The Oscars! What depth! What timbre! Everyone was fat. (Especially Hilary Swank. Obese, practically. Oink, oink, oink.) And everything seemed as stale brown and paneled as a 19-fucking-72 mobile home. This was thrown into sharp relief by every woman who sported some variation of that wretched choppy-feathered Farrah Fawcett 'do that fills me with inexplicable hatred and murderous rage and that even the fucking mom on Jack & Bobby has now. And there is just something peculiar about Jamie Foxx's mouth that really freaks me out. Honestly. It reminds me of wood chunks and club sandwiches. I cannot explain it. Yay, Oscars!

God, I despise the fucking Oscars.

Or do I?

"Adrian--Of course you saw the recent Enquirer with all the pictures of Aaron Carter (with no shirt on!) hitting a bong and blowing big clouds of smoke into the air. Right?" --AJ

Dear AJ, That was no bong, that was my penis. And I never read the Enquirer. I wouldn't touch the Enquirer for money. Please never insinuate that I read or would ever touch the Enquirer, or I'll hit you with it. My penis, not the Enquirer, which I wouldn't touch for money. I'd touch Aaron Carter for money, however. He's 18 now, and has some money. Also, if I do hit you with my penis it will hurt. You. That's all I'm saying. --Adrian

In news, maybe: Allegedly, Someone Mysterious (indeed--like some Overworked Fucking Publicist perhaps) put their wicked-excellent computer hacking skills to clever use by accessing Paris Hilton's private e-phonebook or whatever and then publishing each of the private numbers found there all over the Internet, including the numbers of everyone famous, anywhere, ever. Now my phone won't stop ringing. Vapid bitch.

Next: A wonderful sex tape has been unleashed upon us that seems to feature Fred Durst and his pink little penis engaged in fleshy, tattooed congress with some random whore. This was of course, allegedly, a literal random whore--of the noble sex-for-money sort--and not just some chick who pissed me off and whom I'm calling a whore because I hate her. Hypothetically.

What?

Also, if you would like to congratulate Fred on his fuzzy belly or his healthy five-incher, dial 216-205-2241, and if he answers, tell him that you're Paris Hilton and you want him to fuck you in the ass. Anytime is fine: I hear he's got unlimited roaming.

Send things about newspeople to adrian@the stranger.com.