In mere moments we shall explore the shocking details of Jake Gyllenhaal's surprise visit to the Honey Hole on Pine Street—where he clambered drunkenly atop the wobbly tabletops, unzipped his fly, and whacked astonished passersby in the forehead with his big floppy dong—but first it's imperative to understand that Justin Timberlake is conspiring to "launch" his own "signature line" of "tight underwear" and "fragrances" (he actually has musk glands... in his chode!), and that experts everywhere agree that having cologne and snuggly loincloths named after him can't make Justin Timberlake a single iota gayer than he already is. Anyway. Whatever.

In other news: What's a chode?

"Dear Adrian, I was on my way home from QFC Saturday, and I spotted Jake Gyllenhaal at the Honey Hole. Best regards, B. V. B."

Dear B.V.B, You're right. My sources indicate that Jake Gyllenhaal actually did make an appearance at the Honey Hole last Saturday. Unfortunately however, none of that crap about him jumping naked on the tables and junk apparently "really" happened at all. (What in the fuck is wrong with me? I'm serious. What?) Please note however that any earlier remarks regarding the delicious alleged floppiness of Jake Gyllenhaal's big dong will not be recanted under any circumstances. Jerk.

Interminably speaking: The eternal optimism of the so-called "American Justice System" can once again be confirmed, as some woefully hopeful judge has set Courtney loose early (once again) into the china shop that we call life. The salacious gossip industry has joined a handful of ebullient L.A. drug dealers in declaring it a national holiday.

In other Jews: "Jews suck," Michael Jackson just said on Good Morning America or something, and the Jewish Anti-Defamation League or whatever immediately responded with, "Yeah, but you swallow. Fag."

In even more synthetic life forms: Tom Cruise figured that his new $20 million jet looked sad sitting all alone in the garage, so he went down to the Piggly Wiggly and picked up a nice sonogram to keep it company. Now he and Katie can communicate with the hellish whatever-it-is that's currently growing in that wretched alien-space womb of hers at their leisurely, leisurely leisure. Hooray for everything.

In other news: The late Guy Ritchie just gave up Kabbalah. Now he's got God and Madonna angry. He's expected to explode.

Wait for it...