Just Announced:

DANE COOK

KEYARENA – SEATTLE, WA

Thursday, November 29, 2007

On Sale Friday, October 12 at 10:00 AM

I can't remember the last time a single comedian was booked at KeyArena. Although, George Carlin and David Sedaris are both booked into Benaroya Hall--they probably wouldn't allow a single Dane Cook fan to step foot where the symphony plays. I think he spreads herpes through his words.

A sighting. A very fancy fag. An email. These are the elements which confront us today as one certain Miss Mary wonders, and leads us to wonder, whether it was, or was not. (But she’s pretty sure it probably was.) Observe:

Dear Adrian, I swear I saw Carson from Queer Eye enjoying coffee with a good-looking young man at Presse this morning. I did a triple-take, and it wasn't just a passing similarity. If it wasn't Carson, then it's his gay Seattle doppelganger. Just thought I'd share! --Mary

Dear Mary,
Don’t swear. It’s unattractive in a woman. --Adrian

Then: Britney Spears and Michael Jackson: two twirley white women with a penchant for endangering children? Yes. I bring this up for no particular reason, except perhaps to wonder why, precisely, Britney has had her children ripped screaming from her allegedly unfit arms, while Michael Jackson was allowed to abscond elsewhere with his own with comparatively little fuss, and is dangling them from exotic balconies around the world and presumably not molesting them as we speak. And I’m fairly certain that Michael Jackson has never had a valid driver’s license in any state at all, ever, and as far as I am aware, Britney has never seduced a twelve-year-old. It hardly seems quite fair then, does it? All of this child-taking-away? Of course it doesn’t. Furthermore, as I understand the situation, PETA never tried to strong-arm Michael Jackson into relinquishing a single beast from his huge, infamous and totally insane menagerie of circus creatures---not even that damn monkey—not ever, not once, no matter what the hell he did to his own or somebody else’s children. Not so much luck for poor Britney. Even her poodles are in peril!

A spokesman for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals says the group's president has written an open letter to Kevin Federline encouraging him to pursue custody of Spears' animals. "PETA fears that the dogs may be in danger." He says PETA is particularly concerned about the welfare of her Yorkshire terrier puppy London, which she takes to nightclubs and shopping malls.

What else should be taken from Britney immediately: Sharp objects, household cleaners, matches, prescription drugs and anything that can be tied into a noose.

And did I forget to mention that Nicholas Cage woke earlier this week to find a totally naked and rather nude man wandering around his home? Lucky son of a bitch.

That is all.

I couldn’t post these earlier because I was drunk in a ditch, as usual, so if you’ve seen our first dreadful clip already, which you might have, I do apologize. Or I would, if I ever apologized, which I don’t. So.

The first dreadful clip is a violent and jarring little thing, clipped from some horrible FOX-related awards show, and features a terrible physical assault perpetrated upon some total nobody by Danny Bonaduce (“Bonaduce”, coming to us from the Latin for “fantastic douche”). It proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that there IS actually something uglier than Danny Bonaduce’s outsides, and, ladies and gentlemen, it’s his INSIDES.

I urge you not to watch.

Yeowch. Charges are pending, thank God.

The second dreadful clip is dreadful for obscure reasons, and none of these reasons have much to do with the fact that it features a lonely lovebird masturbating with a toy ball. These reasons do, however, have much to do with said dirty bird being lately quite DEAD.

Allow me to explain:

The short clip features my niece’s pet love bird “Kiwi” doing her birdy little business, and if it looks familiar, that’s because I posted it in July. Shortly thereafter, the odd video (way too dark, and featuring, God forgive me, a snatch of actual COUNTRY MUSIC in the background---I don’t know how it happened, stop looking at me like that) climbed to number 12 as one of the most popular YouTube clips in the “Animals” category for that month. Poor Kiwi was tragically killed earlier this week in events that involved a bath and a startled weinerdog and are best not elaborated upon. So then, en memoriam or whatever, I give you, for the last time, Kiwi’s dirty love dance (please watch it with the volume off)…

Sad, sad, sad.

We missed you.

Photo of Fnarf (c) 2007 John E. Hollingsworth.

(Did you really go to Great Britain for the food? And how did you stay away from the internet while traveling? It's a hard urge to shake.)

Perhaps it was inevitable that an exhibitionist like Chris Crocker would have an exhibitionist past that includes the posting of nude pictures online. Crocker certainly seems to suggest inevitability in a MySpace blog entry he put up last night, writing: "I had a lot of alone time in the last half of my teen years, [I was home schooled] and when you're young self-discovery..happens."

The self-discovery to which he is referring, and which prompted last night's mea culpa, could be found on this blog last week. (But it's not there anymore. Crocker has been trying to get people to take the pictures down, saying they're illegal to possess. He called me last night to say: "Everybody's talking about, 'Oh I saw Chris Crocker naked.' It's nothing to brag about. I'm a minor [in those pictures]. Everyone who's saving it to computers: It's child porn.")

The full MySapce mea culpa, sure to become a document of his generation (or at least of the next 24 hours), includes a public service message and a legal warning:

In regards to my "nudes"..

For days now I have been bombarded with messages about the nude photo scandal. The truth is, I was young and stupid when I took those pictures...

I did in fact upload the nudes of myself to the internet when I was 17. Again, I do NOT condone anyone to do this. On the contrary- I encourage everyone to NOT upload nudes of themselves.

I obviously did this behind my parents backs and I am truly embarressed for myself and my family at this time, but I just wanted to clear the air and let anyone and everyone know, that has saved these pictures that it is illegal seeing as though I was 17 at the time, so when you brag that you "saw Chris Crocker naked!!!"..what you're really bragging that you saw a 17 year old me naked.

Again, I do not condone or stand by my actions at 17, nor anyone else who is underage exploring themselves in this way.

When he called me, Crocker admitted that at this point he's probably not going to be able make the nudes disappear. "It's obviously not like I can zap it from the internet," he told me. But, he added: "It's just not something I want out there... I just don't want people to be under the impression that it's me as an adult when it's not." Still, he seemed somewhat resigned to the pictures being viewed online. "If they want to stare at a 17-year-old cock all day, that's their damage."

(Cross-posted)

It has just been reported by a source so sourcey that I barely dare source it that one certain Mr. Tom Cruise, Alien Queen of Scientological Fembot Brides, is at this very moment building a completely sane ALIEN PROOF BUNKER somewhere in Colorado to protect his brood from the apparently very, very likely alien attack. Or thinks he is.

According to American magazine Star, a source said: "Tom is planning to build a US$10 million bunker under his Telluride estate." "It's a self-contained underground shelter with a high tech air purifying shelter." The facility is said to have enough room for ten people - including wife Katie Holmes, 17-month-old daughter Suri and his adopted children Isabella, 14, and Connor, 12.

There actually was no soup to speak of, so the soup was logically unable to comment on the invisable soup birds.

Bring it ON, alien bitches!

BEEP!

(Thank you for pointing this out, POE.)

Capriciousness is my perdition, it’s true, and goodness knows that I’ve waxed (hard) and on and on about my silly little schoolgirl crushes on, say, Hal Sparks, Seth Green, blah-blah-blah for centuries. And you’ve all been so very patient with me, and I thank you. But you can scrap all that retarded crap.

Today, indeed, is a fresh new day, and I am a fresh new Adrian, and it pleases fresh new parts of me unspeakably to introduce to you my newest and onlyest one true love, the poster boy of everything I want to put in my mouth, my Knight in Shining Please Fuck Me, Bret Harrison, as he appears in some new CW show that I won’t quite admit to watching yet:

Please make a note of it.

Then: Just in time for Thanksgiving, landmass Kirstie Allie has been diagnosed with “Amerexia”. Amerexia is a gastronomic malady singular to Americans that causes its victims to eat and eat and eat compulsively no matter WHAT the fuck they say about “Jenny Craig”, until they finally just blow apart like a busted meat balloon. According to Wikkipeedia, Amerexics are prone to a whole nightmare list of inevitable fatty-fatty-two-by-four type health troubles, including, but not limited to, cardiac arrest, type 3 diabetes, arteriosclerosis, liver implosion, full-body hernia, acute and irreversible spinal compaction, spontaneous pulverization of the knees and hips, permanent neck displasia, acres and acres of exploded 501s, and a distinct inability to get through the kitchen door. Delicious food everywhere is encouraged to stay indoors, and not go out alone after November 20th.

Elsewhile: Ann Coulter, The Most Vile Bitch Ever ™, wants to die, and only an exploding Muslim will do.

"I want a fatwa," Annie said in some snooty sounding thing called British Esquire. "I used to see Salman Rushdie in the Sky Bar in L.A. He wasn't in hiding; he became world-renowned for his fatwa. So why can't I get a fatwa? Don't they read my stuff?"

Osama bin Laden, the ball’s in your court.

In completely unrelated news: A sudden and unprecedented surge in worldwide conversions to radical Islamism or whatever in the last twenty seconds has officials at The Center for the Study and Tracking of Religious Conversions alarmed (“At this rate, we’ll all be ragheads by the end of the week”), and a bunch of Chicano kids is reporting a 3,000% spike in sales of “Celebrity Homes” tourist maps featuring the home address of Ann Coulter.

Lastly: Britney Spears’ bodyguard’s bodyguard accused him of watching Britney take drugs in front of the kids this week in court. “It was disgusting they way he’d watch her take drugs in court, and right on front of the kids!” The custody battle is expected to rage as long as the ratings hold up.

Ladies and gentelmen, a lessong (yes, lessong) in Temporal Quantum Theory from recently re-dressed spangler, Miss Carol Channing...

Science, indeed.

In his newest book “If I Did It Again”, OJ Simpson explains precisely how he WOULD have hypothetically committed armed robbery in Las Vegas last week, had he actually DONE it, which, of course, he says he didn’t. Publisher’s are already raking in big figures on the 26-page, high-color pop-up, and have contracted the huge fucking liar (a filthy murderer who will sizzle like a sausage in hell’s deepest frying pan) to author three more books, “If I Did It Again, Again” and “If I Didn’t Do It, I Fucking Should Have”, and “Did I Do It? I Just Don't Know Anymore!”, which will detail crimes OJ hasn’t denied committing so far to date, and, according to a random spokesperson, “perhaps even a few crimes that haven’t been invented yet.” These crimes may include, but are not limited to, felony mass date rape committed with a stolen vehicle, and impersonating an innocent man. Nicole Brown Simpson’s tortured shade was screaming, screaming, screaming for justice from the horrible limbo in which she lingers, and could not be reached for comment.

Amber Alert! In a completely cra-zazy! scheme to keep custody of her chilens and piss off her skanky ex-husband, Britney Spears suddenly stuffed her two young boys back up into her uterus and is currently holding them hostage there. “Y’all want ‘em? Y’all gonna haveta crawl up there and take ‘em, bitches!”, she said before crossing her legs for the first time in her life. Experts agree that those kids are gonenrs. Strangely, having two good-sized toddlers crammed up inside her body cavity has failed to make her body look any worse. Chris Crocker could not be reached for comment. Thank fucking God.

In an apparently successful attempt to retrieve her recently and mysteriously stolen “Diamond’s are a Girl’s Best Friend” dress, veteran mummy Carol Channing rose from the dead. According to a source: “She was covered in dirt…she was slurring ‘Myyyyyy drrrraaaaaayyyyyesssssssh….I waaaaaant myyyyyyyyyy DRAAAAYYYYYYYESSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!’, and she just sort of slumped off into the night…” Other eyewitnesses report seeing Zombie Carol Channing again just before dawn, apparently returning to her grave and in possession of the missing rhinestone-spangled Bob Mackie gown. “The curse that caused her corpse to rise is clearly graven on her tombstone,” reports a graveside kook. “See these hieroglyphs here, and here? Translated, they say, ‘Screw with Carol Channing and Her Corpse Will Rise from Hell and Fuck You Up Good.’ It’s fairly standard---there’s a similar curse on the grave of Ronald Reagan.” And the thieves? “We think she ate them.”

Finally: Madonna has turned into such a big honkin’ Jew that Iran is amassing its troops along her borders. “What do the Iranian people have to do with Madonna?”, asks the Iranian president or whatever. “Why must she be forced upon us? She is a threat to our way of life, and, uh, Evita never happened anyway! It is a lie concocted by the UN to destroy us!”

If only, Mr. Iranian president or whatever. If only.

Mandy Moore, my bestest new friend in the whole wide fucking world, is right now on The View, and Barbara Walters is trying to make her talk about the alleged "depression" she allegedly has/had that I totally ignored in THIS interview...

Favorite quote so far, "I'm a total hussy, everyone breaks my heart."

Hurry! LOOK NOW!!!

(Did you miss it? You probably missed it. If so, don't wory too much, she's singing after the break.)

Those of you who know me well know that in my deepest and most secret of hearts, Seth Green is my perfect man. Oh yes he his. Actually, he's, like, my totally favoritist person in the whole wide world, and kind of has been since, well, Buffy. I refuse to justify this fact. I shall explain no further.

You might also know that I've finally come clean, just this week in SLOG comments, with the perhaps surprising and rather alarming information that Chris Crocker, for reasons that are nobody's business really, is NOT my favorite person in the whole wide world. Indeed, Is. Not. I refuse to elaborate on this either. I just don’t wanna talk about it. Shut up.

BUT. But. This...

Seth Green Chris Crocker Outtakes

Add to My Profile | More Videos

Well. I'm beside myself. I don't know what to say. But heed me this: the above video fills me with a confusing, uncomfortable jealousy and boiling rage that I cannot explain or begin to understand, and I'm going to kick Chris Crocker's ass. I have no choice. It’s out of my hands. And I don’t know when I’m gonna do it….or where. But I’m gonna do it. DO YOU HEAR ME WORLD? I’M gonna KICK Chris Crocker’s ASS!

KICK IT!

I hear you. And you. (And especially you, Mr. Poe.)

What's happening is this: Slog readers found out about him four months ago. Slog has some serious reach, but it's not infinite reach, and the rest of the world just found out about him in the last 24 hours, via Gawker, Defamer, TMZ, CNN, Howard Stern, possibly The View, etc., etc.

You know why.

So, if I may: Chill. You guys are just ahead of the him-hating curve.

Kathy Griffin, the Rodney Dangerfield of her generation, won an Emmy last night. She failed, however, to thank Jesus--lamb of God, bestower of Emmys, awarded of Super Bowl Rings--and all hell has broken loose.

Comic Kathy Griffin's "offensive" remarks about Jesus at the Creative Arts Emmy Awards will be cut from a pre-taped telecast of the show, the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences said on Tuesday....

"A lot of people come up here and thank Jesus for this award. I want you to know that no one had less to do with this award than Jesus," an exultant Griffin said, holding up her statuette. "Suck it, Jesus. This award is my god now."

Catholic attack dog Bill Donohue soiled himself in reaction to Griffin's remarks, and then issued a statement about how, you know, if Griffith had said "Suck it, Muhammad," the organizers of the Emmy Awards show would have killed her on the spot. Griffin, also a Catholic, refused to apologize, retract her remarks, thank Jesus, or order Muhammed to suck anything.

Griffin's reaction to the imbroglio, according to a statement issued by her publicist: "Am I the only Catholic left with a sense of humor?"

...Chris Crocker, who writes, in the wake his Britney video being one of the most blogged (and on YouTube, currently the single most viewed) of the day:

I was just on CNN.

I'm not surprised. I got emails today from a radio person in Atlanta and a network news person in New York, both wanting me to put them in touch with the young man behind this.

There's a Very Special Celeb-Studded Lineup at Laff Hole this week, so you should probably put on pants and get the shit out of your apartment for once (I'm looking at you, mom).

Humpty Hump of Digital Underground, whom you might know as "the one who said 'just grab 'em in the biscuits,'" will be hosting tomorrow's Hole. Humpty is certainly not to be confused with Shock G, "the one who put the satin on your panties," who will be providing the night's musical entertainment.

LITERALLY anything could happen.
Will Humpty limp to the side like his legs was broken, shakin' and twitchin' kinda like he was smokin'?
Will he use a word that don't mean nothin', like looptid?
WILL A DOODOO CHUMP PUMP POINT A FINGER LIKE A STUMP OR WHATEVER THOSE FUCKING WORDS ARE?

Also on the bill:
The reliably droll Scott Moran, of PROK.
Billionaire spelunker Andy Haynes, who once (back in high school) told me he was going to kill me and wear my skin.
And out-of-town genius Rory Scovel, who has about a million local comics regularly pooping their pants in admiration.

Wednesday, September 12th
Chop Suey
1325 E Madison St
21+, $5
Doors at 9 pm

All are welcome, including but not limited to white people, black people, Puerto Ricans, and Samoans.

Side note #1: One time, a friend and I met Digital Underground at a house party in Seattle. The members of Digital Underground told us, "You look like the kind of girls who like to read books a lot. And watch Sleepless in Seattle." (Guilty!)

Side note #2: While writing this Slog post, I asked a friend, "Is there such a thing as too many Humpty Dance references?" Her answer: "No. Except maybe in wedding vows. Or medical diagnoses."

Ladies, gentlemen, and that INSANE chick from Burien or whatever who totally believes she’s dating him (cookoo, cookoo), I am proud and rather tumescent to report that this…

is coming to America, and it’s bringing those fabulous abs with it. A report:

"Harry Potter" star Daniel Radcliffe has confirmed he'll be stripping for theater audiences in New York after signing on to star in the London transfer of Peter Shaffer's controversial play "Equus."

Indeed. And he’s just 18 now, so. You know what that means...

Right. Now he can legally rent a canoe.

Zzzzzzap!

Researchers at Liverpool John Moores University studied a sample of North American and British rock and pop stars and concluded they are more than twice as likely to die a premature death as ordinary citizens of the same age.

A very Courtney-Loveish message, just for you, courtesy of her Myspace.com blog:

"CRAUGS LIST MOMET I NED TWO DESIGNERS- ANYONE FROPM THE STANFORD DESIGN SCHOOL IS WAY WELCOME-= NBUT AT MAJOR L;ABEL;S WE GET GRAPHIC DESGNERS AND IM FDOIBGTHINGD A LITTLE DIFFERENT- ID LIKE A GRAPHIC DEOGNER TO GO TO ABOUT FONTS AND ICONS AN SYMBOLS AND ETC AND IF LIKE A SESIGN SHCOOL PERSON TO STARTTHINKINGABVOUT EVERYTHING FROM HOWE TO CHALLENGE A CD JEWEL BOX MERCH FROM ROCJ SHOWS YER AVRAGE TSHIRT COTTON PANTIRES THING BOULEVARDIER WILL OPEN AN ACCT NAMED [xxxxxxxxxx]@GMAIL.COM TOMORROW OF HE HASNT ALREADY XSEND ANY INFO THERE OKAY?"

So, please, deogners fropm sesugn shcool with cotton pantires thing boulevardier experience, take heed…Courtney neds you!

There's still been no official confirmation from the Wilson family that Owen Wilson tried to kill himself by taking an overdose of pills and slashing his wrist on Saturday, but the speculation is starting to look horribly accurate.

Late last night, whist you and I dreamed of the no fucking Simpson’s (God damn you, “Teen Choice Awards!”) dark and terrible things were going down in the life and in the stomach of one certain Owen Wilson.

Sources at the source report that at approximately 12:15PM, Mr. Wilson and that strange nose of his were madly rushed to an emergency room for a frantic stomach pumping, as the poor guy seemed to have downed several fist and/or bucketfuls of an unspecified toxic substance (Klonipin? Glue? The sperm of Ryan Seacrest? Speculation is pointless), in a confusing and apparent attempt to end his tragic Owen Wilson-ish life.

The police, who just can’t keep their mouths shut, said,

“Officers from the Santa Monica Police Department responded to a medical assistance call from the Santa Monica Fire Department at the 900 block of 23rd Street. The person was transported to a local hospital where they are being treated."

"The person" was, of course, Owen Wilson, and besides telling us where he lives almost (I’ll be climbing through the window with my designs on the underwear drawer any minute), it tells us almost nothing else. And neither does Owen, who has apparently recuperated enough already at some mysterious facility for the rich and possibly suicidal to release this vague and detail-free "statement":

"I respectfully ask that the media allow me to receive care and heal in private during this difficult time.”

Good luck there, you big drama queen.*

Kate Hudson was busy French-kissing the hell out of some dork in public, and was not available for comment. But of course it's all her fault.

*Also, suicide is a bad thing.

Do you know this man?

Well. I am sitting in my very clean apartment, in my underwear, and it is exactly 1:12PM. I make no excuses for this behavior and I refuse to justify myself; if I have a hankering to sit around my apartment in my underwear all day, godfuckingdammit, indeed I shall do so, and with relish and aplomb.

But forget all that. It isn’t what I want to talk about. There are far, far worse things in the universe than me sitting, merely underweared, until early afternoon, thank you, and, basically, all of those worse things are “GREG BEHRENDT”! And Greg Behrendt (that's his picture up there) is exactly what I’d like to discuss.

O, SWEET JESUS! HOW I HATE HIM! Do you hear me, America? World? Cosmos? Cosmo? Words. Cannot. Express it. And I’m sure you understand.

Wait. What? You don’t? Who is this Greg Behrendt, you ask? Lordy, lordy. Well. Alright. Give me a moment to hack the last steaming chunks of hot vomit that thinking about him inspires from my epiglottis and I shall enlighten you. Ahem. Hem. Hem, hem hem.

Answering the question “who and/or what is Gregg fucking Beherednt”, my darlings, is complicated, and fraught with total ickyness. Let’s begin first by exploring who/what Greg Beherendt isn’t. It’s easiest that way. Trust me.

Greg Behrendt is NOT Bart fucking Simpson. He is not a twenty-year-old sk8er punk living with his band in his parent’s garage. He is not Eddie VanHalen. He is not Tommy Lee. He is not Dave Navarro. He is not hot. He is. Not. Cool. No sir, he is not, he is not, he is NOT.

But that’s far from all Greg Behrendt isn’t.

He is not a psychologist, a psychotherapist, a psychiatrist (much to Tom Cruise’s great relief), nor a counselor of any legitimate sort whatsoever. According to the best of my knowledge and a cursory Googling, his only degree is antiperspirant.

Got all that straight? Fabulous. Now, let’s explore what Greg Behrendt is. Hang in there. This part is much shorter.

Greg Beherendt is a horrid middle-aged (he “just turned 40”, my hairy red tomato!) spiky-haired jackass rockstar wannabe/desperate poseur. In real life he’s some sort of comedian or something, and legend has it he wrote for "Sex and the City". (Did anyone else think Carrie was a whiney self-entitled bitch with unforgivable drama issues? Honestly?) Writing for that show somehow qualified him to author some self-help books that explain to fat chicks why guys never call back, and apparently THAT great achievement has conferred upon him the awesome powers of Dr. Phil, Oprah, Sigmund Freud and Jerry Springer, all rolled up in a studded belt and man-earrings. And broham, he’s here to straighten you out, work on those issues and save your marriage, dude!

YAG.

Greg Beherednt is indeed the host of “The Greg Behrendt Show”, which lamentably airs fresh each day on a network I won’t admit to watching. And I won’t admit to watching it right now, in my underwear, as he attempts, with faux-sincerity oozing from his faux-young-and-hip-dude voice to actually and legitimately psychoanalyze some white trash couple’s dentally-challenged relationship back together or something. (And then maybe he’ll go hit the half pipe, bro’, or kick it at the gym and wail on those abs, man!) His horribleness is entrancing, almost hypnotic, like a murder. And yet, oh my God, how I despise him. And I just really needed the world to know. It makes it all more bearable, somehow. And I thank you.

God, I hate you Greg Behrendt! HATE YOU!

Clay Aiken is not gay, God dammit.

He just seems to have had a terrible stroke of some sort.

Here we go. Please forgive me.

Drew Carey, who is fat and rather hideous, had his stumpy little arms practically chewed off in the righteous maw of a dangerous man-eating Price is Right game of some sort (PLINKO? The little yodeling guy? We'll never know for sure...) as he rehearsed replacing poor old Bob Barker. Experts agree that Mr. Carey totally deserved it, and considering the terrible fact that he was one of the only so-called “celebrities” to perform and/or appear at “president” Bush’s “inaugural” ball or whatever, he should get down on his porky little knees and praise the gods of karma that his face hasn’t been stricken with cancerous maggoty holes and/or he’s not vomiting hot beetles as we speak, as any celebrity and/or person who supported/supports Bush so clearly and truly deserves and should be. (See: Britney Spears.)

It has also been said (and by much wiser men than I) that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt are adopting their six millionth Etheo-Tiwanee-Africo-Whatever orphan, in “secret”, at this very moment. “Look Angie! Our punch card! We get the next one for half price! Let’s pick something in a nice “coffee-n-crème”, like I wanted last time! Oooooh! Madonna’s gonna be so fucking PISSED!” Brad squealed like an excited little girl who has to pee real bad while he and Angie sat waiting in the drive thru to pick up the newest piece of their orphan collection. Angelina’s man-wo’ could not be reached for comment.

Or could he/she?

Paris Hilton has fled her two-gazillion dollar mansion because “Too many people know where I live". Apparently random recognition bothers her. Experts agree that her next desperate move to avoid detection will be to the bottom of the sea, or into the body of Steve Martin.

A ragged old homosexual druggie calling itself George Michael has been seen gardening for the homeless in London. Said gardening was allegedly thrust upon him by the British courts or whatever as antidote to his recent drugging and aging and drugging and aging and aging and aging and driving and drugging and aging, and was not simply a natural manifestation of his huge, huge gayness. Why homeless people in England should have gardens is a question that's truly beyond the scope of this work. Thank you.

Jessica Simpson is also at this moment secretly preparing to adopt a disenfranchised orphan of some sort. “Ohhh! I really want something in a nice “coffee-n’-crème,” she said. "Maybe something found in a DUMPSTER!" In response to this crisis of spoiled Hollywood types turning to orphans instead of small dogs as their accessories of choice, a spokespoodle for the IUPPC (the Internation Union of Poodles, Peekapoos and Chihuahuas) said, “Bark! Bark! Bark, bark, bark, bark!” and puddled on the carpet. Brad and Angie are gonna be so PISSED!

Lindsay Lohan is scrubbing toilets in rehab. This is, of course, totally redundant. These events throw into speculation the actual effectiveness of her latest rehabbing, as redundancy is, of course, a sure sign of drug use. Also, repetitiveness repetitiveness. And repetitiveness.

Lastly: "President" Bush ate another kitten's head.

That is all.

In this strange today of compulsive mommyhood and Goodwill Ambassadoressing, as she drags her endlessly expanding orphan collection from one Bono-related country to the next, I believe that it is crucial that we all, as a nation, pause to consider, to reflect, to remember, and to think about in general the bolder, fierier Angelina Jolie of yesterday; that blade-wielding succubus, that brother-Frenching paradox, that polishing-Billy-Bob’s-knob-in-the-Porche-on-the-way-to-the-Oscars-ing, water-bed-lipped dominatrix who’d jam a pen in her neck before she’d let her friend Winona Ryder (remember her?) get in hot water with mean nurse Whoopie Goldberg. The old Angelina. The fierce and ferocious pre-Brad goddess. Even I fell under the dark power of her throbbing sexual heat, and I’ve got a dick in my mouth as we speak.

So then. To help us remember the Angie of yore, this brave and lovely Asian man-wo’ (pictured below) has stepped forward to share his-and/or-her Jolie-related insights. Allegedly, he-and/or-she dyked-out hardcore with Angelina on a regular basis in the mid 90’s, way before Angie destroyed Jennifer Aniston and started boffing The Brad. This is what she-and/or-he tells us:

“Angelina is an unbelievable lesbian lover. That's where she gets her kicks -- not playing happy family with one man. She loves danger and dabbling in the dark side. Angelina loves women too much. It's like a drug and she was hooked."

Angelina Jolie, hooked on dangerous lesbian sex? Lucky, lucky Brad! (I'm guessing here.)

Winona Ryder, of course, could not be reached for comment. As usual.

A celebrity boxing match between Carrot Top and Henry Rollins needs to happen. Now!

Last night somebody reported here that something called a “Kevin Federline” has made a bold and terrifying litigious move to snatch Britney Spears’ children out of her ever-crazier and unfit grasp, on the basis that she’s a coot-flashing, chain-smoking whore who shall surely end up drowning them in the bath tub so’s they can all to go live happy in heaven with the Jesus Man.

But in a shattering newish development, an explosive and mundo pervy love triangle of Jerry Springer proportions seems to have developed between K-Fed, the Britster and the woman whose wretched womb is responsible for unleashing the horror that is Spear’s upon the universe: Britney’s very own mother (yes, and it seems she actually had one)…LYNN!

Sources that often totally make shit up confirm that Britney had a nuclear-style melt down at dear old muther, accusing her quite candidly of sampling her ex's sausage! “You’re such a filthy backstabbing bitch, that you’re no doubt fucking my ex husband just to bug me!!!” or something is almost exactly like what Britney actually said to her poor mother about the situation. Exactly just how accurate these accusations are is a matter for the courts, Britney’s future team of psychiatrists, the CDC and TMZ to decide, but frankly it doesn't look good, for there is already a hit song about the sick and alleged affair. Britney’s mother’s mouth is full of K-Fed’s rancid sperm just now, and she is unable to comment at this juncture. Updates after the swallow.

Tonight the ’08 presidential so-called “hopefuls” or whatever (who will all be shot dead in the upcoming Bush takeover, mark my words) will all gather like a flock of old hens to debate that most divisive of issues, The Gays. Gayness. Fudgepackery. Homosexing. Indeed.

It might seem a bit out of character for such a rouser of the rabble as I, but fuck you. I rather Zenly encourage all of you—gay, filthy breeder, two-spirit, whatever--- to ignore these alleged gay “debates” entirely. ENTIRELY! Go fly a kite, watch the sun set, bang your two-spirit’s manpussy. Get out there and enjoy some global warming. Me? I plan to do all four. Right after I write this. If you don’t fly kites or have easy access to two-spirit manpussy, you can read it instead. It’s win-win!

So then. I’m twisted and conflicted to report that dark and terrible things have been going down in the world of celebrite. Let’s touch upon a few. Don’t worry. I'm wearing gloves.

And so it begins.

Terrible Happening The First: Whitney Houston celebrated her 444th birthday early this week by aging hard and fast. In some unfathomable moment of weakness, complete insanity, and/or the bad crack, the ever-screeching freak also reconciled with she baby daddy and world famous paranoid schizophrenic, Bobby B., and they spent a magical evening ducking private eyes and federal agents looking to collect on trillions of dollars in back-due child support. Osama bin Laden is, understandably, furious.

Terrible Happening The Second: Something called a Spice Girl has secretly married her secret boyfriend in a secret wedding ceremony in Las Vegas, which is tacky, right after not secretly insisting to the universe that she Eddie Murphie baby mamma, and that he should give her tonney money. Apparently, she’s just a huge slut.

Terrible Happening The Third: Tori Spelling, whose poor face seems be slowly breaking into continents that are drifting apart (oh! And who’s allegedly just been ordained a minister of some sort! A MINISTER!) is pregnant for the second time, having just recently given birth to a horrifying monster called Cthulhu. And I know. I was fucking THERE, man.

Terrible Happening The Fourth: Some horrible thing called a K-Fed (I think it’s a sort of overnight shipping franchise) has finally had the good sense to file an official looking court order to take custody of Britney Spears’ apparently endangered chillens! “She chain smokes in front of them, tells them that cigarettes are “candy”, feeds them bags of sugar, tries to bribe her dentist to whiten their rotten teeth, drops them, and drives possibly drunk with them sitting unbuckled on her ever-widening lap. Also, she’s a snatch-flashing spermbag who trusts George Bush,” a source that can’t be trusted and which is totally me reports. Disturbing.

Well, that’s it kids. I hope it's enough to hold you through the, ahem, “debates”. If not, I, acting as official Grand Wizard of the SKK (The Stranger Klux Klan), give you this hysterical and distracting little piece of advice, below. And yes, I’m a huge fucking racist. Embrace it. And hopefully next election everyone will have the good sense to lay off the fags and go after the fat chicks---the true enemies of democracy. Enjoy.

Not that I follow the footballs (perish the notion--PERISH IT!), but do you remember that one big jerk, Alex Rodriguez or whatever? The shortstop who-looks-more-like-a-catcher (that's just a sad grasp at a very lame gay inside joke--please ignore it) about whom it is said--by those who actually give two shits about such things, of course--that he abandoned our Mariners or whatever here in Seattle, and that Seattle, bitch that she is, will never, ever forgive his hot Dominican ass for it? Remember? REMEMBER?

Neither. DO. I.

But check out A-Rod's hot new girlfriend anyhow…

Aww! Aren't they adorable? Could this be the beginning of "Day-Rod"? "Gayvid-Rodham"? "Gay-Wad"?

Oh, God. I'd give anything. Anything.

Thanx, TMZ.com.

Last week somebody reported the horrible, horrible news that Reese Witherspoon had, through diabolical means no doubt, somehow enslaved the mind of Jake Gyllenhaal, and now he thinks he’s dating her. And me? I was pretty darn pissed. Sure and youbetcha.

Well.

Now it is reported that the evil two-timing bag of sperm has been seen lunching and eating and having lunch and generally getting along really too, too well with her bitter, bitter ex, the equally gay and scrumptious Ryan Phillipe! (The father of her children! The WHORE!) An evil source reports:

"Reese and Ryan are trying to work it out. They are still close."

But…but….butt….what about poor darling Jake? There’s been nary a word from his camp, as he’s been sucking my dick and finds it particularly difficult to comment on the situaion just now. Ahem.

Miss Witherspoon, you have incurred my terrible wrath. Despair!

Sources far too terrible to fathom have reported that some evil slut calling itself Reese Whitherspoon has risen from hell and is somehow forcing my future husband Jake Gyllenhaal to date her. Roofies? Hypnotism? Witchcraft? Yes.

First it was Ryan Phillipe, and now this. This agression against The Gays cannot stand.

Okay, gays. You know your duty. GET HER!

This just in from Hot Tipper Sarah Jane:

I just spotted Mel Brooks lookin' real cute at Victrola Pike Street. He drank cappucinos, ate a chocolate croissant, then waved goodbye to everyone in the coffeeshop. Too cute!

Clearly Mr. Brooks is in town to check in on this. Thanks to Sarah Jane for the report.

Erik Estrada signs autographs on a trash can. The wait was at least an hour.

Attention! This is not a drill! Nor an excercise! Nor, as I said, a drill!

Sources somewhat official have reported that Britney Spears and Kev...uh...Fed-something-something (just call him "Sperm Donor") have, as of this very moment, DIVORCED. Yes, divorced! This information will of course come as terrible shock to the zillions like me who thought they had already accomplished that shit about a hundred thousand years ago.

Please! Try to remain calm!

Oh, it would have been so lovely! Magnificent, really! Grand! Alas…

Last week I reported the deeply disturbing encrypted messages that a certain Courtney Love was sending to…someone…via her newish Myspace blog thingy. Indeed, I had grandiose plans to update you on her mad and random and indecipherable bloggings as they occurred. But the clever, clever Courtney beast (damn her! Do you hear me? Damn her!) has thwarted my will completely. I tip my hat. Or I would if I wore one. Which I don't.

Hats are gay.

Indeed, in a Machiavellian maneuver worthy of the woman who possibly one-upped even OJ, she has limited her blog access to, um, FRIENDS ONLY (ahem), and, well, let’s be frank, she’s not my friend. Indeed, no, not at all. So in effect, she's locked me out. Utterly. And there's nothing I can do about it. Except maybe exhort others who actually ARE her, excuse me, "friends", to cut and paste her entries as they occur into an email and send them to me at adrian@thestranger.com, of course. But I'd never be so fucking crass.

Ahem.

Pretty please?

Touché, you dizzy bitch!

Take it away, Inside Edition:

Lindsay Lohan reportedly has an explanation for the cocaine in her pocket--the star says she was wearing someone else's pants.

This one's for you, Lindsay, published in The Stranger five years ago today:

Hey! Were you guys at Laff Hole last night, as per Brendan Kiley's demands? Did you get all your holes properly stuffed full of laffs?

Well, I sure did. It was fucking awesome.

Despite the obvious undercurrent of heartbreak brought on by Hari Kondabolu's departure, this was one of the best Laff Holes I've ever been to. It was packed, you were drunk, everyone was funny.

I could never say enough good things about Hari, who--in addition to being an excellent pal, a highly principled smartypants, and the opposite of a jerk in every way--was instrumental in bringing the Seattle scene to its current kickass funtime state. Now he's moving to London to become a genius (like we need one more of those). And you should all be fucking bummed. I am.

By the way, if any of you have never seen David Cope do comedy before (I hadn't), you should. He fucking killed it last night with this video. Watch it. The video is on Myspace, not Youtube, so I don't know how to embed it, but let's just say that the Myspace kids rated it "93% Booyah!" (Furthermore, Ari Spool, in a private communique which I will now make public, called David Cope "seriously the funniest guy in the city and totally going to take Hari's place on the Seattle comedy throne.")

Emmett Montgomery assured me that next week's Laff Hole is going to be "ambitious" and then some really positive adjective that I forgot. Anyway, I'd go to it if I were you.

Gooo comedy!

During a concert Tuesday night in Orlando, Beyonce followed a stint of ferocious, hair-whipping dance with a face-first plunge down some stairs.

It was an amazing tumble, as those of us lucky to see yesterday's YouTube footage can attest. Minutes after watching the video, I tried to post in on Slog—but it had been suddenly removed and seems to be gone for good, which is a shame, as nothing humanizes a glamorous, freakishly beautiful superstar like a face-first tumble down some stairs, and Beyonce's post-tumble recovery (she popped right back up and kept on dancing) was the most impressive thing I've ever seen her do.

But apparently, Beyonce (or perhaps Jay-Z) is so powerful she can tell YouTube what to do....UPDATE! Tireless Slog commenter Mr. Poe directed me to still-active YouTube footage of the tumble, which you can enjoy (for now) below.

If so, Tandi Iman Dupree totally deserves it.

(Thank you, MetaFilter.)

Our very own Old Widow Cobain (if I might dust off that old chestnut) has unleashed her rather horrible self upon the wide, wide world of blog, and the CIA and Homeland Security or whatever should be quite concerned, as she seems to be sending secret messages to persons dubious and unknown (and possibly terroristic) in some kind of ingeniously indecipherable code. To complicate matters, she seems to be typing with her ass. A particularly puzzling and disturbing recent example:

ut up z demo of demo iof demo of carcrash we habve about 4 other songs too, and id like to get opinions on them sopme of them. i need to write another dylanney one rexcept i just found otu my fat fighters mafrtin got stolen on the chunneltrain and thats why i got that new gibson for my bday but i need it nd its nowehr eint hehosue the only guitar is kurts ild one with strings i havent changed in teh 12 years sinc ehes passsed, and its hrd to play too.

Indeed. Linguistics experts with magic rings over at TMZ have been working desperately to decode her messages, and have had some success with the following post, in which they say she seems to either be dimly recognizing her own innate horribleness, lamenting her face, and devising crackpotted plans to fix it somehow, or sending her famous chicken and dumplings recipe to Osama bin Laden...

my mouth still looks wonky, i think i gott go back to paris tot he dr, hes nit a cosmetic surgeon he just fixes bad surgery ... this really isnt znyones business but im hating that id di that to my mouth back in the day ... i just wnt the mouth god gave me back.

We may never know for sure. Never.

There were 123 contenders for the glory. This year's winner "shares Hemingway's fondness for Key West, cats and having a good time, though he has never attempted any writing--except insurance policies." His favorite book of Hemingway's is The Old Man and the Sea. (Wrong answer!) Plus, does he look a little chipper to you? A little too Christmas-y? Those cheeks?

All I'm saying is, this guy was robbed: