In the Cheap Seats

Some misguided suggesters have suggested that I was kidding when I reported that the so-called "Bono" at Seahawks Stadium's Manchester United vs. Glasgow game was a wannabe-ing wannabe, an ingenious phony, a not-really-Bono Bono-er, an actual impersonator (as were, by extension, the phony Madonna and the ersatz Bill Gates). I never kid. An insidious band of celebrity knockoffs really seems to be infesting local sporting events, and those who accuse me of making the story the fuck up are clearly suffering from the retardation. I may lie like a Tijuana Ford dealer, but kid? I hate kids.

"That Bono fucker was at the Storm game last night," reports "Max," who is clearly aware that the roving Bono is a fraud. "People clamored for autographs, never stopping to wonder what the hell a world-famous rock star would be doing sitting in the 'cheap' seats at a second-rate basketball game," he writes, clearly aware of how stupid the fuckers who never stop to wonder what the hell a world-famous rock star was doing in the "cheap" seats at a second-rate basketball game are. I also hear that the fake Bono (or Wanna-Bono) appeared twice on DiamondVision at the same Storm game, but I don't know what DiamondVision is. I hate sports.

When one speaks of celebrity impersonators (and it's surprising how often one does), one's thoughts naturally turn to Liza Minnelli. I decided not to mention Liza's divorce from avocational eyebrow-farmer David Gest. Hasn't that poor woman been through enough, for Christ's sake? Of course she has. But, Lord, I would have given someone I didn't care that much about's left arm to have been a fly on the wall of whatever gay bathhouse she dumped him in.

Pay attention!

(See, THAT was a lie. The bathhouse thing. Liza actually tracked him down to a dirty mattress behind a porn arcade in "Clinton." And his ass is pasty gray. Swear.)

When one speaks of Liza (and it's surprising how often one doesn't), one's thoughts naturally revolve to Demi Moore. (Shut up and go along with me.) Demi recently re-ported that the ungodly amount of hate mail she's received in response to her dating my future boyfriend Ashton Kutcher has really begun to pick away at her psychologically, which is, of course, exactly what I intended.

And I hear that Jared from Subway was at a Mariners game recently, beer in one hand, hot dog in the other, but I've vowed never to write about anyone with man-boobs. I hate Jared.

adrian@thestranger.com