Text messages exchanged in the wake of Heath Ledger's devastating end:

RIP Heath Ledger!

HOLY SHIT!

I KNOW! TOTES SHOCKING!

I feel hella sad about that one, bro. I mean, not quite as insane as the Croc Hunter, but 2nd place for sure.

Totally. I was like, how could Ledge be deceased when Bonaduce is roaming around town with steroids for blood?

GOOD POINT! Also, I feel like I should get the afternoon off for bereavement leave.

I know. I just talked to Sonia and we think that this might beat out Steve Irwin, because he DID hunt crocs for a living. Also, do we really have to start on the James Dean comparisons?

Seriously. Car accident is not the same as OD in M-K’s apt. He’s more like the next Renfro, if you have to make a nonsense comparison.

GP. God, I’m barely over Renfro. BTW, the coverage of this on cable news is hilarious. They called him a gypsy!

Well, he WAS constantly crystal-gazing. And he did train Matilda to pick the fanny packs of unsuspecting white tourists.

Now they’re saying that playing the Joker haunted him and gave him insomnia. REALLY? HAUNTED TO DEATH BY THE JOKER?

RIP, man. RIP.

Here's the story.

Amy Winehouse smokes crack.

And apparently this photo--reportedly taken last night--conclusively refutes the rumor.

Click if you dare, and don't come crying to me after...

(Full story at X17.)

It's been floating around the web for the past week: a video in which Tom Cruise holds forth, passionately and terrifyingly, on the wonders of Scientology.

Every time the video is posted, "mysterious forces" insist on its removal--but now Gawker is calling bullshit on claims of copyright infringement: "It's newsworthy, and we will not be removing it."

See the whole amazing thing here.

(And here's Radar's very helpful glossary of Scientology terms, which will aid you in making sense of what the fuck Cruise is talking about, kinda.)

...is no longer alive.

Bjork, who is insane just a little bit (God love her), waxed almost as repetitive as that, “WAAAA---oooo---AHHH---oooo” scream she insists on doing at least once in every damn song by physically attacking some poor fool newsperson in an airport yesterday. The report from the terrified victim:

“As I turned and walked away she came up behind me, grabbed the back of my black skivvy (T-shirt) and tore it," he reports. "As she did this, she fell over, she fell to the ground," he said. "At no stage did I touch her or speak with her."

Although “falling on her ass” is a fresh new twist on the scenario, one can’t help wonder: Did some local reporter molest her under the tree on Christmas morning? Murder her father in a bar fight? Get her pregnant and stiff her on the abortion money? Call her fat at the prom? Speculation, let’s face it, is pointless.

Oh, Bjork. She's gonna getcha!

Clay Aiken did this interview because she would like to make a few things perfectly clear, and I quote:

I couldn't even get off the toilet the other day. It hurts so bad.

And…

I can't move and think at the same time.

And…

I thought Monty Python was a person.

And apparently…

I've had ladies throw Depends at me that say, "Your older fans love you, too."

Well. Isn't that fascinating.

And now, for your re-pleasure (as I think I might’ve shared this before; if so, please to enjoy again anyway somehow) I give you the flower of American masculinity, Miss Clay Aiken:

Pardon me: MADAME Clay Aiken, I meant to say. She likes to be called MADAME.

Clearly furious at being upstaged by the hubbub in Iowa, Britney Spears ratcheted up the crazy last night, reportedly refusing to hand over her two children to primary parent Keven Federline at the scheduled time, instigating a three-hour standoff with police during which Britney "appeared to be under the influence of an unknown substance" and after which Britney was strapped to a gurney and hauled off in an ambulance. She's reportedly being held in a Los Angeles hospital for psychological evaluation.

After that, the drama really begins, as allegations of Britney's "substance"-fueled mini-kidnapping of her children are investigated by various authorities. At best, she'll probably never enjoy unsurpervised visits with her kids again. At worst, she could face criminal charges.

In other news, Britney Spears is desperately mentally ill. Last year, I wrote at least twice that humanity is forbidden to stand around and watch as Britney's sucked into the same pathetic public death-trap as Anna Nicole Smith. This year, I think Britney will be lucky to have so dignified a death. After last night's ruckus, I can easily imagine her being fatally shot in a McDonald's parking lot by a man in a police helicopter.

In a recent interview David Beckham said:

"I'm very honored to have the tag of gay icon."

Well. I’m confident that I speak for all The Gays when I say that we’re just thrilled to be tagging you, David dear. Now please show us your penis. Please.

And just because we haven’t heard anything from her in a spell, I give you Old Widow Cobain (if I may dust off that old chestnut) and her massive delusions:

"Courtney Love is "devastated" after a pair of $100,000 pink diamond earrings was stolen from her New York hotel room on Wednesday. According to a source: "She had brought the earrings for Frances as her Christmas present. Frances hadn't even tried them on yet."

The tragic teen didn't even get to try on her $100,000 pair of earrings? Oh, the horror! But wait!

But hours after New York police launched an investigation into the incident on Thursday morning, the diamond earrings mysteriously reappeared.”

Turns out they were under the winged pink elephant the entire time.

Well, Mormons. They are curious beasts, aren't they? Of course they are. All of that peculiar business about golden tablets and the American Jesus and mystic visions in a magic hat. No coffee. Lovely singing voices. Clever with numbers. Bad at history. Very straight pleats. Indeed.

And you know me: You can worship an old shoe or a flying monkey or plate of spaghetti; I couldn’t really give a candied crap. All religions are weird as hell–without exception. Yours is. So is mine. If I have one. Which I might. But we’re not discussing me or the quirks of my ostensible religion (or lack thereof), we’re discussing Mormons–specifically the Donny and Marie ones–and the quirks of that religion–specifically the institutionalized prejudice ones.

See Mormons, bless their stupid little hearts, officially believe that black people are black as a divine punishment for “turning away” from (the American) Jesus and are, by extension, really quite automatically damned. And homosexuality? Well, it’s a “sin worse than murder” that is punishable by immediate excommunication and a lovely eternity of burning, burning, burning. And, as I am sure you are aware, one of these aforementioned Mormons is running for that thing called “president.” His name is Mitt Romney, of course, his hair is very hard, and his bigotry is very institutionalized. So of course he’s running as a (forgive my French) “republican”, and why not? Neurotic and obsessive official hatred of gays (and unofficial hatred of anyone darker than a grocery bag) is the bread and butter of the republican party–it’s the backbone of their platform. Mormonism and republicanism go together like walls and Mexicans.

And Donny and Marie---the biggest LDSs in the history of big LDSs---have seen fit at this juncture to emerge from the misty hills of Utah to cast their very official endorsement for Mitt Romney, because, naturally, he is, like them, rather excessively Mormon. It’s not all that hard to understand, I guess, for if the Mormon’s can’t stick together, who can?

But I do find it quite remarkable that in their collective 35 million years in show business that Donny and Marie have never apparently met a gay person. They clearly don’t have any gay friends or mentors, and apparently straight people styled their hair, coached their voices and taught them ballroom dancing. Because, and let’s make no bones about it, a vote for any republican is a kick in the face of every gay person, everywhere. In fact, why ANYONE, would give ANY republican the time of day at this point defies all logic: as if Bush and Bush and Nixon et al happened in a vacuum. And anyone who would support any republican is, at best, a retarded dupe, at worst, a war-and-fear mongering capitalist douche bag.

So which is it Donny? Which is it, Marie? Are you dupes, or douche bags? Whichever, you are no friends to me. And I’d like to invite all gays and blacks and everyone else with a single iota of conscience or sense to join me in giving the Osmonds a very hearty and heart felt “Fuck you.”

Fuck YOU, little Donny Osmond. Fuck YOU, Marie.

Really, now. FUCK. YOU.

For an extensive list of other republican “celebrities” who have apparently never depended upon nor met any gays or people of color and deserve to be thoroughly fuck-you’ed, click here.

Time names Chris Crocker's "Leave Britney Alone!" the top viral video of the year.

The New York Observer gets Crocker's predictions for 2008. And guess what? It's a good, funny interview.

And this is all, of course, the Stranger's fault. If only we hadn't have published Eli Sander's thoughtful piece on Crocker--which you can read here--no one would have ever heard of Crocker. Damn you, Eli.

Every time I think I've moved on to Amy Sedaris or Violet Affleck, Snoop Dogg comes back with some shit like this and reminds me why he's my favorite living person.

Or, as my friend Meagan so elegantly put it:

HAAAAAAAIIIRRRRRDOOOOOOOOOOOO

Britney Spears' sister--Britney Spears' 16 year-old sister--is pregnant.

Jamie Lynn Spears, the 16-year-old "Zoey 101" star and sister of Britney, told OK! magazine that she's pregnant and that the father is her boyfriend, Casey Aldridge....

Spears is 12 weeks along and initially kept the news to herself when she learned of the pregnancy from an at-home test and subsequent doctor visit, she told the celebrity magazine, which hits stands in New York on Wednesday and the rest of the country by Friday.

What message does she want to send to other teens about premarital sex? "I definitely don't think it's something you should do; it's better to wait," she told the magazine.

Somewhere between 15 and 40 percent of all pregnancies fail in the first 20 weeks, which means there's still hope. The latest Spears fetus may yet be spared the indignity of being born. Let's all light a little candle, shall we?

After just two months of marriage, Pamela Anderson has filed for divorce from husband number three/celebrity heiress boner Rick Salomon.

Via E!

Or your bodice can be too tight. Or your costume designer can be too cruel. Or your plastic surgeon can be too neglectful. More here.

Matthew McConaughey, televangelist Robert H. Schuller, old people, fireworks, 3,000 mourning mourners and “children’s letters to Evel” sent heavenward tied to balloons (for a fee)…DAMMIT! Aren’t you so depressed that you didn’t get to attend Evel Knievel’s funeral? Couldn't you just blow your brains out, if only those douchebag liberals would allow you easier access to a nice handgun? Me too! But fret no more: Random YouTube searches and clever cullings culled from something called The Montana Standard have come to our collective rescue!

And it begins with a touch of atmosphere:

Light snow fell as mourners began lining up before 7 a.m. waiting for the Civic Center to open. During the nearly three-hour viewing, a steady flow of mourners passed the open casket, which was surrounded by red poinsettias and American flags. Ushers clad in white suits seated people as strains of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” could be heard throughout the Civic Center.

Yes, he actually lay there, really quite dead and rather Irishly open-casketed, as 3,000 weeping Butte-icians or whatever crept by and gaped at him, a la Eva Peron. (Evel-ita! Evel-ita!)

Then we get a little of the MSNBC perspective (beware hidden propaganda!):

Next, we dive head first into frantic celebrity sightings of Matthew McConaughey, who eats his burgers pickely and hot, thanks, dude:

Bill DePell, a server and bartender at the sports bar, told The Montana Standard (that) the actor ordered a Grand Slam, a large hamburger, and added jalapeños and extra pickles. “He said we should make a burger named after him that’s like the one he had.” But McConaughey made his own Atkins diet-friendly modifications to the sandwich…He took off the top bun and pulled all the bread out of (it),” and then returned the hollowed-out slice to the burger. He kept saying ‘No worries’ a lot….he called me dude a couple of times.”

Dude, indeed. And now we finally come to the shakey bootleg of Matthew's speech (keep your shirt on!) which was very...er...uh...yeah. And please to note: He's speaking from the same stage from which I got my high school diploma:

“He's forever in flah-yat nah-yuh…he dudn’t have to come back daay-yown, he dudn’t have to lay-und”, indeed. Matthew McConaughey is, of course, an enormous dork. And sounds an awful lot like Carol Channing, come to think of it.

And then of course, nothing in Butte—and especially no funeral—could ever possibly be complete without exploding things and a ton of honking:

Larry King was rumored to have attended too, but I can’t find any proof. And I didn’t look very hard. But that is the last we’ll probably hear from Evel Knievel. For now. Over.

Touch the sky, you glorious bastard!

Jodie Foster is a great big huge dyke. And she's finally come, as it were, "out". As in "publically". As in "finally".

After guarding her private life fiercely for 15 years, Hollywood actress Jodie Foster has publicly acknowledged her lesbian partner.The Oscar-winning actress thanked "my beautiful Cydney" after winning an award at the Women in Entertainment Power 100 breakfast in Los Angeles. She went on to praise Cydney Bernard, saying the film producer "sticks with me through all the rotten and the bliss".

Rosie is, understandably, furious.

Read the dykey dykey full of it here.

Um....Oprah? Are you listening?

The actor Chris O'Donnell tells the Independent that he gets pegged as a choirboy--hey, whatever works for you, Chris. We just wanna see the video.

Who knew we even had one?

Meet local bloggers-about-town Barbi & Nathaniel Hollywood, a.k.a. NATHARBI:

Serendipity reigns when a dandy meets a quantrelle and a nouveau celebrity couple takes over Seattle.

Likes: cravats, Pigs on Parade, selves.

Dislikes: dead fourteen-year-old hikers, not being dandy.

First, let it be noted that Ellen DeGeneres is the awesomest person on the planet. (WAY better than Oprah and twice as out of the closet.) Secondly please to note, I hate her.

Ellen had Jenna Bush on the show today. (I know.) I suspected something really, really weird was going to happen when I heard that she planned to have her on, and...

Well.

And I was there, man, for the whole thing. In front of my TV. And I saw it all go down. Ellen (that wiley dyke!) poked and pestered Jenna to do what she wanted her to do, and what she wanted her to do was get George and Laura on the damn phone. Just call up mom and dad. Say howdy. Live. On, um, Ellen.

And Jenna did it.

Before proceeding, kindly watch the whole damn thing here.

You see? Why Ellen is, like, SO totally awesome, and exactly why I despise her? Of course you do.

Jenna fucking Bush, why, she was cute as a pickle! "They're going to kill me! " she kept cutely saying. "I'm going to be in so much trouble!" Darling as a tea cozy! Sweeter n’ pineapple poundcake pie! There’s just no getting around it.

And Laura? CHARMING! "I'm just sitting here with daddy!" And even George? CHARMING! "How's my little girl doing?"

Did you hear me? CHARMING!

Kill me now.

And Ellen…Jesus fucking Crackers! What a wasted opportunity! She 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.

Today Ellen DeGeneres brought me the only encounter of any kind with George W. Bush (I stopped calling him “president” ages ago, even in quotes) that did not make every nerve in my body scream “somebody kill it!” and my face snarl up. And I hate her for it.

Indeed, you’re awesome Ellen. But I hate you.

“Chatter” has been received from along the Snohomish County border that Sanjaya Malakar, the infamous ponyhawking A.I. wannababy and the Tiffany of Federal Way, is scheduled and indeed expected to, um, “sing” or whatever in the production of Langston Hughes’ Black Nativity at the Intiman Theatre just next Sunday. Two other American Idol losers you’ve never heard of are expected to join him. Sources at the scene report that while black Joseph and Mary admire Sanjaya's personality and spunk, black baby Jesus said he was “pathetic” and advised him to shoot himself in the face.

Praise the Lord!

Quiet Riot lead singer Kevin Dubrow was found dead this morning in his Las Vegas home. The cause of his death has not yet been determined.

Sources so sourcey I forgot to laugh have reported recently seeing King 5 news monster Jean Enersen possibly (ahem) illegally parked in a reserved handicap space (she does have legs, yes? Has anyone around here seen Jean Enersen's legs? Anybody?), yammering, yammering, yammering on her cell phone. (Or so those sourcey, sourcey sources say.) Frankly, I have no opinion on the matter, but I can assure you that nothing like this has ever happened before.

The good folks at The Smoking Gun explore the dramatically rich story surrounding the restraining order filed by Bill Nye against a woman who may have been his wife for a few minutes. Key components: The Purpose-Driven Life, alleged emotional cruelty, and two bottles of mystery solvent. Enjoy.

Those celebrity caricatures outside City Market loved muchly on Slog? Well, Cain Morehead--City Market's resident artist--sent three of them to us and now they're hanging in The Stranger's office, high above Annie Wagner's cubicle. Check it:

Long live City Market! (Thanks, Cain!)

OMG, OMG, OMG! When I was looking at this, I, like, TOTALLY missed this.

How could I?

Thanks, Slog commenter, Matt.

In other news: Boy George has been charged, and will stand trial, for abducting a Norwegian manhooker. According to the best sources available to source on such short notice, The Boy and some unspecified other guy (who was totally Andrew Ridgley, I just know it), allegedly rendezvoused with the aforementioned Norwegian manhooker, and retired with him to George's London flat. Then the pair promptly chained him to the wall and accosted him with various whips and big floppy dildos. Apparently the manhooker was less than pleased with these arrangements (what did he expect? Crumpets with nuns? I ask you.), for in a flurry of drama and intrepid general gayness, the manhooker broke free from his wall and ran flailing for the police. Which in London are called "bobbies". Which has nothing to do with the absolute fact that Boy George has begun to look exactly like a bald Elizabeth Taylor---and not Young Elizabeth Taylor who could totally pull that shit off, but the crazy-ish 8,000 year old hip-wreck Elizabeth Taylor, who probably actually is bald in real life now, come to think of it. Never mind.

Weird fucking British.

If history teaches us anything at all, and it doesn’t, it’s that Catholic Priests, among all priests, cannot be trusted with three things: cute redheaded boys, the key to the communion wine, and any sort of real authority whatsoever. It is the first of these that concerns us at this juncture, as it has been reported and/or alleged that one Father Ajemian of Boston has developed a psychotic obsession/dirty old man crush on the very redheaded and boyish Conan O’Brien!

A report:

“David Ajemian, a Boston priest, was arrested last week while trying to get into a taping of NBC's "Late Night with Conan O'Brien." Father Ajemian has allegedly been sending the TV host "threatening emails, postcards, and letters" for over a year.”

The big mean priest is allegedly under psychiatric evaluation at this moment, and he faces the very serious charges of aggravated harassment and stalking. Jesus could not be reached for comment. As usual.

I hope Marie is sitting down.

Donny and Marie Osmond's father, George, has died. He was 90. Osmond Snr. passed away at his home in Utah on Tuesday morning...George Osmond married his wife Olive in 1944 and they went on to bear nine children - including sons Alan, Wayne, Merrill, Jay and Donny, who found fame as part of The Osmond Brothers. He is survived by his brood of children. Olive died in 2004.

"Brood", indeed.

Thanks for the obit, Starpulse. I guess.

Yesterday I posted some of Didion's writing about the 1988 writers' strike in Hollywood as a way of providing some perspective on writers' strikes in general and/or jumpstarting a conversation about Didion in general (favorite topic of yours truly). Nevertheless, all that the commenters wanted to talk about were the particulars of the current strike.

So it seems worth mentioning that if for whatever reason you really do care about the strike, you shouldn't be reading Slog. You should be reading Nikki Finke's blog.

It's got everything--the number of writers who were striking on day one, broken down by employer; news about the specific ways celebrities are supporting the writers (Patricia Arquette was delivering Starbucks coffee and pastries to the picketers); the statement of support from Barack Obama (this is "a test of whether media corporations are going to give writers a fair share of the wealth their work creates or continue concentrating profits in the hands of their executives"); a photo of Tina Fey holding a protest sign; anecdotal stuff about what the executives are going through--

I heard from someone who works in Fox Television that the honking horns were driving all the executives crazy. They were screaming in the halls about it, and couldn't get any work done. SO KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!

--and much, much more.

Amy Winehouse and her backup drugs somehow summoned the wherewithal to perform at the "European Music Awards" or whatever last night. (Who knew Europe even HAD music? Or awards? Or that many drugs, for Christ's sake? I ask you.)

Make of her appearance what you will:

Although linguists and various other "ists" have yet to pinpoint exactly what language Miss Winehouse is apparently singing in (right now they are leaning toward "Sheep"), the almost complete lack of obvious blood leakage from any part of her body was a tremendous relief. For everyone.

Bravo!

Or Don’t. You know. Whatever.

Overexposure? Thy name is Britney god damn mother fucking Spears. Every move that the wretched retardate makes is viciously hounded by a gossipy tabloid herd of camera crazed stalkers that reports on her every disastrous gesture. It's horrible. And this rabid state of affairs has sucked each and every succulent drop of sweet nectar from that big rotten fruit we call gossip. It’s just not all that fun anymore, this whole damn Britney thing. And now every time I am forced to mention the accursed word “Spears”, I feel as if I become merely one of many crazed Indians rushing the buffalo that is Britney Spears off the cliff that is her life.

And it’s mostly all my fault. I know. I kind of got this whole ball rolling. I’ve embraced it. I’ve moved on.

Nevertheless, this desperate plea (cleverly disguised as shameless advertising for one of those dubious places called a “rehab”) has appeared in just this morning’s New York Daily News:

For those of you sans microscope, the body reads:

“While the rest of the world is going in and out of rehab, Canterbury Institute has changed the rules of addiction treatment forever.”

Canterbury Institute has a proprietary outpatient medical approach to drug
addiction that makes overnight “residential” 28-day treatment centers
unnecessary.

And etcetera.

This is, of course, pretty much identical to the “Don’t Die Lindsay!” ad that the same rehab ran last month, but while that one seemd like rather sound advice, “Don’t die Britney” sounds more like wishful thinking.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

My Powerbook ™ evaporated my Internet is “down” (fuuuuuuck YOU, COMCAST!), so we have so-called “scads” to cover. I hope you brought a sweater. It’s cold where were going.

God, please forgive me.

Our brave boys undercover have reported that celebrated she-hussy Reese Witherspoon and hopefully gay person Jake Gyllenhaal were spotted and/or seen holding each other’s so-called “hands” and even (innocent children, please! Shield thine eyes!) kissing and giggling and poking at each other inappropriately like the pair of carefree lovers they secretly are as they walked hand-in-hand (as I mentioned) through the twisty and cobbled streets of Rome. And I have comletely just forgotten why this story is relevant to anything or should be even slightly interesting to anyone anywhere, ever. Actually, it all kind of makes me sick. Sorry.

Pressing on…

Everything you’ve heard about the spooky devil worshiper “David Copperfield” is true. And what you’ve heard is that crack agents at the FBI are slowly piecing together a terrible “case” against the dark and wizardly magician for allegedly forcing his unwanted wand upon some protesting fan. The allegedly wanded fan, locally enough, is from Seattle, although the alleged wand-forcing took place elsewhere. (And by “wand” you know I mean “David Copperfield’s huge caramel penis”, right? Just checking.) But the tale gets much, much more twisted.

Sources so sourcey you can hardly tell the difference report that a sticky web of sexual intrigue was what David Copperfield shows were really about, and via a complex, highly technical system of walkie-talkies, secret code words, video cameras, a rather clever ruse and bunch of complicit staff members, David identified “AMHLTFs” (“Audience Members He’d Like to Fuck”), who where then plucked from the audience and profiled by his staff. Allegedly, if approved, the young (or old, you know, whatever) lady was whisked away for a magical broomstick ride, Copperfield-style. The FBI has confiscated everything the magician owns (especially those video cameras and walkie-talkies) looking for “evidence”. Satan, having abandoned his servant to his terrible fate, was dancing in the flames of Southern California, and was unavailable for comment. And I’m leaving out the Seattle “victim’s” name in this case for the sake of discretion. And because she’s my mom.

Where’s your dark God now, Copperfield?

And because it is inevitable, isn’t it: Courtney Love. (Why? WHY?) Well, now she’s been banned forever from (gasp!) Claridges in London, after trashing her room (yawn) and other predictable Courtney-ish shenanigans, and they say she even started a fire in her suite, and I believe it because, fuck. Courtney Love.

Lastly: Britney Spears was seen late last week being wonderful, just wonderful. “My! What a wonderful young lady—and SUCH and great MOTHER!” said Jesus Christ, O.L.A.S. (Our Lord and Savior), who was sandal shopping at Prada when he spotted her. “Why, I’m so glad I died for HER sins…TOTALLY worth it.”

We’re so glad too, Jesus. We’re so glad, too.

That is all.

This is everywhere this morning, and now it's on Slog: Marie Osmond drops dead on Dancing with the Stars.

Okay, she only fainted, but the subject line tells it like it is.

It's close to spooky midnight, and that mysterious thing called Courtney Love has dragged her crack-crispy carcass up from whatever pit in which she lingers to type a Myspace missive---a terrible message!----for us all. Perhaps, indeed, you'll have some luck penetrating The Courtney Code---but take ye heed (heed, I say!), for men have gone mad in the attempt. (Women just get kinda bitchy.) It "reads" as follows:

"i feel a big blog coming on Fashion Week, Being announced as Givenchys muse! getting a house in London AND the Countryside(Cotswalds) and a new house in LA, and goign back to Linda Perry for ONE more song after realising there isnt that ONE other RAWK song needed........itlltake mne about an hour, but i feel like a little tittle about Fashion Rocks , Lachapelles metoric rise in Artworld in just 3 weeks, lotsa stuff Lily Allen and me in a bitchfight in the ladies,,,nah just kidding! band coming over and us having to do extra tracks without Linda like swimming at the deep end, allthat shit! see ya soon! Clove"

“Extra tracks without Linda like swimming”, indeed. Mysterious. Code-y. Courtney!

If you’re like me, a fat Midwestern stay-at-home mom, you depend on the antics of spunky dykes with optimistic attitudes to get you through your drab, suicidal late mornings/early afternoons. And that’s why you love, love, LOVE the Ellen DeGeneres. Love her! And by “you” I mean “me”, and by “me” I mean, MAN! How I love me some Ellen! From the frosted tips of her floppy dishwater bob to the ties on her tennies, every lesbionic inch of her is a Disneyland of delight! If it weren’t for Ellen? Why, I’d have gutted and devoured more than my share of hobos by now, believe you me. And when Ellen gets upset, I get upset. Fortunately for everyone, Ellen never gets upset. That’s her charm. Her appeal. Her cache. That is…it WAS, until earlier this week. But now she’s upset. Very upset. Very, very, very upset. And she’s so upset that she’s canceling tomorrow's show to “take a long weekend,” in a desperate attempt to be un-upset. And now I’m upset. And you’re upset. And everybody’s upset! And why? WHY?

You know damn good and well why. The mean puppy lady.

I admit that when Ellen emerged piggy-eyed and sopping to open her show on Tuesday and launched into a soggy monologue that went a little something like this…

Well, at first, I thought for sure she was going to say something like I HAVE INCURRABLE CANCER of the EVERYTHING! or MY MOM’S HEAD EXPLODED AT BREAKFAST! or I’M ON FIRE! or BUSH HAS CLOSED THE BORDERS AND DECLARED MARTIAL LAW, RUN! or AN A-BOMB is HEADED THIS WAY, DON'T PANNIC, THERE'S NO POINT! but, no. Flipsy the cat hating puppy or whatever has been snatched from the arms of the hairdresser by the mean dog lady, and poor Ellen is SHATTERED. Shattered! And it’s all totally unnecessary, silly even, and it’s all one (if I may say, and I may) misguided, nasty (and Catholic-looking, if you ask me) biznatch's fault.

Puppy saver? Doer of doggie good? Humanitarian? Psh. Anybody who makes Ellen THAT upset HAS to be in league with the ultimate evil. And now Ellen has CANCELLED HER SHOW tomorrow. No fricking puppy, no fricking Ellen, no fricking nothing, cholo.

Our course is clear. This puppy woman must be destroyed. Taken out. Extreme prejudice. Yesterday, if not sooner.

And we’ve been all worried about Iran.

In celebrity news....

Orlando Bloom, probably doing something cute and adorable in Legolas costume, crashed his car

Adrian!'s absence on Slog must be because he valiantly came to Orlando's rescue after the crash. I can only hope he is nursing that poor boy back to health as we speak....

In straight boy news:

Kendra, from The Girls Next Door hotness, is a rapper?!?! Who knew?

And of course, I figure someone better report on Brit Brits "anti-undies" escapades.

NSFW after the jump.....

Cause gawd knows we have never seen it before. Where is Adrian! when we need him? Come out, you Hollywood superhero, and save us from the white whale that is Brit's Vag-Hole.

Continue reading "Crashed Car Can't Stop Hawtness" »

Because Bobby Brown is Bobby Brown and what the hell did you expect him to do, Bobby Brown has categorically denied the heart attack he so totally had just yesterday. Observe:

Bobby Brown’s spokeswoman Paedra Parks said he had suffered a "mild heart attack," but Brown denies the reports, insisting his doctor gave him a "clean bill of health."

"I don't know where the heart attack thing came from. I got my heart and everything checked out earlier this morning, and I'm just fine."

Indeed. And that’s all I’m saying about that, or anything else today. So just lay off, mean people.

It’s just been reported by two great sources that source great together that the tortured, tragic, broken heart of Bobby Brown has finally CRACKED, and he was just rushed madly to an emergency room where it was confirmed that he was suffering from an itsy wee bit of the cardiac arrest.

“It's a serious condition,” reports Bobby’s lawyer. “I'm very concerned about him. But he’s in good spirits…and very happy with the outpouring of calls and messages.”

The publicists in this troubling case are attributing Bobby’s dire straights to “diet and stress”, but the doctors, nurses, janitors and everybody else on the planet are blaming crack and Whitney fucking Houston.

That smell? That clean wintergreen waft that tiptoes upon the breeze, delighting the nose like the pine tree earrings of the Irish scented Angel of Spring? (Hang in there, I haven’t said much this week.) Why, ‘tis dear wee Lindsay Lohan of course, newly douched (as those naughty French say) of all of her nastier and more thrilling habits and just now sprung from that mysterious place they call rehab.

And I know what you’re thinking, and I’ve never agreed with you more: How delightful! How promising! How grand! How quickly will she relapse and crash face first into a sofa-sized pile of cocaine with her legs sprawling in the air like a Chinese contortionist and her panties missing and presumed crammed so deep inside her body cavity that coal miners couldn’t drag them back out?

How terrible of you, to interject that last bit. Be quiet now while I’m typing.

Yes, Lindsay is free at last from her prison of no drugs, and it might shock you to know (or maybe not, you know, whatever) that she has devised clever plans to pack up her septum and her vagina and abscond with them right back to, oh holy fuck, UTAH (where the rehab is), far, far away from those shadowy hills of Hollywood and the myriad naughty vices that lurk therein. Apparently she believes that losing herself in the Mormon wastess will help her remain free of any temptation whatsoever that does not directly involve JC Penny slacks and uncles of marrying age.

“I'm going back to shoot Dare to Love Me, but I plan on returning to Utah so I can stay focused and avoid other distractions,” she said in a recent interview.

So then. Considering these events, and the awesome brainwashing technology weilded by the Mormons, who, like, uh, rule Utah or something, it is not unreasonable to imagine that maybe, just maybe, should you someday soon hear that wee small knock upon your door and peek out to find two Mormon missionaries waiting on your step (they always travel in pairs---more gay sex that way)...well, you might just want to open the door this time. And blast both of those sons-a-bitches in the face with a shotgun full of rock salt and tell ‘em to quit spreading their devil jibber-jabber.

Fucking Mormons.

In other shit: To fill the horrible void left by Miss Lohan (and her septum and her vagina) in the ranks of sloppy drunks, sources so sourcey you can hardly tell the difference report that drinky David Hasselhoff has been once again “hospitalized” (read: chained up like a raving dock whore ), but is, “doing fine and will be back home in the morning"after being treated for alcohol poisoning. The booze reclaims its own!