Paul McCartney is caught in the grasp of the terrible new madness forcing fading stars to author children's books. Therefore, he just appeared at Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park to pass out pre-signed copies of his latest literary work for kids to a mob of pre-paid middle-aged people and Eddie Vedder. The book is called High in the Clouds, and the irony is lost on no one.

As many have feared for thousands of years, Madonna is secretly a genuine transvestite. The host of something called the "MTV Europe Music Awards" accidentally let the big secret cat out of the pussy bag after Madonna performed the opening act, when he admitted, "It was very courageous of MTV to start the show with a genuine transvestite." Just like I just said or something. And I agree. Hooray MTV Europe!

Just kidding. Fuck MTV Europe.

"Dear Adrian: Okay, okay, so like, Lance Armstrong and his girlfriend or whatever Sheryl Crow were in town. And like, they bought some local artist's work. (A Patrick Holderfield?) He works at the um, Frye I think. Museum. Yep. —Cait"

Dear Cait: Goddamn, I hate those fucking yellow wristbands. I hate them SO MUCH. Fuck.

"Hi Adrian: Regarding Mr. Sulu coming out, I was expecting jokes along the lines of: (1) He is like any Star Trek geek, he has never had sex with a woman. (2) Set phasers on "stunning." Anyway, have a terrific day. —Jeff"

Dear Jeff, If you ever write to me again, I'll kill you.

In even more horrible sins against God: Vincent Gallo is trying to peddle his wretched sperm on the internet for $1 million. That pricey tag includes merely the glittering jizz—should one hanker for en vivo fertilization, add another $500,000, and he'll haul his freaky, probably-a-psycho-killer (and definitely a Republican) ass to wherever you are and pop one into you personally. (Women only, please.) This is not a joke. This is not a drill. Run. Scream. Vomit with soul-wrenching violence. Etc. Thank you.

Speaking of that: Legend has it that the heat and dust and various other deserty minutiae involved in the shooting of his new war movie drove Jake Gyllenhaal temporarily batshit. In a rare flare of rage and insanity he snapped, they say, and launched an outburst of furious fists at a costar's face, kicking said costar's ass thoroughly, and rousing murky yearnings deep in my loins that I cannot fathom nor explain. I'm sure you understand.

SEND! adrian@thestranger.com.