Courtney Love probably did something stupid this week. I refuse to elaborate.
Brittany Murphy has denied rumors that her alleged former fucking of Ashton Kutcher was a slyly calculated publicity move to push the film in which they costarred (the name escapes me), and I thought to myself, "Who the fuck is Brittany Murphy? What is this movie they speak of?" So maybe it worked. It's perplexing.
Mel Gibson bores me, and Jesus has been done. That's all I have to say about that. Except that if there really were a You Know Who, would Martha be going to prison?
Oh, shush.
And it has come to my attention that Johnny Depp is purchasing his own piratey Caribbean island. But of course I don't believe it--much as I didn't believe it when Ashton (I am not obsessed, I am not obsessed) and that older-woman lady person he's engaged to asked Bruce Willis to play best man at their wedding because, isn't that like incest? Their bridesmaids will be born with webbed chins and cleft feet or something. There should be a law.
Oh, the splendiferous pathos of the sad, gray Oscars. How I've been avoiding it. Let's bite the bullet--everything you've already heard about this year's Oscars is a lie, except for this: Paris Howard-Johnson--or whatever that chick's name is--must have, like, practically drowned in a koi pond or something at some Oscar party ("koi": another thing what's-her-face and I have in common, besides our super-deluxe blond cornrow extensions), and, of course, Michael Jackson's alleged Wine and Cookie Pre-Oscar Social. (Very exclusive. Invitation only. Age limit strictly enforced. But it was all over before 8:00 p.m. You know. Before it was too late.) All that's gospel. Potentially.
And my conflicted spirit dances on the dreaming heartbeats of slumbering babes, for that yowling hellbitch Kelly Osbourne has been cast to play a mysteriously unspecified role in Doing It, a filthy, filthy ABC pilot based on the sexual meanderings of three 16-year-old boys in, yes, Seattle (based on Melvin Burgess' controversial novel, they tell me, that hopefully doesn't use real names), and Madonna, the liar, claims she hasn't flooded her formerly craggy old puss with Botox, though she's suddenly dewy as an Argentine rose, blossoming with the teat-fed smoothness of bubbly baby butts. But don't cry for her, she's Madonna--she's old, and she moved to Eng-land. She's full of Bo-tox. She does kab-bal-ah. Her teeth are gappy; her lyr-ics sapyyyyy....
Thank you. Thank you very much.
