Kathryn Rathke

Stumble out of bed? Stumble to the kitchen? Something-something-something, cup of ambition?

Indeed.

The apparently not unforgettable lyrics to "9 to 5." Let us consider them. They do bear tremendous consideration, don't they? Of course they do. I am quite proud to say that I know every single one of those lyrics—and in the right order, too. Also, I know all the pesky little notes that go along with them. The film 9 to 5 is, as you know, the 116th-best movie ever (up there with Pee Wee's Big Adventure and The Incredible Shrinking Woman), and Dolly Parton, the star and official songstress of 9 to 5, is a Living Saint. Never mind that she has just lately begun to resemble the Crypt Keeper's mother-in-law's turkey-jerky handbag in a wig; she's like 127, and she's STILL a living saint. The point is, Jessica Simpson is a retarded douchebag. Thank you.

Elsewhere: George Clooney sleeps with pigs. And not metaphoric pigs, like Paris Hilton or Republicans—real, honest-to-bacon P-I-G-S pigs. More precisely, George Clooney sleeps with a pig... singular. Even more more precisely, George Clooney slept with a singular pig, as that pig has just lately up and dropped piggishly dead—an event that I'm sure tossed quite a wrench in George Clooney's pig-sleeping-with lifestyle. But George Clooney slept with said singular dead pig for a long, long time before said pig finally died—and perhaps even a little while after? Who knows. I don't see much difference between sleeping with a dead pig and sleeping with a live one. Sexiest man alive, my rosy-red ass tonsils.

And please, Dolly! Forgive me for comparing you to a turkey-jerky handbag! I was insane. I love you so much it hurts sometimes.

Then this: Phylicia Rashad was Mrs. fucking Huxtable. Remember? The Cosby Show? Right. Well, once she gave me a dozen red roses. I refuse to reveal what peculiar convergence of circumstances could possibly have led to such a thing, but I will say this: I dried those roses, and kept them, and they sit in a vase on my china hutch to this very day. (I am a hutcher. I do indeed hutch.) I will say this, too: I found out later that Ahmad Rashad, Phylicia's real-life husband, had gifted those same roses to her first, so: Mrs. fucking Huxtable is a rose-regifter. ROSE-REGIFTER! And she's in town to direct some play at the Rep, so it's all magically pertinent somehow. Trip out on that shit.

In recent news that hasn't happened yet but will: Britney Spears was photographed trying to smoke crack out of her infant son's asshole while driving with her feet and tweezing her coot. Wait for it....

Send! Adrian@adrianryan.com.