Yes, last week's Warner Brothers event was overflowing with star-studly goodness (the lightly fuzzy memory of Jason Fucking Sexy Lee rubbing his more than lightly fuzzy tummy will dance in my head like Baryshnikov until the day I drop), but it gobbled up an entire week's worth of gossip. Now we have more catch-up to play than I can take a shtick at. Let's begin with Carrot Top.
Well, actually, maybe let's not. Now that I consider it, my deep, tooth-grinding, gut-roiling (I hate to call it) hatred of Carrot Top warrants absolutely zero explanation--it should be as plain as plain Jane on a plain plane. I mean... well... is there a single redeeming element, one teeny, tiny microscopic speck of him that doesn't inspire me with kitten-killing rage?
I tell you, no. Not a single one.
And if you think that I was being facetious when I suggested that we (These United States) dedicate our vast killing resources to the destruction of that screeching orange ball of pubic hair, well sir, you're right. But now that I think about it, would it be such a horrible idea? Blowing up Carrot Top? What's-his-face the president is hell-bent on blowing SOMEBODY up, why not Carrot Top? Shortest war in history. Boom. One whistling Scud and there's nothing left but scorched tufts of red pubic tumbleweeds tumbling on a lonesome nuclear wind. But it will never happen: Declaring war on Carrot Top won't do a thing for the economy. His hair doesn't have any oil. Weapons of mass destruction, maybe. And tarantula eggs. But oil? Sadly, no.
Have you heard that Justin Timberlake has been cast as Danny Zuko in (gulp) Grease 3, and that Mandy Moore is playing Sandy? I feel like I've simultaneously won the lottery and woken up with a roach in my mouth.
And Kelly Osbourne was in town last week, "performing" (I think she likes to call it) at the Showbox. No good new Kelly dish has found its way to me, however. Come on--don't tell me nobody heard anything....
Oh! And one final thing about that WB promo event: Yes, it's true that Donnie Wahlberg was scheduled to attend to talk about Dreamcatcher (the new flick in which he stars opposite belly-rubbing Jason Lee and several man-eating shit-weasels from outer space) and, yes, he FAILED TO SHOW UP and, yes, I was devastated and, yes, I hear that it was because he passed out on stage somewhere earlier and had to be rushed to the emergency room, where I bet he had like half a quart of Backstreet Boys' or *NSYNC's semen pumped from his stomach. These things happen all the time, they tell me.
