Mmm. Delicious love. Feel it.

First, she said that he's a bankrupt snake-oil salesman with a terrible comb over. Then he said that she's a disgusting slob who talks like a truck driver. Then he said that she's a fat and ugly bully, inside and out, and that he was going to sue her. Then she sobbed into her third bucket of fried chicken and wiped her greasy fat fingers on the seat of her huge fat pants. Frankly, they're both right. But these events have inspired me to love Donald Trump in ways God never intended, and which my heart can barely contain. Bless you, Donald Trump. Bless you.

God I hate Rosie O'Donnell. So, so, so very much. I'm sure you understand. It's why I love you.

Before departing all things The View, which I never watch: Just because my friend Frenchie Davis was on the show this morning singing with the rest of the cast of Rent doesn't mean I've ever gotten really, really baked with her. Just so you know.

Then: Evel Knievel is trying to kill me. I'm sure of it. I can feel the scorching Evel hatred flowing, flowing, flowing endlessly in my general direction like a river of scalding hot coot-coffee. Although I could probably push the batty old turd over these days with one shove of my delicately pink little pinkie, it's still rather alarming. Evel hatred! But, why? Does he hate me because I called him an irrelevant coot who's not quite dead (yet)? Or is it because I've allegedly boned the various bony members of the various members of his ever-boney brood? Perhaps. Beyond that I am simply not willing to conjecture. But, boy, I can feel it. Evel hatred. And it hurts. And I'm afraid. Help. Me. Please.

"Dear Adrian: You lost your virginity to a Knievel? Was it 'Emelio'? [Name changed drastically to protect the consummately faggy—AR]. I bet it was Emelio. He's kinda dreamy, in an 'oh my god, he works in human resources' kinda way. If it was him, don't tell him I said that."—GH

My Darling GH: Firstly, who in the hell intimated that I lost my virginity to a HE? It could very possibly have been not a he, you know. (Shut up.) Secondly, please tell Evel Knievel that I haven't the foggiest fucking clue what you're talking about—quickly, before he hurts me. Thank. The fuck. You.

Next week: my secret butt-sex date with Jim Castillo—for reals this time. Maybe.

Send! Adrian@adrianryan.com