Intriguing. This dream I had. A rather vengeful (yet entirely fuckable) angel descended and whispered a terrible question in my ear. Spaketh He thus: "Listen, babe"--rather vengeful angels always call me "babe"--"when one considers that American Media, Inc. now owns all those Joe Weider fitness publications (Shape, Men's Fitness, and all those other glossy homo spank rags) and the tabloidy National Enquirer and Star et cetera, et cetera, and that the aforementioned National Enquirer and Star et cetera, et cetera, conspicuously seemed to avoid and/or neglect any and every rampant rumor regarding Governor Schwarzenegger's alleged womanhandling until safely after his election, added to the fact that Joe Weider and Arnold are great, longtime friends, well... do you think it's all just some crazy kind of coincidence?"
The intriguing part? This angel looked just like that bald dude who plays Lex Luthor on Smallville--who is, for the record, not a bit cuter than the dude who plays Clark Kent, in any way, shape, or fine fucking form. Swear to God.
And when I woke up, my pillow was missing.
Or maybe I only dreamed that it was a dream.
What were we talking about?
Oh, of course. Courtney. Love. Remember that screeching chat she had with her boyfriend James Barber? She got heave-hoed into the LAPD pig pokey? Well, she allegedly shattered windows, ripping through the screens with her bare nails trying to get whatever her point was across during that conversation. (A friend of mine was there, man.) And when the foolish fuzz freed her to her own recognizative devices? She reportedly OD'ed. And now? She's supposedly resting her press-ons in rehab. Rehabbing, as it were. I told you she might have a problem.
And Ethan Hawke says he cheated on Uma with a 22-year-old model because he somehow got the idea that Uma was screwing Quentin Tarantino, which makes me just want to fucking slap him so hard. Has he ever seen Uma? Does he realize that Quentin's tastes tend toward the Margaret Chos of the world? (According to Margaret Cho.) And did I ever share the really strange conversation I had with Margaret Cho? Not the one in which she bragged about being in her youth somewhat of a shoplifting savant (since she was never arrested, take note please, Winona), but when she longed for a Donald Rumsfeld voodoo doll so she could (of all things) supernaturally acupuncture the baggy, baggy eyebags from his sour, sour puss?
Told you it was a strange conversation.
And did you know that my answer was "Of course not"? Of course you did.
