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.

Curse you, Hugh Heffner! CURSE YOU!!!

Now his pecker will fall off. I’ve got wicked mojo.

ANYhoozitz: So, if you’ve been paying attention (and you haven’t), you’ve noticed that Paris Hilton and her suddenly enormous boobs (where the hell did THOSE things come from? I ask you.) have been constantly in the company of, well, a guru. Or a rimpoche. Or a Lama. Or some sort of monk-man or something like that. The dude is vaguely Asian, roughly two hundred years old, he’s wrapped in old orange sheets and he wears a long white Fu Manchu mustache and a scrackly white beard that hangs to his man-boobs. To date he has been seen doing guru-ish things like blessing her before dinner (hand-on-head style), pontificating to her on otherworldly things (finger-in-the-air style), and making her do unfathomable and allegedly spiritual stuff, like give the diamond necklace she was wearing to a random woman in a restaurant. Which she did. Just walked right up and said, “Howdy, I’m Paris fricking Hilton and here’s my diamond necklace! Om…..” and pranced away. Um.

It’s all a steaming load of horseshit, of course. Om.

Indeed, the entire thing is a big hoax, a scam, a fraud, as Paris is about as spiritual as Joe Peschi’s butthole (as everyone knows) and her guru-rimpoche-lama-monk-whatever man is about as monkish as an extra in Pirates of the Caribbean. Which he was. And not the awesome Disneyland ride, the butt-stanky Johnny Depp movie. There is photographic evidence (also called “a movie”) and everything. Huh.

If these events have somehow lead you to believe that Paris must be a delightful girl with a priceless sense of humor (I know! Let’s hire an actor to play my GURU, and we’ll take him out to torture the paparazzi—won’t that be a HOOT?), stop right there. She barely had anything to do with it. It was all Ashton Kutcher. Of course.

Behold (from E!):

“The performance for the paps was reportedly for Kutcher’s new E! series premiering this Sunday entitled “Pop Fiction.” The show is designed to make gullible paps and media outlets look pathetic by pulling all sorts of pranks.”

Well. Here’s a joke on you Ashton Kutcher: You’re wife is ten seconds from menopause.

PUNK’D!

Adrian Ryan

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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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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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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.

Now, you see a lot of crazy shit when you report on the comings and alleged goings of that bizarre universe that is celebrite. I’d I’ve been walking this sick beat a long time. I’m no giggling freshman. But, nothing—not Boy George chaining a hooker to a wall, not, well, You Know Who snorting coke off night club toilets—could have prepared me for this.

Playboy has asked the Olsen Twins to pose for them. The Olsen Twins. Nude. Both of them. Together. Naked. With no clothes on. Bones poking out all janky in all directions and only GOD knows WHAT where the breasts would be on a human creature. And the legs! And the butts! And the…oh my lord in heaven…the…the…well, OLSEN PUBES. All exposed. This is not a joke. This is not a drill. This is really happening.

Our children are in peril!

Here are the alleged “facts”:

“(Hugh Heffner) has attempted to woo Mary-Kate and Ashley to disrobe in Playboy since they turned 18, and he’s now launched a renewed bid to tempt them out of their clothes for a special celebratory photo shoot.”

I’m sorry. I am simply psychologically incapable of further comment. Just praise whatever god you believe in that they’ve turned the old fool down…so far. Now please wash that horrible image out of your brain with this (it’s about a real prince!):

“Young Prince Harry, fresh from his tour of duty fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan, tells the Press Association, “Hopefully (my mother) would be proud…She would be looking down having a giggle about the stupid things that I’ve been doing, like going left when I should have gone right, finding myself in an awkward position earlier today.”

Well! Stupid things, indeed sir! Turning left when one should indeed have turned right! Isn’t that a jolly pip in the ass! Quite a wit, those British royals. Har har! Watch out, there now! He might break out with a knock-knock joke…or a saucy limerick!

The prince is just WICKED with a saucy limerick!

Humor, thy homeland is not England.

Adrian Ryan

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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 Pearl said, “Heh? What’s that? I can’t hear a damn thing, the battery in my aid is low…WHAT?”

Elsewhere: Michael Jackson is not so very old (for a tree), and neither are those poor souls that he pursues romantically, har har. (Pricilla Presley was younger than him, and so was that maid chick that had his kids, I think. What did YOU think I was talking about? Little boys?) Indeed, he has some fight in him yet—and he’s fighting to save his notorious Neverland Ranch, where nothing felonious happened, thank you. The evil tax man wants to auction it. But Michael has rallied all his hellish forces to combat the auction, and apparently the best strategy they could come up with was…a loan. So he signed for a big ass mutha’ of a loan—which he will no doubt just heap upon the other bazillions of dollars worth of loans he’s taken out in desperate attempts to save his wicked existence. This one is for $24.5 million. Which is a bargain, considering what his dates cost him. In court costs mostly, but the Jesus juice bills can add up too.

Ouch.

In other wretched fossils: Boy George. Time has not been kind to him. He was never what you’d call attractive, unless you were from the mossy crags of Pluto, but today he is less human more than he is the illegitimate lovechild of Dame Edna and a giant flesh-eating maggot. Be that as it may, he wants you to understand that he is a decidedly Not Guilty flesh eating maggot. And so he has pleaded not guilty to charges of false imprisonment charges, for those charming allegations that he kidnapped a man-whore and chained him to the wall. But you know he did it. Probably. Maybe.

Definitely.

Lastly: Naomi Campbell was hospitalized in Sao Paulo for the removal of a small cyst. Normally, the cyst would not have required an operation, but she exacerbated the situation considerably by trying to beat it out herself with her cell phone.

Adrian Ryan

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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.

The tears of Whoopie cry can scar you for life.

And what’s almost as horrible—maybe even more horrible, in some ways—is when Whoopie almost cries. And the Oscars (ugh), those insensitive bastards, made her almost cry. This morning. On teevee. The View, if you must know. And it made me want to cry, too. And I hate wanting to cry. It doesn’t get me laid.

God, how I loathe the Oscars. And not getting laid. 

Let’s get it out in the open: I adore Whoopie Goldberg. There. I said it. And I’m not ashamed to say it. I’ve loved her since she was getting beaten in The Color Purple. I loved her when she was getting spooked in Ghost. (Hush up.) I’ve loved her in just about everything. So.

I’m also not really all that ashamed to admit that I might watch an occasional episode of The View, so I won’t. Admit it. But if I did watch it, or admit that I watched it, which I might, and won’t, I wouldn’t be ashamed. Hypothetically speaking. And you can bet that the only reason I would watch the hypothetical View is because of Whoopie Goldberg. (What? You thought I’d watch it for Elizabeth Hasselbitch?) I don’t mean to wax all woo—woo and New Agey or any of that junk, but Whoopie is whatcha might call a wise soul. She’s deep. She “gets it”. She’s an old spirit. And an Oscar winner. And a former Oscar host. Everyone knows this.

Except, apparently, the Oscars.

Now, I told y’all yesterday that the forgetful Oscars, 80 years old this year and clearly suffering from Alzheimer’s, completely neglected to memorialize the recently deceased young actor Brad Renfro during the it’s annual memorial montage. Remember? It was really rather rude of them, and will sure invoke a terrible curse from beyond the grave. (Fingers crossed!) But there were more (and more and more) Oscar video montages, and one in particular featured clips of “Great Moments in Oscar History” or whatever. It had everything and Jack Nicholson’s kitchen sink in there from the dawn of Oscar history. It was exhaustive. It was exhausting. And it left out Whoopie completely. It acted like she never existed.

But that’s hardly the worst part.

When she brought the matter up on this morning’s The View, about how she had been forgotten and her life’s work casually overlooked, well, she cried almost. Cried! She got all choked up and misty and please Lord, tell me those weren’t tears I saw gathering in the edges of her eyes. Mercy, mercy me. It was like watching orphans being beaten to death with puppies.

Watch your back Oscars. I’m gonna find you. And I’m gonna make you pay for hurting my Whoopie. Mark my words.

Adrian Ryan

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