Let us, for a moment, force our glances from the über-inked and alien-believing-in flesh of mad, man-scrumptious Vanilla Ice (née Rob Van Winkle or some adorable fucking shit like that), and reflect instead upon the surprising warmth, earthy wisdom, understated humor, and universally renowned nine-inch penis of Mr. Ron Jeremy.
Oh, never mind.
And yes, it's really Vanilla Van Winkle. Swear to god. Fucking adorable. And yet, to Eric Estrada, he's Johnny Rocket. Or Van-EE-ya EE-say, depending.
Courtney loves me, this I know, for her unchecked madness tells me so. This week we learn that she flaked on her felony drug trial because she was busy dodging that silly little cable-access troll who hounds her with a camera year after year, barking, "Courtney, admit you murdered Kurt, admit you murdered Kurt!" or whatever, and, really now, who can blame her? Especially now that Krist Novoselic has decided to drop out of the race for lieutenant governor of Washington. I mean, really.
Not speaking of politics: Even ass-deep in the pathos and paranoia of this Bushy, Bushy era, I never full-heartedly endorsed Howard Dean, as it seems that managing to write me a fucking thank-you note was apparently too gargantuan a task for the man, let alone managing this fretful, fractured land of ours (and you know exactly what I'm talking about, Howard). And gay marriage or whatever? Get me started, I dare you. So, unless Al and/or Hillary somehow (please God) jump in 11th-hour-style, come November, I'm penciling in "Oprah," as usual. And what any of this has to do with Ed Begley Jr. peeing at an I-5 rest stop last week and, upon completion of said peeing, buzzing off in his, yes, electric car, is entirely beyond me. Did he wash his hands? Can we ever know for sure?
And is that really the issue? And what about pee-powered cars anyway? Hmmmm?
Among the world's more twisted mysteries lies, of course, the real and fertrue age of my new boyfriend Ashton Kutcher. Evil forces claim to have unearthed ancient documents verifying Ashton's secret age as a dusty 30, not the dewy, low-hanging 26-ish he really is. It's a terrible lie, naturally, and detracts not one bit from the fact that he's spicier than Satan's taco sauce and hung like a horse thief's portiéres. And portiéres
are drapes. Well, draperies, actually. Whatever.
