It's not that I'm so freakishly correct about everything that it scares the flaming pants right off me, but consider this: Did I not, mere seconds ago, wonder aloud why no one had peeped even the peepest peep about the undoubtedly bent feelings of that poor, presumably no longer cancerous spiky blond 11-year-old whom Michael Jackson (I'd call him the "Thing of Pop" again, but whoa, that shit is getting tired) was simply draped and dripping all over in that horrid documentary last May? Indeed. Well, turns out that spiky remission boy and Michael's most recent accuser are, in fact, the exact same cancer-free moppet!

I had a feeling.

And did I not make the cuffed-off observation that poor, addled Courtney Love should be allowed custody of Frances Bean, as a reliable emergency head-holder will no doubt be needed to accompany Miss Love to the toilet indefinitely? Naturally. And only now has it come to light that Frances was indeed a key figure at the scene of Courtney's last celebrated spewing, as Courtney allegedly yacked up the huge pig pile of "hillbilly heroin" she'd accidentally doked chown by the fucketbull (or so Jack Osbourne tells me). Yup. Little Frances reportedly held Mommy's hand (close enough), brewed a lovely cup of tea, and phoned the paramedics, all by herself. And you know what that means.

Right. Her natal moon must be in Pisces.

And Justin Timberlake just said something like, "I've had some of the greatest experiences with those guys, but do I think that what I've done with Justified is 10 times better than anything *NSYNC has ever done? Yes, I do." And didn't I always say I always thought he was just the biggest fag?

Don't answer that.

And didn't I mention that female pattern baldness is so plaguing panicked Christina Aguilera that she has begun wearing custom-made wigs to patch the patches--and that Pink has reached new zeniths of overcompensation by staging more and more high-profile makeout scenes with attention-starved Tommy Lee (who cohosted The Sharon Osbourne Show, for pity's sake), this time sucking his nicely hung and highly tattooed face at an album-release party for Alicia Keys, who, by contrast, isn't really a dyke, as she recently informed the press, remarking, "I think what happens is any person that graces any TV set is gay," a remarkably astute sentiment that I endorse entirely?

Well. I meant to.

adrian@thestranger.com