I fucking love Courtney Love so fucking much I could crap your pants. Everyone's pants. And the fabulous fact that, according to VH1, she busted her "please, Mr. Judge, let me keep my baby" ass out of detox last week to go fucking clubbing (Club Tangiers, and the Derby in L.A., if you must know)--and that, upon completion of said clubbing, she reportedly cried, "Get me back to rehab!" to her driver in a most cavalier fashion--may or may not have anything to do with the possibility that I secretly always have. Loved her, I mean. Courtney. I think. I'm very confused right now.
Party on, you dumb bitch.
And you've heard all about Bobby Brown allegedly smacking up on Whitney, yes? I thought so. Charged with one count of misdemeanor battery. Mr. and Mrs. Houston reportedly left the court hearing with their arms around each other, however, while Whitney reassured the anxious world, "We're still together!"
And did you know that my good friend Princess Timber-lake absolutely refuses to discuss Britney Spears, Cameron Diaz, Michael Jackson (for some odd reason), Eminem (for some odd reason), Iraq, and President George Jr. (what in the name of bleeding Whitney do any of these things have in common, anyway?) in interviews? Swear to biscuits. Radio stations have pulled interviews with him because of it.
Yes, radio stations.
And I heard rumors that Michael Jackson's parents plan to adopt his three kids if, well, you know, jail and all that; that Elijah Wood, Billy Boyd, and Dominic Monaghan are planning to buy a house together but still aren't gigantic fruits, dammit; and that Tommy Lee and Pink were spotted making out again (yawn) at a predictably packed nightclub (the Lotus, NYC), disappearing later to the loo to engage in some allegedly simulated sex in front of a tasteful urinal. And, oh God, I just know Bobby Brown is going to hunt my ass down for that Mr. and Mrs. Houston crack. Hold me.
