Regret? My conscience is golden--as fresh as Spaniards in springtime; as light as the fluffy dander on Fluffy's fluffy dander. And so forth. What can I say? The unwashable silk panties of conscience bear not the skid marks of remorse as far as I'm concerned.

Dander dander? Believe it. And why, oh bleeding Jesus, why would I waste a single glorious nanosecond regretting when it turns out that a certain macho hetero male music star really is a great big tremendous turd pounder? As I've always secretly suspected, naturally. And yay, I say, oh ye naysayers: The flaming shit of truth has hit the big gay fan. At least the truth according to a 34-year-old dude from a certain Midwest city (who's remaining name- less at the moment) who swears up, down, and to the left that he and the aforementioned bad-boy star were ass-pumping snuggle- bunnies. With each other. I shitznit you not.

It's a glorious world.

"He was a very tender, very giving partner," alleges the star's alleged ex-boyfriend, who also claims that they often "expressed our love both verbally and physically." Story goes that said star kicked the poor boy to the curb when he hit the big time, and slid him a "massive pay-off" to keep his big gay trap shut--which he (the alleged ex) explained to reporters whilst poring over a handful of grainy pictures of the couple in gayer times and, oh my god, some sort of "intimate tapes" (imagination goes fucking berserk). "I don't see it as exposure," he claims. "I genuinely believe that I'm rescuing his life--because he is in denial of his true self."

All of this was up on a respected music mag's respected website last week, and all of this has been pulled down from said website as of press time, which makes it all highly suspect. But that's how you like our gossip, girl. Regretable.

So then. More regret. I'm not for it. Consider this: In my more even drunker moments I've secretly suspected that no thoughtfully considered syllable has ever passed my lips (let that be a little Xmess secret between you and me, and you and me); that my talking head runs on and on, preternaturally empowered with its own will and secret agenda--but somehow? It's freakishly right. Who am I to question its will? Especially now that it's so certain that the long-fabled J.Lo and Ben wedding is never going to happen (exhale, go ahead), that M. J. may be going to fucking prison despite the weepy documentary he's shooting at the moment, that adorable little Aaron Carter is estranging himself from his manager/mother (and hopefully from M. J.) because he claims she ripped him off--and do you know who's just two inches from going Eminem on our asses? Right. Justin Timberlake. You num sayin'.

I regret nothing. Excepting saying "turd pounder", and twice now.