Hell and Breakfast
I'm guessing that I'm not the only person to whom Martha Stewart is endlessly e-mailing lewd photos from prison? Tremendous. Then you know how fucking fabulous she looks. Minimum security has done miracles for her figure. Or she's made tremendous progress in some big house-sponsored vocational Photoshop training or something. Whichever.
Prison: the new ashram.
And you've also doubtlessly noticed that ostensible fuckstick Danny Roberts (and/or face sitting, possibly) has featured rather prominently in this space with shocking frequency recently? Stellar. Keep up the good work.
It is also perhaps hardly worth noting that at the time of this writing, eBay bids for an honest-to-God date with Krist Novoselic--featuring a posh private plane ride, a swanky lunch and, apparently, Mr. Novoselic himself--have reached $7,300, which is remarkably less than the $28,000 fetched by that Virgin Mary on a 10-year-old toasted-cheese sandwich. Proceeds are set to benefit something. And the face on that sandwich looks more like Tallulah Bankhead if you ask me.
And if, for example, I was to send my hired man posse skittering all over hell and breakfast to scrounge up an immodest $108,000 worth of beauty creams and wrinkle-defying unguents, one might be inclined to remark, "Merciful heavens! What a vain and consummate faggot!" And yet when Marshall Mathers (or "Eminem" as he's called by the proletariat) did precisely that last week, the fiercest criticism anyone could muster was a limpid, "No one can call Marshall a wuss. He just wants to keep looking good." Does anyone else find this situation quite peculiar?
Of course you do. But every time anyone delves too deeply into the matter, some mysterious force kills the story and erases every trace. You've noticed, naturally. Or you have no fucking clue what the bleeding hell I am talking about.
Either way, we're both being watched. Believe it.
On the other hand entirely is Justin Timberlake, who fewer and fewer people seem to be watching anymore at all. Except for the British, who can't help it; they're notoriously bizarre. And the notoriously bizarre British have christened Ms. Timberlake "Trousersnake"--especially in their tattley tabloid press. (They call Madonna "Madge" you know.) But Ms. Timberlake, overcompensating, has publicly disclaimed the nickname and innocently maintained, "I don't even know what it means." Therefore, allow me to clarify: It's that warm, fleshy thing frequently crammed into your mouth, dork.
Also, you've naturally noticed that I've avoided mentioning election fraud, imminent doom, or anything else associated with the fascist psycho that stole the election again. Yes? Stellar.