Stop reading! Just rip out this page and line the fucking cat box because there's not one interesting syllable written here. Not one! No famous person on the whole fricking planet did anything even remotely worth mentioning last week. The twenty-fo'-seven deluge of celebrity weirdness has dried up like a wino in the sun.

I don't know why, don't ask me.

Celebrities! Where are you?

Are you hiding? Back in rehab? Just too upset to call? Was it because I claimed Britney was a hatchet (hack, hack!) or called Whitney a snatch? I know--it's because I'm not even bothering to count the nanoseconds until Justine Randall Timberlake is caught with his pants down George Michael-style, isn't it? Well, darlings, don't kill the messenger. I just give voice to such weirdness; you embody its twisted, twisted soul.

Have my scrutinizations reformed the Q13ies? Taught local newscasters the value of a tip? Or to drive courteously and ragelessly amongst us, let's hope? Has there been a sudden shortage of kiddy porn in L.A.? Has Avril Lavigne not yet discovered that she's really one-sixteenth black, and somehow always knew it way deep down inside? (Or that she's secretly just Aaron Carter in drag?) Has the Thing of Pop run out of babies, balconies, spider bites, and obsequious unfathomability? (And whatever happened to Webster, anyway?) Word.

True, Danny Roberts did discover that the scorched little feet sticking up from the bottom of his toaster oven belonged to a nicely broiled mouse last Friday ("I ate out of that thing, man!"), but unless he develops some mysterious toasted rat disease that forces him to feed on human brains to maintain some sort of hellish halflife, there's really just no story. And heaven forbid.

And yes, I also stumbled across an unconfirmed rumor that J.Lo allegedly practices an obscure Afro-Caribbean religion that embraces bodily possession by ancient African gods, but big deal, it's a free country, and who am I to talk, anyway? And are she and Ben Affleck buying that house on Queen Anne or not? I hate being the last to know.

But never fear! Things haven't gotten so dry that I'd be forced to print something like, say, that I just learned that Matthew Lillard's sister works at a video store downtown (and that I secretly thought that was pretty fucking cool). Let's hope it never gets that dry, and kisses to "Pixie Chick" for bringing it to my attention.