Hello, and welcome to our first column of The Stranger's new-redesign era. Like most people, Last Days is morbidly afraid of change, and so spent the past week hiding on the Oregon coast with a stack of convenience-store magazines, which will serve as the source of all this week's "news." Enjoy!

MONDAY, AUGUST 6 Last Days' annual Convenience-Store Magazine Week™ kicks off with a big, fat O—specifically, the hefty August issue of The Oprah Magazine, the scriptural component of the Winfrey International Ministry, for which Our Lady of Everyday Epiphanies and Healthy Self-Esteem serves as patron saint and perpetual cover model. Like The Oprah Winfrey Show, O: The Oprah Magazine is devoted entirely to stuff Oprah Winfrey is interested in; lucky for all, Winfrey is usually interested in interesting things, with every bullshit obsession (the psychotically insipid self-help of The Secret) offset by some eminently worthy endeavor (her post-Imus hiphop summit featuring Russell Simmons, Stanley Crouch, and Common) and spiked with some truly bizarre shit (her extensive discussions with Dr. Amos Oz about the shape of her poo). Oprah's patented balance of the sacred, profane, and ridiculous is on full display in her namesake magazine, which this month features "What Your Hair Says About You," a collection of follicle-obsessed essays by O staffers, and an extensive photo essay featuring the pretty-like-a-deer Angie Harmon styled à la Love Story's Ali MacGraw. Quintessential offering: Oprah's issue-ending column, "What I Know for Sure," which this month finds Winfrey mourning the abrupt passing of her golden retriever Gracie, whose fatal choking on a rubber ball is interpreted by Oprah as an angelic lesson on the importance of taking time for one's self. "I don't believe in accidents," writes the childhood-sexual-abuse-surviving billionaire. "I know for sure that everything in life happens to help us live."

TUESDAY, AUGUST 7 From O's empathetic ocean of estrogen we climb onto the testosterone-soaked terrain of Rolling Stone, the never-say-die rock mag whose latest issue commemorates the 20th anniversary of Guns N' Roses' landmark debut, Appetite for Destruction. Unleashed on the world in 1987—the same year that brought us The Joshua Tree, Sign o' the Times, Sinéad O'Connor's The Lion and the Cobra, and Public Enemy's Yo! Bum Rush the Show—GNR's debut is artistically inferior to all but the first. But Appetite remains the popular favorite, thanks to the band's explosive chemistry and the album's inclusion of two of the most amazing rock songs ever recorded: "Welcome to the Jungle" and "Sweet Child O' Mine," which will remain on humanity's hit parade for as long as white people have ears. That said, Rolling Stone's arbitrary anniversary bash for Appetite is primarily a smoke screen for the follow-up article on Velvet Revolver, the successful band of Guns N' Roses refugees that Rolling Stone can't ignore but clearly didn't want on its cover. (Would you want Scott Weiland on your face?) Still, Rolling Stone's historical appreciation of Appetite for Destruction wasn't without its trashy delights: Did you know that the female sex moans heard during "Rocket Queen" came from drummer Steven Adler's girlfriend—while she was being fucked by Adler's friend and bandmate Axl Rose on the floor of the studio? ("I ended up drinking and using drugs over that for a really long time," says moaning cuckoldress Adriana Smith to RS's Brian Hiatt. "Because I had this extreme shame and guilt and stuff.") And did you know that in 1986, Axl had weird, fungus-y hair on his butt, which is featured in disturbing detail on page 55? As Nicole Richie said after eating: "Blet."

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8 The week continues with the Weekly World News, the not-long-for-this-world supermarket tabloid eulogized by Last Days two weeks ago, whose latest (last?) issue we found at a southern Washington gas station. Despite its impending death, "The World's Only Reliable Newspaper" is still kicking, offering up a delightful parade of ridiculous bullshit, from "President and Vice Pres to Change Their Names!" (in the spirit of "Brangelina," Bush and Cheney hope to soften their images by becoming "Buney") to "Ghosts Are Tired of Looking Drab! Meet the Metrospectrals." But Best in Show honors must be shared by a pair of dazzling beasts: Lester the Typing Horse, who answers medical questions in his column Horse Sense ("Once a sideshow attraction, he's now the nation's leading wellness expert!"), and Sammy the Chatting Chimp, who offers "astute accounting advice" in his column Monkey Business ("The best advice this side of the jungle!"). Don't go, WWN.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 9 We interrupt Magazine Week to bring you a story from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, which today reported on what history will remember as the Great Karaoke Attack of 2007. The place: Changes in Wallingford, where just after 1:00 a.m., a man took the stage at the neighborhood gay bar to sing a karaoke rendition of Coldplay's "Yellow." The problem: The 21-year-old woman—described by police as "a little hippie girl"—who reportedly responded to the man's choice of song by attacking him. "Oh, no, not that song! I can't stand that song!" screamed the young woman as she jumped on the stage and punched the singer. "It took three or four of us to hold her down," said Robert Willmette, one of the bartenders who hauled the young woman outside, where she reportedly went even crazier, twice punching Willmette in the face. The arrival of police only inflamed the Coldplay-hating hippie girl further: After being tackled by cops, the unnamed 21-year-old managed to head-butt one of the officers several times before she was placed in handcuffs and booked into King County Jail for investigation of assault.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 10 Nothing happened today, unless you count the extravagantly dramatic unraveling of Britney Spears, the Mouseketeer turned porny pop princess turned tabloid freak show, whose desperately alarming recent behavior earns her the cover of the most recent Us Weekly. Among Britney's latest alleged misdeeds: the placement of soda in her children's baby bottles, attempts to get her malnourished children's beige teeth professionally whitened, and an ongoing cycle of erratic and irresponsible behavior, positing Britney as a would-be manic-depressive with substance-abuse issues. Throwing virgins into volcanoes has entertained the masses for centuries, but sacrificing Britney Spears is like executing the retarded, and humanity is forbidden to stand by and gawk while she dies. Anna Nicole was a gimme. But God help us if we let another functionally retarded star kill herself.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 11 As readers are aware, Last Days loves the arts. So it was with great pleasure that we encountered not one or two, but three offers of one-of-a-kind ceramic figurines in the gossip tabloid The Globe. Best in show: "My Daughter, My Love," Bradford Editions' exclusive heirloom porcelain musical figurine premiering at only $39.99 and playing the inspiring melody of "Wind Beneath My Wings." Runner-up: "Faithful Friend," a "royal tribute" to your beloved Yorkie, Pomeranian, Shih Tzu, or Pug featuring more than 100 sparkling faux jewels and playing the heartwarming melody of "You've Got a Friend." "Yorkies leave paw prints on our hearts," reads the inscription. ("And butt prints on the carpet," adds Last Days.)

SUNDAY, AUGUST 12 Nothing happened today.

Impeach Buney. Send Hot Tips to lastdays@thestranger.com.