A guy called "Scott Weiland" or something is spinning bizarre yarns about his dark and alleged drug adventures with our ever-peculiar Courtney Love. He claims that he and she languished week after warm, runny, horse-drenched week in an expensive hotel room, in the '90s, buzzing with orgasmic poppy joy and wearing merely panties. Although who the hell Scott Weiland is and why anyone should care if he wears panties or shoots the "H" has yet to be determined, it's probable that it was just Courtney who was wearing the panties. Probably.
In the end, can we ever know anything for sure? Does it even matter? Or is it simply, finally, the power of the question that drives us?
In other news: The word "panties" is revolting. Panties. Paaaaaanties…
Speaking of revolting: "Dear Adrian, Revolting. Please excoriate Fred Durst as much as humanly possible for as long as humanly possible. Please print next week's column with Fred Durst's arterial blood."--Jeremy
Dear Jeremy, Fred Durst? Who is this Fred Durst? I know nothing of Fred Durst, or the little bitty mouse penis of which you do not speak. And what the hell does "excoriate" mean? --Adrian
Before departing all things Courtney Loveish: That new SIRIUS satellite radio thingy that isn't catching on has just offered the poor raving she-thing a talk show. Once she's out of rehabs, naturally. Those nasty panties could not be reached for comment.
Panties. Paaaaaaaaaaaantieeeees…
Before departing nasty panties: I could hardly be sure whether or not you knew that Lara Flynn Boyle, who is a Republican, Bush-loving moron, had peeled off her clothes in a pique of apparently uncontrollable lust during an L.A. to London flight and heaved her leathery Republican self upon some bewildered passenger in an apparent attempt at melodramatic in-flight seduction, but now I can.
See how that works?
More locally, dammit: The jaws of justice have terribly chewed, as they do, and it's been declared that Dave Matthews--via his dirty, dirty bus driver--is indeed responsible for dumping 800 pounds of steaming septic crap from his tour bus onto the stinking heads of politely astonished sightseers a few months ago. Dave donated a bunch of money to some "please don't randomly shit on people" type organizations and/or persons. Then Shannen fucking Doherty all of a sudden started dating bazillionairish Paul fucking Allen of all people, and after the Nordstrom parking-lot scandal or whatever and everything about the EMP in general, I say he deserves her.
Lastly: Whatever you do, don't Google "Escape from Neverland." Panties! Panties, panties!
Send! adrian@adrianryan.com
