The granddaughter of the remarkably late Bob Hope is apparently furious with me. I can't elaborate right now. Say nothing. Act casual.

And no, I'm not kidding. I never fucking kid.

Then, suddenly, a fag!: My good friend Ryan Seacrest—for whom "the closet door" is as gossamer as the misty wings of sweaty gay butterflies—would like the world, the international media, and various hangers-on to please note that he's very officially "dating" that skinny broad with the deeply questionable nose job from Desperate Housewives (pick your favorite—seriously, PICK IT!), and he'd appreciate it if we'd kindly therefore infer that he's not as completely fond of butt sex as the universe seems to insist. He remarks, "I think she's great. We can share jeans, it's perfect." Which is as warm a reception as any vagina-having creature will ever wring from the perplexed gay heart of poor Ryan. Publicly speaking. And no, Ryan Seacrest and I aren't good friends. Fags scare me. I was just kidding.

Or was I? I barely know anymore. Fag.

Also, I would like to dedicate the previous report to my fag hags—12 zillion of them—who were all "great." And Desperate Housewives bores my tits off. Can I just get this shit off my chest? Jesus Christ.

Next: It gives parts of me tremendous joy to confirm that the fruity foreigner from That '70s Show (Vilmer Wowedyermamma or whatever) has a great big monster penis. This much has been made fairly obvious by that show's wardrobe department, which favors for him chinos three sizes too small. But what no one suspected is that the throbbing man-missile barely concealed by those pants has both packed the figurative fudge and/or popped the proverbial cherry of the misses Jennifer Love Hewitt and Mandy Moore, and also poked the various whiskers of Ashlee Simpson and/or Lindsay Lohan. He admitted to all these fudge-packey, poke-whiskery shenanigans (and MORE!) recently on the Howard Stern show, which you missed, because that subscription-radio shit just isn't catching on. Word.

Lastly: Apparently Whitney Houston sees demons, as she is fond of pointing at the floor and screeching, "See that demon!?" She thinks these pesky little hellbeasts conspire to make Bobby cheat on her terrifying, crack-fried ass or something. But then, I think that humans are secretly the food-animals of trees, which somehow siphon our nourishing life force from us until we die and become fertilizer, which explains aging, the tremendous lifespan of sneaky, sneaky trees, and why human life expectancy increases exponentially with deforestation. So who's crazier? I ask you.

Or do I?

Send!: adrian@thestranger.com!

PS—I love Danielle Perry!