The narcoleptic stink of Oscar wafts thicker upon the breeze--this year's Grammys lies putridly dead and buried. Let's talk of livelier things.
"Adrian, Am I the first to note that Lauren Tewes, the former Julie of Love Boat fame, is working in the cheese section at the Capitol Hill QFC?" --Regards, Mimi
Dear Regards, Mimi, Yes. You indeed seem to be the first person to notice that Julie from the fucking Love Boat is cutting cheese at QFC. I am unable to visually or otherwise confirm your alarmingly not entirely unlikely report, however, as I assume you are referring to the QFC that ate the Broadway Market, a behemoth hellpit of grocery loathsomeness that I hate and resent and wouldn't enter again under armed duress, let alone to linger and peruse its cheese people. --Adrian
Speaking of supermarkets: Originally some rambling garbage about Leonardo DiCaprio waiting in a grocery line to purchase his evening truckloads of pie and not being recognized by some fat chick in front of him was reported here, but someone called "TeeDee" piped up last minute to report that consummate boylover Mary Kay Letourneau is, yes, marrying that Vili Fualaau person she seems to be so overfond of (I don't see it) on April 16, and they have registered at Bon-Macy's. Gift options include a Villeroy & Boch Twist Alea Limone Coffee Pot going for a cheap and pedophiliac $32.50.
Indeed. And it's a terrible day for America when some fat chick doesn't recognize Leonardo DiCaprio in a grocery store. And I'm so sorry I just said "fat chick." Like three times now.
No I'm not. But in retrospect, I'm beginning to doubt that the childhood relationship I shared with Corey Feldman was as platonic as I'd always remembered.
In possibly less schizophrenic ramblings: The only thing worse than fat chicks is pussy-lipped Nick Lachey, bad singer and apple-cheeked fauxmosexual. When Nick isn't waxing his lips, fussing with poodles, or generally being the most odious ponce between two earrings, he occupies himself by (apparently) attempting to screw a certain mysterious blond woman at a recent Super Bowl party who (surprise!) turned out to be an unamused journalist from the New York Daily News. She subsequently threatened to publish the horny fauxmo's personal cell number unless he confesses the attempted infidelity. Pussy-lips himself denies it all. Mrs. Pussy-lips is a vapid retardate, and probably can't spell "cheat." The poodle couldn't be reached for comment.
Lastly: Seattle newscasters. We haven't ignored them nearly enough. But send me your vote for most fuckworthy local newsmonkey (and pursuant sordid details) anyway, now. Now! NOW!