the doctors hand, the floor, the topsoil, the bedrock, and is at this moment on a collision course with China? It’d  serve China right, sending us all those damn children’s toys chock full of lead. I’m just saying), and/or will Michael Jackson dare to not show his face?  

I wonder. But not really.  

Because something much sadder, and much more important has happened, and it is the tragic death of that guy who played the brave, grizzled, chain-smoking police chief that gets bitten in half in Jaws. For all we know he got bitten in half in real life, for the coroner has not released his cause of death, although being 75 will often do one in all on its own. Which he was. Poor old sumbitch. Bitten in half by that toothy old sea bitch, time.  

R.I.P. 

Adrian Ryan

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Drugs. Well, they’re awesome, aren’t they?

Of course they are.

They must be. Totally awesome. Awesomest.  

Awesomer, indeed,  than fabulous careers, fame, money, beauty, and teeth, otherwise how to explain Amy Winehouse? She’s more famous for her drugging than her singing, and Evel Kneivel himself couldn’t jump the jagged caverns in her smile (or the holes in her arms), were he alive, which he isn’t. And that’s the good news.  

But, sadly, the drugs can have all sorts of unexpected and rather twirley side effects too—and not just the regular old side effects like all your teeth falling out and going to jail. Side effects like the dreaded Not Able to Get into America Syndrome, which afflicts Amy Winehouse as we speak, and Always Getting Confused with Claire Danes Syndrome, which Kirsten Dunst suffers from. And yes, Claire…I mean KIRSTEN…is a big wretched druggie too, you betcher boots. (I bet you didn’t see that coming.) Especially when she is at Sundance, apparently. Which isn’t saying much because I’ve bee to Sundance, baby, and EVERYONE but EVERYONE at Sundance is a coked-out disaster: it’s a miracle any films can be seen behind all the mountians of coke. It’s whatcha call tradition.

But apparently poor Cla…I mean KIRSTEN, dammit…partied a little too hardy this year, as they say, and she cracked. Broke down. Choked up. And now she’s in rehab, and yes, she’s in exactly the SAME rehab that Eva Mendez is in as I type this, and, yes, that’s the SAME rehab that Linsday Lohan (remember her? Me neither!) was confined to all last summer, and what does this have to do with Amy Winehouse not getting into the country?

Excellent question.  

Amy has been denied a visa, which she apparently needs, to get back into this country, and all on the basis of her relentless hoovering and smoking and injecting and so forth. She was supposed to sing at the Grammys, but now she’ll just have to stay home and smoke crack with her cat and lose some more teeth. As usual.  Poor Grammys.

In other “news”: Hugh Heffner, who was Moses’ towel boy, has announced that his girlfriend is pregnant, and don’t try to tell me some kind of drugs weren’t involved in THAT charming scenario. Don’t you even dare.  

Yay..I mean…boo…drugs!

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