It's an impossible lie that Tom Cruise and that Penelope woman who isn't and never will be Nicole Kidman have at last broken up, dammit, for as we all know, and we don't, some or all of the parties involved are secretly The GAY. But we shouldn't delve too deeply into the issue here, for Tom gets suey when he's emotional. Or buys homeless people camping gear. It's confusing.
I allowed myself to be dragged at last, wretched and screaming, to suffer through each eternally damned moment of The Passion of That Christ Fellow or what have you, and now suddenly I can get married in Oregon. God bless you, Mel Gibson. God bless you.
I'll be picking which of my South American buttboys to naturalize momentarily. The Age of Miracles past? I ask you.
Vote for Oprah.
Dave Matthews was still not seen doing anything anywhere even near Seattle this week. Neither was anyone else. Strange.
But have you heard about the guy who bought a bunch of old junk sight unseen from a storage unit that once belonged to freaking Michael Jackson and is now apparently ready to expose exactly what pre-verted sex toys (or whatever) he has subsequently discovered therein? Nor have I. But I heard that no one's saying anything about the dead transvestite's head they haven't found in the Mason jar, because it's time to put the lotion in the basket. Or, you know, perhaps not. It gets the hose again. Apparently.
Michael Jackson is so silly.
And maybe Bobby Brown has stopped crying for a moment, for he is free at last after spending only one hand-slappy night up the river, where he was sent for failing to pay child support to one or more mothers of one or more little bastard Browns. Inside sources report, however, that Bobby's recent and widely televised blubberings were due to emotional stress caused by the sad, sad death of Spalding Gray (his childhood hero), not jail time, poverty, fled fame, or smacking Whitney Houston in the face. Really.
And the world may or may not rejoice to hear that Britney Spears has gotten so damn fat that she's had to have the extra tonnage shaved via airbrush from her world-tour posters; or to hear that Sting and his wife have recently admitted to indulging in humid bisexual orgies at mysterious sex clubs (speaking of Tom and Nicole...) because they almost immediately unadmitted it. But at least one thing's for certain--there's nothing about Courtney Love here this week.
Rejoice.
