Fred Durst. Honestly. One moment the foul little pecker is wantonly flaunting his florid tumescence up and down the Internet (and that poor girl), then he's suddenly launching some kind of lame talk show--slash--"docusoap," whatever the hell that's supposed to be. (It sounds filthy.) "I just want to have a spontaneous platform to have good conversations," is how Fred justifies the peculiar venture--the first TV program in history to be launched by a hacked wiener!--but this in no way diminishes the fact that his new show should be called, Touch My Balls! TOUCH MY BALLS!

"Adrian, I swear to sweet Jesus that you are the best columnist in the city. Art Thiel? He's a'ight. And this could be the DayQuil typing, but Q-13 Morning News Anchor Bill Wixey's head appears to be really small in relation to his co-anchor's. So, do people ever e-mail you random, pointless slop?"--F*ck, Geoff

Dear F*ck, Geoff, No, actually, I don't feel that reprinting random correspondence claiming that I'm the best columnist in the city is freakishly transparent, narcissistic, and tacky. I'm not sure I appreciate your insinuations. And who the hell is Art Thiel?

There's a whole mess of crap buzzing and/or floating (or "bloating") around about Britney Spears lately, so she probably got even fatter or something. (Who gives a shit? Really?) But I hear that husband of hers smells like a barnyard's ass. (Believe it.) And of course, "Neverland is all about booze, pornography, and sex with boys," is what some kid's hysterical mom said while under oath recently, and that's all anyone needs to know about that. Except this: Michael Jackson never fondled Macaulay Culkin. I know. I was there. Michael Jackson fondled the monkey, the monkey fondled Macaulay Culkin, and then Macaulay Culkin talked dirty to me while Brooke Shields cried in a corner. Damn you, Jesus Juice!

In less of that: Long-lost Lilliputian Emmanuel Lewis daringly escaped a speeding ticket recently (70 in a 40? Go shorty!) by bribing the police officers with autographs. This finally sets to rest interminable rumors that Emmanuel Lewis--who basically evaporated after Diff'rent Strokes or what the fuck ever--had inevitably been devoured in quivering chunks by starving dogs after a hellish stint chained in some secret sexboy dungeon that may or may not have had anything to do with Neverland Ranch. (That was the Leave it to Beaver kid.) Pope John Paul II remained unavailable for comment.

In final lies: Someone claims they saw Elvis Costello peeing in the parking lot of the Paramount Theater, but everyone knows that Elvis Costello only ever pees on the Moore.