Some kind of hideous beast called an “Amy Winehouse” has either been discovered, like a new species of freakish twelve-eyed deep sea hag, or discovered to be a huge heroine addict, one or the other. (Perhaps both.) The facts in this case are murky, like the junk running through Amy Winehouse’s filthy veins. Why anyone should care is a question for philosophers. And maybe Jacque Cousteau.

Wait. Is he dead? I think he’s dead. Never mind.

Next: Lance Bass, who is very, very gay, is now at this very moment shaking his pearly pink ass “on the boards” in his brand new role in a big fagging musical for Christ’s sake, which is, of course, enormously, gigantically gay. It’s called “Hairspray”, after the John Water’s movie (John Water’s is unspeakably gay), and it is playing right now on Broadway, which is so gay it makes my ass hurt. Scientists, religionists and Richard Simmons agree that the convergence of such extreme gayness and/or gay factors has never occurred in nature in all of recorded history, and physicists theorize the possible complete unraveling of our reality, whence our world will be sucked into some kind of parallel dimension resembling a piano bar located deep inside of George Michael’s ass. Panic is encouraged.

Then: Fairweather friends and turncoat hangers-on are spilling the refried beans to K-Fed’s lawyers about Britney’s horrible motherings/ever-drunken parenting. Highlight includes: The tale of Britney and the Seduced Nanny, in which Britney, very Michael Jacksonishly, invited the new nanny to share a bed with her and the boys. Mmmmm! Jesus-juicy!

Elsewhile: When Muther Dearest Spears isn’t keeping herself busy fucking the manny and rubbing cigarettes out on the kids’ faces, she finds time to cut loose and get really laid. After man-raping one of her video extras in a hotel last week, she globbed onto an even bigger douche bag than possibly even she baby daddy, if that’s possible. And it isn’t.

Ever the joiner, Jessica Simpson has decided to adopt a disenfranchised orphan. She is actually quoted as saying, “I remember holding this baby who was found in a dumpster. I wanted to adopt him right then and there. I was like. “…can I have him for my birthday, please?” Can she have the one from the DUMPSTER? Indeed. I have nothing more to add.

Not. A fucking. Word.

In even juicier Jesus juice: Earlier this week Michael Jackson was cheered and applauded and applauded and cheered by the amoral and/or remarkably forgetful audience of the Grammy Awards. Around the world, 13-year-old boy’s anuses spontaneously puckered in horror and protest at the injustice of it all. OJ Simpson could not be reached for comment.

Or maybe he could and I just didn’t try too hard. Whatever.

by Adrian Ryan

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