Three things fill me with indescribable angst: the goddamn Blue Angels tearing across the sky on the morning after a particularly rambunctious tequila bender; that unnerving little girl from the Welch's Grape Juice commercials who never ages and speaks like Churchill (is she a super-intelligent midget or some kind of futuristic cyborg? Somebody tell me!); and, worst of all, having to sit on an exceptionally luscious piece of vicious gossip for fear of being sent up the river--or at the very least, punched in the nose. Each week I hit the streets, dutifully digging up the most titillating trash Seattle has to offer, only to discover that an enormous percentage of the rumors I find contain details that are far too sordid, crude, or downright illegal to publish.

For instance, I could never just blurt out which Seattle politico originally had his (or her!) cold little heart set on being a member of the CIA--until the agency discovered that he (or she!) abused the family pet. "One of the things the CIA does is ask prospective agents' neighbors if they've ever kicked their animals," my inside source attests. It's supposed to be a tried and true giveaway as to a candidate's temperament. Well, when agency officials discovered that this would-be intelligence agent/future elected official had been involved in some very unintelligent episodes where he (or she!) drop-kicked the family pet (once onto the still-piping-hot coals of a barbecue), they dropped him (or her!) like a hot potato.

And can you imagine what would happen if I actually slipped and told you what popular female radio personality has been secretly skittering off to midnight 12-step programs in an attempt to get a handle on her meth habit? Or about the other late-night air jockey who was discovered getting Biblical on a fan's ass in the piss-soaked bathroom of the Fenix Underground? Or which member of the Sonics is continually made fun of by his teammates for his unusual method of relieving stress before a big game--jerking off in the shower? I could tell you, but I wouldn't be able to leave the house.

But for sheer numbers, Seattle's local bands win hands down for the most outrageously unprintable dish. Like when the frontman of a big-name local group recently had to be physically restrained from pounding on his girlfriend during one of his (many) drunken rampages. And two informants swear they spied another sexy alterna-rocker wearing nothing but his Doc Martens and looking for someone to ride at gay sex emporium Club Seattle. Then we have the three members of a visiting all-boy band who were seen using a blow-up sex doll as a prop while sexing up a groupie on the hood of a car in a parking lot in Belltown. (I am not sure I even believe that one.)

And you want to know which lonely but very married headliner of KUBE 93's Summer Jam asked a shocked autograph hound to stay so he could "lick her pussy" (with major points off for use of the word pussy--cooter, snatch, clam, please--anything but "pussy"!)? Here's a hint: It was the same guy who made every member of Destiny's Child nauseated from the outrageous amounts of pot smoke issuing from his trailer. It's great dish, but can we say, "libel suit"?

Yes, gossip-mongering can be dangerous. One must proceed with caution, and some things are just better left unsaid.

I am watching you. Try to be interesting. Send gossip to adrian@thestranger.com.