One or more Olsen Twins, Courtney Love, Czech kiddie porn, Orlando Bloom, possibly Courtney Love, ass sex, ass sex, ass sex, substance abuse, Martha Stewart, and snatches, although freakishly delightful, are subjects that will not, in any possibly legitimate capacity, be journaled or reported upon here this week. Be warned.

Yet, in a daring and original move, most of that wretched lie directly involves Orlando something-something, whom various lovely individuals attest to have stumbled and/or gushed upon recently whilst wandering the incongruous West Seattle sector. Even more recently, "Patricia" writes, "Oh my GOD! I thought I saw Orlando BLOOM or whatever like TWICE walking on ALKI BEACH or something, and I thought NO WAY or whatever, and, like, when I read your COLUMN, and other people saw him TOO or something, well, OH my GOD!" and so forth. Please note, however, that the above possibly massive paraphrasing drones on for about two-and-a-half years less than "Patricia's" original version, and therefore, I deserve a dinner.

We all deserve a dinner.

It's rumored that I went to high school with the current Number 10 on the sexy, sexy Tour de France, but I don't believe a goddamn word of it.

"Dear Adrian--Where has Danny Roberts been?"--"Alberto"

Dear Alfonso or whatever--Sitting on my face!

"Dougifer," who really hates chickens (woosh--it's over my head, too), claims to have somehow been forced to party with several or more randy so-called "Sneaker Pimps" in a stretch limo, presumably black. Allegedly, upon black-limo egress, the so-called partying continued into the wee and lusty hours, twixt the naughty walls of a private suite at, yes, the W Hotel. The color of the limo, apparently, was not racially motivated.

Lastly, many moist and delicious whispers assure me that Old Widow Cobain just recently experienced explosive issues with her vagina, which required medication. This, naturally, creates such a volatile overabundance of redundancy in the universe that quantum physicists expect our space/time reality to unravel like a Kmart quilt and evaporate like Martha Stewart's previous lack of Big House Marge-in-the-shower-from-behind-and-whether-you-like-it-or-not lovin'.

Oh, never mind. Hell, you're not even really reading this.

Of course you are.