Scientologists! Every the fuck where! But I don't mind. Why should I? They're a tidy people, good with figures. Keep lovely lawns. And of course they're all batshit, bless their weird little parts. All the best people are. (Is there something slightly batshittier than batshit? Then they would be that. It's a question for philosophers. Or Scientological alien overlords from the mothership.) Like my good and remarkably Scientologist friend Dionne, for instance, an Australian ballet dancer who gives acupuncture to her birds. And Tom Cruise, who showed his penis in All the Right Moves. Of course, he hasn't been my friend since he stank Interview with the Vampire all the fuck up, and I don't care whom he's giving acupuncture to—especially if it's Katie Holmes—and if he's giving it to her to treat those enormous and mysterious sores all over her mouth that I for one would never call herpes, it isn't working. I'm just saying.
"Dear Adrian, I had drinks with Dave Attell. He bought shots for the whole bar, tipped the bartenders and DJs nicely, made lots of jokes, and tried to feel me up... I got too drunk to remember the rest." —Davey's Girl
Dear Davey's Girl, And who the hell is this Katie Holmes person, anyway? I ask you! She just dropped from space like a fucking moon rock. Suddenly, there she is, wall-to-wall like chancred carpet, sopping all the gravy from Tom's manly love biscuit and getting mysteriously sore-ier by the second—and she's all down with the Scientology freak show too! I heard a Scientologist hoodoo doctor of some sort follows her around night and day, trying to transform her into something called a "clear" (perhaps a Valtrex instead? Ask your doctor), as though the Scientologists mandated she must be one if they are going to let her marry their Tom. It's like these people have never heard of the Kabbalah or something! Which I was practicing way before even Madonna, you'll recall. Chokmah, chokmah, chokmah!
Elsewhile: Bob Dylan, who was some sort of old singer from a really long, long time ago (in the Happy Before Time, way pre-Bush), has unfathomably agreed to retail his new CD all over the damn planet exclusively via a certain scary Seattle-based coffee mega-corporation that I am still never going to mention until I see a serious check. Satan was busy gloating over his soul and unable to comment.
In final mystical crap: Nick Carter, who is very blond and allegedly not as gay as he allegedly is allegedly, was just court-ordered to attend some swanky alcohol-abuse treatment program, and to languish there conspicuously un-drunk for a change, which does nothing if not make me want to get shitfaced and fuck a Backstreet Boy in the ass. But doesn't everything these days? Really? ■
