It's all so very clear now. We don't need an election. We need an exorcist.

Insert keen, ironic laugh here.

It also occurs to me. We've been attacking the issue from all the wrong angles. The question isn't have Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt really finally selected Bainbridge Island upon which to buy their new getaway-from-it-all-ish two-story den of passion, abs, sin, and abs (as some funky little gossip weasel let fly not un-recently--which naturally set the entire misty little island and various equally misty parts of me buzzing with twitterpation), but rather, why aren't you and I, at this very moment, giving protracted full-body cat-like tongue scrubbings to one or more of those scorching blond triplet brothers from the cell phone commercials?

For the love of God.... Why? Not? Whatever?

Curious "CJ" from Texas writes, "Why don't you ever write about Dave Matthews anymore? He's all you ever used to write about--now, nothing?--CJ"

Dear "CJ" from Texas--If I wanted any lip, I'd hand my country over to you despite your complicated conspiratorial election-fraud coup. Or something.

Be advised that as of this writing, my lead Washington, D.C. mole has gone missing. Fortunately, this wasn't before releasing these two weird little tidbits: Either Connie Chung, Dan Rather, Barbara Walters, Leslie Miller, or that Brinkley person (take your pick) was honest-to-god stinky-drunk while possibly covering a speechy recent D.C. presidential fundraiser, and that there actually is no George W. Bush, only Dan Quayle with apparent reconstructive surgery. (Damn you, Extreme Makeover!) Updates as events naturally present themselves, or as I snag my ass some new moles.

Speaking of Leslie Miller: I miss her. Everyone start picking on Jean Enersen again. Best stories get printed. Go!

And since no one watches those ceaseless VH1 retrospectives, we clearly haven't seen our own local fat-free spaztress Susan Powter quipping on the most recent of them. ("I Love Ten Fucking Minutes Ago" or something. Who are these nobodies they get on these things? Has VH1 lost my fucking number? Jesus.)

Lastly: WB studios was in town fishing for would-be Clark Kents to star in the new Bryan Singer-directed Superman film. "Late 20's at least 6 ft, handsome, chiseled, athletic, all-American, confident yet awkward. " Bryan Singer is of course fabulously gay and my secret files are bursting with sordid dish featuring him. In the W Hotel downtown, mostly. I'm expecting a callback.