Barred against her wishes from studying famous closeted homosexual pop stars, Britney Spears has taken up studying the Kabbalah instead--and you can bet your sweet aunt Chokmah that the only reason she's fiddling on that mystical roof is because Madonna has been getting her mystic Jewess on for ages (and ages, and ages... doesn't she?) and Britney's just kissing her ass. I, of course, mastered the ancient system of Hebrew juju long before Madonna was getting smacked around by Sean Penn (did that really happen, or did I just yank that out of my Pillar of Severity?) and, for the record, my little-magic-bracelet-that-wards-off-evil-spirits can kick her little-magic-bracelet-that-wards-off-evil-spirits' ass--I'm referring to the one she was wearing at the Video Music Awards when she stuck her tongue down Britney's throat, which I've refused to talk about until now for completely obvious reasons.

Dreidel, dreidel, kapow.

He's like a big Georgian Mother Teresa with old-man smell. Not that I've ever actually smelled Jimmy Carter. But I bet. And I'd have given all the chine in teana to have been a fly on RealNetworks' wall last week as Jimmy toured their offices--which kind of reminds me of this story I heard once that involved two famous software ty-fucking-coons (who are totally unrelated to RealNetworks AND Microsoft, if you were wondering), some sort of birthday party, a motel bed, and two hookers side by side, which, you'll note, I've not in any way connected to Microsoft or RealNetworks, ahem.

But. Jimmy Carter. God love him. Even thinking about that saintly man makes me well up in a way reserved for him, Dolly Parton, and the 1972 movie theme song "Ben"--from a movie/love story about a boy and his rat. Michael Jackson sang it. And Macaulay Culkin has recently come out in defense of Michael Jackson's sleeping and fathering habits, insisting that nothing, but nothing, dammit, went on but a good night's rest when he and his sexy brother Kieran shared the kook's bed--and Macaulay, being lately rather ratlike himself, gives the whole affair an air of ironic flair, don't you think?

I did Pilates first, too.

Have you heard some confusing business about poor Liz Taylor, some aging butler alleging sexual harassment, and a secret tape recording featuring someone referring to Liz sexually as "the old trampoline"? If anyone can figure it out, please don't explain it to me.

And I've saved the sad, sad reports of the latest victims of the Celebrity Curse of the Early 2000s, Johnny Cash and John Ritter, for last. I encourage everyone to walk a mile and trip over a couch in tribute.