Saggy Jalopies
In a refreshing move to recontextualize her artistic proclivities, Courtney Love utterly failed to suddenly unleash her wan yet pendulous titties upon any unsuspecting persons or groups of people this week. (Apparently. If she did flash those depressing cantaloupes, it failed to make Inside Edition. Which I never watch.) Bare boobs or no, however, Courtney Love is still a genius. She has to be. Otherwise Kurt died in vain, damn it.
In firmer boobs: Desperate Housewives, which I also never watch, has still somehow (miraculously!) managed to snag the attention (and sincere affection) of my loins with copious shirtless plumbers and whorish teenage gardeners with bounce-a-quarter-off-this asses. Apropos of this, imagine my loin's quivering twitterpation in response to reports that the cast includes a bona fide homo, whose public coming-out has been conveniently scheduled to coincide with sweeps week. Conversely, imagine my loin's crushing disappointment when they further discovered that the currently closeted queer in question is neither plumber nor gardener, but of more vaginal stuff: a lesbian. Yes, a lesbian. Again, imagine my loin's crushing disappointment.
Imagine it!
Pushing along: Madonna (who was also sort of a lesbian once--it's in the history books) has completely stopped calling and writing her brothers and sisters--and even that Debi person, her old friend and personal assistant who was always lingering in the background of Truth or Dare--because they all flat out refused to convert to that Kabbalah or whatever the hell they call that freaky Hebrew juju with the expensive water. It's all Scientologists in yarmulkes, if you ask me.
In Michael Jackson news: nothing. We'll have no more of that nonsense around here.
In recent and ever-less pertinent Britney Spears news: even more fat.
"Dear Adrian, Just to let you know, Talk Soup was on E!, not Comedy Central." --James C.
"Dear James C., Indeed. And when that rich dude bought my column at auction for charity or something two weeks ago and I was charity-bound to write about nothing but his narcissistic ass that week, I called him a male Angelique. I clearly meant male Angelyne, the freakish, platinum blond, mostly silicon-based attention hog who's famous for nothing more than plastering her own bulbous and peroxided self upon enormous billboards from one end of Los Angeles to the other, but you don't hear anyone else complaining. Thanks for reading." --Adrian
Finally: Did I mention that Courtney Love didn't flash her saggy jalopies at anyone this week? Oh. Fine, then.
Send! adrian@thestranger.com
