What kind of idiot family keeps a homemade helium aircraft tied up in their backyard? The Heene Family, apparently. And that is the last time I ever babysit for them.

I originally met the Heenes when they did a Wife Swap episode with me and Connie Chung, who was posing as my wife so she could get on the show and jump-start her career (but have you ever tried to jump-start a car with no battery?). Connie got shipped off to live with the Heenes for a week while Mayumi came to stay with me in LA. Luckily I live a perfect life with friends, sunshine, entertainment and happiness, so there was literally nothing for Mayumi to do around the house except clean the pool (which frankly as an amateur scientist’s wife she did a pretty dismal job, completely mixing the chlorine wrong, burning her hands … then she had the audacity to ask for Neosporin – like I’m a fricking Walgreens?!?)

Several weeks later I got a call from my PR agency saying that Mayumi missed spending time with me and asked if I could come out to visit. Well, luckily I a few days off while Alejandra Guzman was getting her butt plumped up and hadn’t yet suffered the assteraffects (get it? HILARIOUS!), so I packed up my Rafi CD’s, hopped in my Beetle and headed to Colorado.

Well no sooner and Mr and Mrs Heene left for dinner (they didn’t leave a #, by the way – total faux pas in parenting land – should have been a red flag, but you know I like to believe the best in people so I even overlooked their forgetting to leave some spending money in case the kids needed something like a new CD or a nice scarf or a student loan payment) then that little brat gift from god- the one with ADHDHAD got in a right fight with the garden gnome (you can’t make this shit up!) and huffed off to the garage.

Next thing you know The View is being interrupted and I’m watching Brat-Child Heene fly over Colorado in some friggin’ JiffyPop nightmare. Of course the first thing I thought of was calling the local news, you know, cuz they’re the ones with the best cameras; second I called my PR agent, and third I did the responsible thing and called 9-1-1. Stop, Drop and Roll, right? Right!

Of course everyone came running immediately and interviewed the NEIGHBORS instead of me (I was PISSED!!!) so what else could I do when I heard that rattle and roll in the garage attic but tell that little twerp precious miracle to stay put and maybe he’d get a show out of this whole ordeal. Too young to commit to a contract, but my agent spent 10 minutes on the phone and got him attached to the project with Susan Sarandon to direct. I could almost smell the money.

Turns out it wasn’t money I was smelling, but despair – something I’ve been confusing for money all to often in the last few months. Dear readers, I had been set up yet again. The Heenes were not at dinner. They didn’t forget to leave me petty cash. They didn’t forget to leave the number where they were dining. They were in makeup trailers in the alley gearing up for a big family docudrama. And they had the nerve to send me an “appearance fee” invoice not two days later.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I left immediately to head back to LA – where everything doesn’t end up with me being starring as a background extra pawn in yet another goddamned Hollywoodland con game.

If you can’t trust families from Colorado, who the hell can you trust?

‘Pop’ diva Madonna left Malawi today after receiving official permission to adopt a one-year-old boy from the impoverished southern African country.

The first kid that she adopted she threw a “surprise party” for, but as you can see from the video I took at that party, Madonna and the little kid just weren’t clicking (or in Madonna’s case, ‘cliquing’). And no one is to blame, really, except for maybe the kid, but maybe Madonna is a little to blame, too? I don’t know. Can a woman named after the mother of God’s only child really be blamed for anything? It’s a tough call.

After what seemed like 47 hours on Madonna’s cramped little jet, we finally arrived somewhere – I don’t know where, but it looked very much like Utah, and after disembarking, we jumped on the tram (actuallly some mules covered in aluminum foil – were they preheating them to eat??? What kinda place IS THIS???) and were taken to a hangar that had been predecorated to be a mid-to-lower-upper-lower-class living room. And that’s when it happened – she started crying. Not Madonna. She doesn’t cry anymore. Not after … well, anyway, another story, another day. But the child she wanted to adopt, Infinity, just kept going on and on and on. She probably knew it was a setup. It’s not her real birthday, what the fuck is a cake doing in the middle of hanger in Malawi at the Lilongwe Kamuzu International Airport? Madonna didn’t help matters any by doing what she did in the video. I thought it was really uncalled for, but Madonna’s never really been good with girls.

Anyway, I can’t really say anything else as I’m texting this to you from 45,000 feet and Madonna is getting suspicious. Just watch the video and judge for yourself. It’s the same reason why she and Sandra Bernhard aren’t friends any more, actually. That whole “pie in the face” thing except it was technically her “face in the pie” … and I’m just going to leave it at that and let your (sad sick and twisted) imagination run wild. Think south of the border (arrrrrriba!), and I don’t mean Tijuana.

Long story short: I’m sooooo glad she picked the boy instead of the girl – for the girl’s sake! The last thing Madonna needs in her life is someone prettier and younger than her competing for attention. Why do you think I’m never in any photos with her? Some would call it selfish of Madonna, but I prefer to view the situation as monumentally unselfish of me.

I miss Connie’s calls.

Excited at being chosen to be a speaker at the AARP@50+ event, last week Connie Chung snuck away from Maury long enough to leave a message on my phone. We have this code so that Maury, who is insanely jealous, doesn’t know where she’s heading out. He thinks she’s going to play bingo at Our Lady of the Immaculate Retirement Village, but in reality as she talks she hits numbers on the phone and spells out in tone (just like when you tried to play Funky Town when you were a kid) where to meet up. Beeping 3-3-7-2 to me … D … E … S … C … she wants to go see The Descent. Where, Connie? 6-2-6-6-7 spells … M … A … N … N .. . Oh, Mann’s Chinese Theatre … Obvious choice. Connie likes to support her “ethnicentricity” as she calls it. I don’t think that really counts as an Asian cultural experience, but whatever. *-*-7-0-0-*-* … “See you there at 7:00, Connie!”, I said to no one in particular, since it was her voicemail I was listening to (we rarely talk voice-to-voice because of Maury’s rage-aholism). We are complex little creatures, I tell you.

I just wish Connie hadn’t shown up to the theatre drunk … again. Taking a taxi is not a good enough reason in my opion to appear in public drunk at any time. But that’s Connie. “I’m not driving! You know I can’t drive anyway!” I had to hold my tongue. Connie’s always danced to the beat of her own jello shots. And then the chit-chat started.

She first started talking during the previews, which I kind of found a little annoying, but what the heck. She had some good dirt about Mel’s drunk driving arrest. Apparently being the “Queen of News” (a self-titled moniker in that sad Kathy Griffin sort of way) still has its benefits – Connie had a screening of the DUI arrest at her house Wednesday night as a fundraiser for her charity, Chung-ky Gals, a support group for overweight Asian women. She also told me Annie Coulter was going under the knife finally “to have her hog sliced off … you know … her hog!” Connie said, nudging me and pointing to her crotch. Annie is a close friend of mine and it pains me to see people gossip about her (especially when it’s not true – Annie’s … hog … was cut off 7 months ago). Then there was a terrible National Guard commercial mixed in with the previews – it was sooooo poor in taste I thought I was eating at Olive Garden. And then the lights went down.

“Oh, you should have seen what Maury pulled out of his ear this morning – I swear it had roots!” Connie stage-whispered (which is a fancy way for saying you talk softly realllllly loudly). “Oh, well, tell me after the movie – I can’t wait to hear, but I’ll have to!” I responded. Shifting in her seat, Connie said, “I’m thirsty. I should have peed before I came in here. Luckily I bought big empty cup with me.” And then Connie burped. No, strike that. Connie belched. “That lager was deeeeeeLISHous! But it tastes like … pickle sauce … What’s that called? Oh yeah, RELISH!” The guy in front of her turned around and said, “I’m sorry, but if you want to talk, can you please talk outside?”

“Don’t be an eff-ing asshole, man! Come on, Brad, let’s move away from these negative people!” she replied, and then Connie gathered up her plastic bags full of crap (god is she moving out or what? I’ll have to ask later … ), making sure she made plenty of noise, and moved over to the next aisle. I was just too preoccupied with Connie’s drunkenness and her rude behavior to enjoy the movie, so I excused myself to the restroom.

“Do you want to just use my cup to pee in? You’re going to miss the end of the movie when they are all rescued by the husband who didn’t really die!” Someone shouted, “GODDAMMIT! YOU RUINED IT!” at her and I knew it was time to get the hell outta there. (Editor’s note: I am not pee-shy, but this is the one time when it wasn’t safe to pee in the theatre, that was for sure. Not that I have done that. At Mann’s. It was a different theatre. And a foreign movie. I didn’t want to miss anything! I’ve said too much. But all that running Lola ran in the film … it made me have to pee and I didn’t want to sit through it a second time. Oh the irony!) .

I made it to the door just as the police were coming in. They said, “Where is she sitting?” and I’m sorry, readers, but I pointed and said, “That’s her, sir. That’s the one who ruined the film. Ms. Connie Chung. And I think she’s drunk.”

And Connie hasn’t called me since.

I did pick up the phone when it rang last night during dinner, but it was just random tones spelling out gibberish. “Kitten. Fly. Wall through. Kachoo.” “Connie, are you okay?” I asked. And then I heard it. Not Maury’s voice, not Connie’s voice, but a woman’s voice, soft and gentle, the voice of a mother, any mother, every mother.

“Oh, you found the phone again you little devil. Who did you call this time? Sorry, whoever you are!” the woman said into the phone, and then there was just a click and finally that old lady voice recording telling me that if I’d like to make a call, would I please hang up and try my call again, or dial the operator.

I sat there, a little sad. I missed the ending to a really good movie. And I had betrayed Connie, one of her last few friends, and I betrayed her.

Well, her condo is anyway. Here’s one of the pics I snapped outside before we went in to the buffet (she has a King’s Table buffet line installed in her house – her own buffet line!).

I can’t believe it was on the market for that long and no one bought it! I told her that she had too many (19!) pictures of the damned tacky bathroom and that she should get some shots of the garage and also the pantry. But you know Starr - you can’t tell her that a bathroom completely gilded in gold is anything but haute couture. Once Barbara Walters complimented it, but she’s so hard to read that it cold have been a jab. “Oh, dis is weewy wuvwee …” Was that an Elmer Fudd impersonation, or is Babs just being … Babs?

One of Starr’s maids actually went blind taking the photos – it was very sad and traumatic for all of us present! She went in the bathroom and closed the door and snapped a shot, and screamed, “¡No pudeo ver! ¡No puedo ver mis chivas! (I can’t see! I can’t see my goats!)” which I thought was in pretty poor taste since Starr said she was a Korean – I thought the maid was making a racial joke! Turns out she’s a Filipina instead, Spanish was a first language, and the bright flash from the camera ricocheted off everything gold in the bathroom providing a terrorizing funhouse experience that caused a flashback to her childhood when she was lost in the mountains with her grandmother during a thunderstorm and lost the entire family herd of chivas, or goats. All of this must stay between us since I’m sure a court case is sure to follow. Promise? Okay. I knew I could trust you.

So, back to pancakes. Starr and I are going to the hospital later – Our Lady of Perpetual Motion I think? – to bring her (now ex-) maid some goat milk and gladiolas. It’s a traditional dish. It’s traDISHional. That’s hilarious. I’ll have to tell her that in braille when I see her! Anywhoo, I’ll let you know how she is.

Her eyes are with the Lord now … and my stomach is going to be with IHOP on the way to the hospital, so I better hit the road. Being kind and visiting the needy really takes a lot out of a person!

I hope they have fresh strawberries.

I’m sitting at the cafe that I like to go to every now and again when Goldie and I meet up for a light lunch. Goldie doesn’t mind that I’m typing furiously into my SideKick (the one I ‘borrowed’ from PH), because she just had botox injections and entertains herself by chomping loudly on fresh, crisp lettuce. “I can hear it but I can’t feel it!” she keeps saying. God, what’s in that botox? But I have nothing bad to say about Miss G because she saved my life not once, but twice. That’s a story for another day.

The waiter just refilled my iced tea and brought G another “iced tea” as well. But again, nothing bad to say and I won’t say anything else. It’s just that … well, she was just really mean to Reese, and I adore her (Reese … well, both G and Reese, but Reese more because we really get each other, you know?). You know the one thing about Reese that I find the most endearing is that her enthusiasm is real. She doesn’t need Method or Scientology or Kalalblalallah to express her true inner self, which can best be described as a cheerleader who just won State. Goldie (who I also adore, of course, and not just because she saved my life) notices Reese coming over to the table to say hi to me and, rolls her eyes and says loudly so even the cooks could hear her, “Oh gosh, where’s your Chanel dress? Did Kirsten Dunst spill something on it or did they finally pass it on to someone else? A crossing guard? A homeless person perhaps? A tranny hooker? Who was next in line for that thing anyway?” And then she laughs really hard and keeps banging the table with her open palm until everyone is looking. Reese just made a run for the bathroom, tears starting to well. I hope I can capture all this on the tiny little SideKick pad!

“Goldie, you can be so mean some time. I don’t know how Kurt puts up with you,” I said, in an accusatory voice. The whole horrible story is that Chanel gave Reese a dress to wear that Kirsten Dunst wore just three years before, and they told Reese it was vintage.

“It’s because I PUT OUT for him!” she (kind of) slurred, the emphasis completely wrong in her retort. But she found that funny as well, and returned to banging the table and laughing.

I grabbed my stuff excused myself and headed to the back to find a collapsed Reese in the phone nook. “Listen, we’ve all been diddled by Chanel and humiliated by Goldie. It’s a rite of passage in this day and age. They’re both practically Wal-Mart brands anyway, so what does it matter?” She looked up, wiped the mascara off and said, “Really?” “Of course. And next year when you win, which you will again, next year you get to choose your designer.” I pulled her up gave her a little hug, and she escaped out the back through the kitchen. I headed back to the table.

“Hey, where’d Pointy McChin go?” Goldie asked?

“Oh she’s on her way to film a movie. How about you? How’s your career going, Goldilocks? Book anything lately that didn’t cast you as an ex-wife, living or dead? Oh that’s right, you did that infomercial for VIBErant(tm) hair care products. It was very nice, really. I saw it on late late late one night on … I think it was UPN or WB. You looked so … thin … then.”

Goldie likes a good jab and knows when to shut up. I went back to chewing my sandwich, Goldie went back to crunching her lettuce. “I just can’t believe how loud this sounds in my ears!” I’m thinking the same thing, Goldie. And we should have gone to IHOP.

Condi called me just moments before she was to go on stage. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said, her breaths short and fast. “Condi, take a couple deep gulps of air, pretend you’re in Dubya’s arms on that sunny beach you both like so much.” I heard a long exhale, then a little giggle. “Dubya, stop that! Pickles might catch us!” Oy.

Kuala Lumpur welcomed Condi with open arms, and in return, she made them cry, she made them hear, she made them feel. A lot of people have not-very-nice things to say about Condi, and they’re all true – the donkey show in Tijuana, the coke races in Colombia, the all-night slogging fest with the Minutemen (“Now I know why they’re called MINUTEMEN“, she quipped. “They only last a minute!” I was tempted to remind her of the old ‘if you have to explain it, it’s not funny’ adage, but I let it slide, cuz you don’t want to get on her bad side, and believe me, Buster, both of her sides are BAD!) – but I have to say, after the weekend getaway we shared on a little tourist-free compound near Shanghai (she can drive a rickshaw like nobody’s beeswax!), I had a new-found respect for her that I just can’t shake. I’m sorry, I tried, but I can’t. I just can’t. She’s my homegirl.

Her performance at the Asian security talks just has to go better than Colin Powell‘s Village People lampoon last year. YMCA? No thank you, I bathe alone, especially around men named “colon.” But, she was still nervous, I could feel it. “Fluffy Cotton Condi,” I said, calling her by my pet name for her, “What exactly are you worried about? Remember Colin last year?” She giggled again. “Yeah, what a fag-” she misspoke, quickly correcting herself, “-gettable purfowmance,” faking a heavy and poorly orchestrated East Coast accent.

Knock ‘em dead, Condles. Go out with a bang!

I’m sorry that I’ve been out of touch the last few days. I finally tracked down Paris. She never did find that club, and she refused to go on the ‘PovBoat‘, as she called it, when they were evacuating Lebanon. “I am not even INTO chicks anyway, that was just to turn on some hot boys!” Ugh, Paris, I don’t know whether to give you a hug or snap your neck and put you out of our misery. Wow. Listen to me! This is what happens when I skip carbs in morning. Demi was right – you really have to watch your bran intake as you get on in years.

I was able to find a taxi driver that we had to pay $1600 EACH to for a quick escape out of Lebanon. Paris kept wanting to stop to shop, however. Finally I gave up and slipped her (another) Xanax after the third time she screamed, “STOP!” outside yet another boutique that had been bombed. “Paris, it’s burning,” I said. Her reply? “In a war zone you can get crazy good deals on couture!”

While we’re on that topic of flying covertly into a war torn country, risking your life to track down a friend, and finally rescuing your friend and expecting at least a thank you, can I just say that Paris Hilton is a BFFW – a Best Friends Forever WHORE! The whole time on the private jet back, she talked on the SkyPhone to You Know Who. And she actually asked me if I’d go get her some warm peanuts from the galley. And a diet coke. She can be so insensitive sometimes. So I slipped her another Xanax and called it even.

Looking back I feel so foolish – all the “friends” around her who she just burns through like Whitney on a bender. I guess I was blinded by happiness … I thought I really was her BFF. Now I’m just another person in the background of some spontaneous porn video or lewd party photo. But I’m glad I got her back home to her real friends safely, and that makes me a better friend than she’ll ever be or ever have again.

I’m just another name programmed on her speed dial, sure to disappear the next time she loses her SideKick.

- Arrested for being in a fight with paparazzis in front of a restaurant in London. [Should've just let me take the picture of your damned kids - sheesh!]

- Shares a birthday with Michael J. Fox and Natalie Portman. [but not very well ... and he always buys them scarves and ties]

- Is a huge fan of Jack the Ripper. [Hmmm ... I hear Ann Coulter is into role play ... you ought to give her a ... call ... ]

- As a child, he was allergic to chocolate [How ironic! I am allergic to his Willy Wonka!]

- Best quote: “The only gossip I’m interested in is things from the Weekly World News – ‘Woman’s bra bursts, 11 injured.’ That kind of thing.” [Thanks, we're flattered at WhoInvitedHIM! We're healing well after the explosion.]

I’ve been trying to reach PH since yesterday and I’m kind of worried. I bet she lost her SideKick again. She left it in my car last time and I was going through it and looking at the pictures and I found that she didn’t keep any of the ones of us that we took while we were out at the clubs!!! She can be such a See You Next Tuesday sometimes, but she’s a fun drunk and I never have to wait in line when I’m with her, so we still hang. Anyway, I thought it would be funny to post all of her private pics online. And we all know how that turned out. She still doesn’t know it was me. Shhh.

But back to the Missing PH: We were having lunch at Fred Segal, talking really loud and dropping names, hoping someone would buy us more champagne, when she gets this page and said she got invited to jet-set to some country “she didn’t know how to pronounce” (god, yeah, that narrows it down, PH), and that they had a bulldog who’s ready for the open bar. “Must be the name of the club or a secret pass phrase.”, says the wise PH with humble certainty – her parents certainly synergized up on the “gene” ladder. An open bar for Paris is like pointing out a lonely, rich Filipino businessman to a hooker – she just can’t say no to a good time! I dropped my napkin and by the time I picked it off the floor and looked back up, she was gone, leaving just a little pink butterfly barrette spinning in mid-air like when the witch in Bugs Bunny would zip way very quickly and leave that black … bent … thing … spinning in the air. She was gone that fast!

I only just recently became concerned this evening, however, because when I went to check out the New York Times to see if they had kept their promise to use my pen name and not my real name in the “What’s Up Slut?” article, (which really is a true article title!!!!) written mostly by my gal-pal Maureen Dowd, who I really really admire, and it made me think of Paris. The next article down I see “Hezbullah: We’re Ready for Open War” and there’s a little voice in the back of the back of my head telling the back of my head something is wrong. “Oh dear.”

Please, if you see Paris, do tell her there’s no open bar, that there’s no bar at all. And frankly there’s nothing funny about war like this, except when you imagine a perpetually drunk, rich, white pampered heiress wandering around the crumbling sidestreets of a little Middle Eastern town, all puffy-faced from the vengeful sun, her little doggie days-dead in her purse from dehydration, asking anyone who will listen if they’ve seen “His Bulldog”, the new, hot club that opened up somewhere near … somewhere, “‘Cuz she’s on the guestlist, she’s on the fucking guest list, slut!

Ugh. I told them this would never work, but Tom just can’t think beyond one manic minute to the next and it’s not like he ever really listens anyway.

I’m over at their house sitting on their plastic-covered couch (apparently TomCat is worried I’ll get the poltergeist souls of dead aliens all over everything) and Tom is jumping up and down on the couch like crazy (that’s a relative term in the TomKat household) talking about “they’re not gunna find out they’re not gunna find out!!!” I tried to set my wine down like in that one tempurpedic commercial I did, but it kept tipping and sliding and it was really expensive non-alco vino (sheesh, Hubbard, you could’ve left SOMETHING fun in life!!!) so I held it close to me, pouring in a tip or two of whiskey to bring it back to life when Tom wasn’t looking.

“Tom,” I said, “what made you think you could get by with making up a fake baby story?”

That cold, spooky, steely stare came across his face. Manic time goes on pause. (He must have the same coach as Jim Carey?) He looks at me, holds out that finger like he does in every serious moment in any movie he’s been in, and says, “We’ve got that covered,” letting a sly foxy smile creep up his face. I shuddered a little when his teeth appeared, but I grabbed my arms and pretended I was cold, something my acting coach, Valhallah, taught me. “Brrr. Windy!” I said. Snapping his fingers, in comes Katie … with a frigging Cabbage Patch Kid. Are you kidding me with this?

Tom held it up to his face to show me the likeness, and honestly I have to say that I could see a little similarity there: translucent white skin, blank-dead stare, emotionless, gigantic schnozzle (and in this case the saying isn’t true – heard it “straight” from Mario Lopez!). Mix in a little Kate, and who’s going to know? Tom told me to go down the hallway and take the second door my left. A little concerned (but knowing that my agent knew where I was so at least if they killed me she knows who to cast in the made-for-tv movie of my murder), I got up, walked down the hall (how many pictures of L Ron Hubbard do these people have??? I count 32 so far!!!) and stopped at door number two. Opening it, my breath was taken away.

On every wall and even parts of the ceiling were diagrams, boxes, balloons, thought bubbles, printouts, M&M wrappers, newspaper clippings, magazine covers, and pieces of red yarn attaching multi-colored pushpins, all ending up looking like a giant crazy science project that only some mad genius could have created. A hand-scribbled sign that said “PRODOTYPES” (Ugh! Scientology clearly didn’t make you a better SPELLER, Tom!!!) with pictures of various dolls, from Blythe to Cabbage Patch. The shudder came over me again, but no open windows or air vents to blame it on this time.

A voice from behind me growls, “I’ve got it all thought out. It’s perfect. There’s nothing that can possibly go wrong.” I stayed put, taking it all in. Countries, dates, child actor headshots. These crazy kids were going to pull off the biggest hoax in the world, I had little doubt.

“Oh Tom,” I said, “Pops Hubbard would be proud to have a son like you. Have you thought of starting your own religion, you know, just for kicks? Just to see if you could? Take after the father you never, ever, never, never, ever had?” Katie came in behind him (she’s not allowed to stand in front or to his side – some creepy religious thing they have worked out, I guess), and said, “Now if I could just find out how to carry a pregancy right.” She and I had some talking to do – I showed her the trick that I learned from another starlet who shall remain unnamed for how to wad up a bunches of grapes and a gallon of sour cream in a plastic trash bag. It’s lumpy, but it moves well and it looks so real! “Hey, at least it’ll be a virgin birth, huh?” Tom said, 100% serious. Katie just kind of looked up and nodded. Hmmm. I guess someone’s got some ‘splainin’ to do, Katie!

I finished off my wine, said thanks for the great (No really! Really! Of course we’ll do it again soon, TomKat!) evening and made a bee-line for the door.

That is aboslutely the last time I bet against Oprah in the Horse-Face Horse-Race! For those not in the loop, Oprah has a Nielson Ratings betting pool for Kathy Griffin’s show, and that’s what it’s called. And Oprah always wins. Fine Winfrey. Clearly you’re the bigger woman.

Today I was supposed to go with Courtney Love to what we call “pancake rehab” (IHOP) and she’s really fussy if I don’t show up when I tell her I’m going to pick her up, but with traffic in LA and that stupid slow Starbucks drive-through near her house (I have to bring her a double tall, lightly-iced, decaf mocha with vanilla flavoring, whipped cream and coconut sprinkles in a grande cup and no lid or else she won’t leave her condo) there’s only so much that I have control over. Just as I’m pulling up to Ms. Love’s house, up zips this tiny little Cabrio with vanity plates “8REENKLY”. Oh god, it’s Chrisie.

Christie and I have this on-again-off-again friendship and I really think she’s a sweet gal, but she keeps marrying down. I told her on her first marriage just as she was ready to walk that aisle, “Christie, this is your one shot at true happiness. Don’t blow it.” Did she listen? No. She just laughed and said, “Too late!” Crass. Husband number two, I’m talking to her from Spain as she’s ready to walk down the aisle … again. “Listen, the starter marriage got you a house and a car. Don’t spread yourself too thin on #2.” She giggled when I said that and added, “TOO LATE!” God she can be so crass. Husband number three. God almost takes them both in a helicopter crash in Colorado in 1994 and I tell her, “Defy god! Go back and get married where the copter crashed and make this one stick!” Again she giggled, “WHY DO YOU THINK I’M MARRYING HIM?” Ugh. She always shouts into her cell phone. And again, crass. She didn’t even bother calling me this last time when she married Peter Cook. And you know what? I would have still given her words of encouragement. I would have said, “Listen, third strike and you’re out – but not in pee-wee league. You keep swinging until you get to first base!” I imagine her chortling and adding, “Oh, he’s already made it to home plate … along with his team!” God she can be so crass, even when I imagine her talking.

Christie stumbles out of her Cabrio and runs to the door, screaming all the way. Kind of like that Marianne Faithful song, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan. As I walk up to the door behind a now-sobbing Christie, Ithink to myself, “God, if there’s one person you shouldn’t get marriage advice from, it’s Courtney, who completely redefined the term shotgun wedding but whatever, Christie, whatever.” Always the gracious hostess, Courtney invited Christie to join us at IHOP and she sat there in our booth, makeup smeared and crying about something that Peter, the now-ex-husband, said to her. Apparently she’s a little long in the tooth , if you know what I mean. Her pantry is now a two-car garage. Her crawlspace is now a rumpus room. Her vagina is as sloppy as a Rush Limbaugh at a drug store filling a photocopied receipt and using fake id to purchase narcotics with cash while coming down from his last Oxy pill. That’s not a euphemism, and I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. He said if she were a dynosaur, she’d be a Sloppylottapuss.

I couldn’t order anything. I just had a coffee. And then a thought came to me.

“Christie, it’s not like you haven’t had a little work done here and there to freshen up the years,” I said, taking her roadmappy hand. “Why don’t you hire a ‘decorator’ to trim the curtains in your basement?” She gave me the Evil Eye, but deep down (and probably dangling outside a little bit) she knew it was the perfect solution. “And if that doesn’t work, Christie, maybe they can cast you in the next Harry Potter movie with your big pink wizard’s sleeve.” Courtney kicked me under the table. “OW!” I exclaimed, exaggerating the pain.

“Fine. I’ll do it. Just as long as no one finds out,” Christie relented. “Oh, no one will, Christie,” I assured her, as I wrote down the number of an amazing gynorejuvenator that I know, “no one will.”

Jenny parked the car at the party in Malibu tonight because she doesn’t trust the valets and Jim doesn’t tip the valets anyway. That continues to be a stupid point of contention between them. So there I am sitting in the back of her icky green Le Sabre listening to them bicker in their stupid secret language.

God I hate going out with these two sometimes.

I promised myself that I’d try to repair the friendship after the whole IHOP incident last year where I embarrassed Jim when I asked him what he’s working on. NEVER EVER ASK AN ACTOR WHAT THEY’RE WORKING ON. It’s like asking a waitress if her tits are real – which is exactly what he did at IHOP to prove the point: DON’T QUESTION THE CRAFT!!! I could have died. Jim has boundary issues, but he tipped her really well.

Jenny immediately got out of the car and set the alarm. Jim and I were stuck in the car for 45 minutes before Jim finally opened the door and set off the alarm and Jenny came running back. Luckily people thought they were playing. Hahah. So witty, so fun, such a great match! They weren’t playing, they weren’t playing at all. If people even KNEW the dark secrets roiling inside their souls they wouldn’t even make eye contact.

At the party Jim corners me and asks me how things are. He’s got that super-imposing face and body language that I find a little disturbing. It’s like at any moment the alien that lives in his head is going to pop out and eat my soul. Or something like that. And sometimes his breath smells like garbanzo. I tell him about a few of the projects that I’ve been asked to help with, and he seems genuinely interested, but immediately when I stop talking, he changes the subject to Jenny and him. He asks what I really think of Jenny and if they have a future together. “Well, she’s no Carmen Elektra, but she’ll do for now.” That’s kind of his little joke – Jim likes to pretend he’s really dating Carmen. I don’t get it, but whatever – that’s Jim.

In the short time since we arrived, Jenny seemed to have disappeared – she does that often – and Jim started to get frantic. He started yelling for her in the middle of this big party, a totally chill scene ruined by Jim‘s shrieks. Someone near the buffet pointed to the broom closet. And like a scene out of some movie, Jim flings open the door to find Jenny and the young latino valet speaking in tongues. And by that I mean they are frenching. But you probably already got that.

Jim grabs the young kid (turns out it was Rob Schneider … eeew!) and flings him out of the closet like a mother pulling a burning car of her infant, and picks up Jenny and carries her over his head yelling the whole time in this high-pitched screach and took her over to the buffet, cleared the whole thing with one arm, then climbed on top of her and started making out while holding her arms down.

God I hate hanging out with these two sometimes.

Everyone stood there for a good 15 seconds in absolute silence – not a breath was taken. “Shit, this is gunna be in the tabloids tomorrow …!” was all I could think. And then it hit me. I started clapping, slowly at first, but then building up momentum and as I clapped harder and faster, more and more people joined in and pretty soon the whole crowd was cheering and laughing. “Wow, did you see that? They’re soooo good together!” I said as I nudged the gossip reporter next to me from In Touch. “Yeah,” she said, unsure of what was happening, “I saw that.”

As we got back to the car two hours later, I climbed in the back seat and Jim got into the driver’s seat. Jim looked over at Jenny, who was still kind of half-buzzed after all those sweaty nipples and asked, “Who wants to go to IHOP?” as he honked Jenny‘s breasts and winked at me.

Did I already tell you? God I hate hanging out with these two sometimes.

I got a call at two-thrity this morning from You Know Who (YKW). “I can’t sleep,” she said. “Yeah, that makes two of us now.” “Huh?” she replied, like she didn’t know she woke me up or that civilized people are in bed at two-thirty in the morning, at least on a Monday. “I was thinking about Him again. I really miss him. Why did it happen like that? Why?” I could hear the Beaches soundrack playing in the background, the version that came with her karaoke machine. “Oh god,” I thought, “She’s still listening to Bette. It’s going to take a while to talk her down.”

Before we get down to business, I need to post a disclaimer: I don’t think YKW knows that I write about her and YKWElse, so it’s probably only safe to tell you a few secret details as long as you promise not to tell anybody. Seriously. Raise your right hand. DO IT. Now say, “I’m your pal and I’ll never tell.” Good. Here’s the dirt:

YKW has had this clothes-off/clothes-on-again relationship with a man I’m only allowed to refer to as YKWElse (secret: she named her doggy after him!), as referenced in an earlier post about the Wet Party. He’s kind of a big deal in Hollywood and you’d definitely know his name if I told you, which I can’t, so don’t even demAnd, Solicit, Harp, requesT, wONder, asK, rUmmage, beseeCH or sEaRch for a hint. Just know that his elderly wife wouldn’t think too highly of his seeing YKW, because their marriage was an arranged marriage – she’s been his beard – and she’d be PISSED to find out all these years later that he’s not actually secretly gay but just wanted her money and was repulsed by her goosefleshy skin (this is all second-hand, but obvious to the keen observer).

This weekend we went to DisneyLand because YKW has this addiction to those giant turkey legs you can only buy in Adventure Land. So we’re walking through the park on the way past the shooting gallery and YKW has this huge chunk of flesh-on-bone in her hot little hand, when as we rounded the corner near the jungle cruise safari entrance, there was YKWElse with his grand-wife, surrounded by smallish tourists snapping photos. He made eye contact with YKW and quickly looked away like he didn’t know her – like she was just another asian tourist. It was ill advised, but YKW shouted out, “I LOVE YOU *******! DITCH GRANNY AND MARRY ME INSTEAD! HER PRUNEY OVARIES CAN’T GIVE YOU BABIES!!!” Next thing you know, YKWElse‘s betrothed stomps over, rips the turkey leg out of YKW’s hand and whacks her across the face with it, leaving a smeary, sticky, BBQ streak! It was a scene straight out of an Aaron Spelling series … two women cat fighting over a man near a pool … in front of an audience of shocked foreign tourists. YKW ended up in the duck pond, one hand holding her now-retrieved turkey leg, the other holding YKWElse‘s wife’s wig (her real hair is gray!!!). Security showed up a few moments later, but because tourists thought it was one of the famous DisneyLand street shows, they just and clapped and threw money … and YKWElse‘s wife acutally bowed and posed for pictures with children if you can believe it! No charges were filed. We made our way to the exit, found the car and drove back home to her Hollywood hills condo, safe and sound (albeit stained!). YKWElse called later that afternnoon to tell YKW he wanted some ‘time apart’. So we sat and drank margaritas until the sun went down in the hazy, polluted sky, singing from track #7:

That’s the story of … /
That’s the glory … /
Of … /
L O o o o v v v v v e …..

After YKW finally passed out from a combo of sobs and tequila, I threw the laundry in the wash. But I couldn’t get the BBQ stain out of her top, no matter how hard I scrubbed. Ain’t it the same way with love?

Damn it, Adam Carolla! Now that you’ve got your stupid ass radio show you think you can big-time anyone you want and be such a jerk because it gets such good ratings, but did you have to be so damned mean to little Ann? You should have heard Ann Coulter sobbing in the bathroom after you hung up on her on your show and then talked about her afterward like she’s this terrible, horrible person who doesn’t bring any brightness or happiness to life. I mean, who do you think you are, dude? Don’t you get it? NO ONE (Ann!) could be that much of a BITCH (Ann!) who wasn’t born with a penis (Ann!)! This isn’t a slam to trannies around the world – LGBTGIF pride! – I’m just pointing out that everyone is missing the punchline. “Ann” isn’t even “her” real name! She was born “Derrick” and used to play varsity football in high school in Utah. That’s the whole joke, and you’ve completely missed it! She took the “Ru-Paul” thing to a whole new level, threw in a little Condi, and you’ve got your little show and don’t even bother to have her on. So who’s the big bitch now?

I admit it, Adam - I gave her the wrong phone number to call into your show because frankly I knew what kind of emotional land mines were ahead of her (the entertainment industry can be so cruel – believe me!), and I had just spent two hours showing her how to put on mascara correctly (Maria Shriver tried to teach her, but really … ), and I didn’t want to spend two more of my hours reapplying after you made her cry. But I guess a father bird can only keep his little chick safe for so long before they have to fly alone into the big scary world. She kept calling the number I gave her (a delicious teriyaki joint down the street – Ann needs some meat on those bones of hers) and asking for you, but they kept putting her on hold.

And I hope you feel even worse after reading this entry in Ann’s super secret diary that I took and copied when she wasn’t looking:

Thursday, July 6, 2006
————————
got up, took my pills, adam’s apple getting smaller. speaking of adams, i’m going to be on the radio tomorrow. can’t wait! still trying the ‘ann is a bitch’ routine – i hope people get it soon. seems like it’s not really making the splash i hoped. little nervous, but it’s adam corolla and he’s pretty cool – i’m sure he gets it. he’s also kind of hunky in that fred flintstone kinda way. or is that barney rubble? hmm … i wonder if all the cavemen were that sexy back then? well, now that my dick is gone (hooray!!!), i guess my man-on-man thoughts are officially heterosexual - take that mom! take that dad! anywhoo … today i donated some old clothes to the homeless shelter down the street next to that great teriyaki place and then volunteered to pre-chew food for the elderly at Our Lady of Old Misery for a couple hours until I bit my tongue and it wouldn’t stop bleeding – turns out i accidentally chewed mrs harrington’s blood thinner pills!!! eeek! i hope they don’t make my adams apple get bigger again! LOL brad‘s coming over and we’re going to ihop then we’re off to Buena Vista to talk about hosting a new children’s show. i hear nicole richie is up for the part too, but brad said she’s probably going into rehab again (codename: caribbean vacation) so she’ll be out of the running. good. she’s almost as pretty as me. as i. LOL what’s the grammar rule there??? anywhoozle, fingers crossed! best friends forever! you’re the only one I can trust, diary! ps – sorry so sloppy! i poked myself in the eye with the mascara pen (again!!!). must have been a man who invented it! LOL
————————

So bravo, Mister Adam Corolla. If your job was to make Ann cry and buy her a one-way ticket to BulemiaLand for the weekend, I can only say “job well done.” I ask you … what did she ever do to you – or to anyone else, for that matter? Good day, sir. I said good day!

WEST HOLLYWOOD, Cali. (AP) – An 89-year-old woman passing through a crowd at a gay summer music festival in West Hollywood panicked after striking one pedestrian and his poodle and lurched through the throng of thongs, injuring 17 people, before finally getting into her car, officials said. The rest were non-life-threatening injuries. The driver, Janice Dickinson, of self-promoting “I’m the World’s First Supermodel(tm)” fame, and a male passenger, Brad Cerenzia, were not injured. “It was terrible – people weren’t paying any attention to her and she just … well, she just panicked,” Cerenzia said. “She was shaken. She was in shock. I think any one of us would have done the same thing.”

Police said it was premature to point to a cause and were still interviewing witnesses and many of those struck by Dickinson, either by the car as she left the scene or by slurred insults to those “fucking bitches [belch] think they’re models [hic] they’re just fat bitches [burp] like Omarosa -f!*k her, man, f&@k her!”

Investigators will look at any video that may have been captured by surveillance cameras. They will also be reviewing video recorded by Janice’s production team for her hit show “The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency,” though they don’t expect to find anything of value.

Madonna just left the worst message on my answering machine. I can’t believe it. I am stunned. The only thing I could think to do was hop on my laptop and jot down my first, most primal and honest thoughts. Madonna just said that she is mentally snipping in half the (tattered) piece of red yarn she calls a friendship gift to me, some voodoo spirituality thing she’s been going on about for some time now, and that the Evil Eye is coming to get me. She actually said that! “The Evil Eye is comin’ ta getcha!”

Now, I’ve read enough to know that the Evil Eye isn’t like the boogeyman, or Condileeezaaa Rice. It’s more like a wandering, wicked thought that gets caught in our lives, distracts us from truth and love … which technically Condi does, so cancel what I said earlier about her! And I certainly know enough to know it’s not going to swoop down out of the sky and get me, or like one of (I’m sorry, I have to say it!) the cheesy “acrobats” in Madonna’s latest “concert” on those so-obvious wire harnesses. And can I further just say that there’s nothing worse than someone (Madonna) who screws up their whole life (Sean, Warren, Dennis, Sandra), finds religion (Kaballahahaha), and then expects everyone (me) to justify their existence (my honesty can be direct sometimes) through their own microscope’s eye piece (crystals, yarn, pilates). I just personally don’t think a red piece of yarn worn around your wrist can ward of negative energy, regardless of what some secret, old, dusty religious book says or who its followers are (especially important to note is that most of them live in LA!). And I honestly wouldn’t be bothered by this event, except that it’s like the seventh time she has done this to me. And of course I can expect a call on Rosh Hashanah with an apology from the Material Girl (god she hates that label!) and a request for forgiveness from me. And I will forgive her. Not just because she’s Madonna. But because she’s Madonna and because I forgive people. It’s kind of what I do.

So back to the phone call. First of all, I didn’t break up Madonna‘s and Britney‘s friendship – the Kabbalah did. More accurately, the Kabbalah as according to Madonna, who Britney now refers to as Madabbalah – don’t tell Madonna! Britney was vulnerable and needed guidance in her new marriage to Kevin. And who better to give marriage advice than the woman who self published lurid pictures of herself and baudy poetry to her vagina in a book called Sex. Sure, the red Kabbalah red wrist string is like a pay-one-price-ride-all-day pass that gets you into the best parties without having to pay cover or wait in line, but it’s about so much more than that – it’s also about the hosted bar by the pool. But, Britney was born Baptist and you know what they say about those Baptist girls: “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips!” Truer words were never spoken. “Except in the Kabbalah,” I imagine Madonna interrupting me to say. And I’d respond, “Yes, Madonna, except in the Kabbalah.” And then I’d probably roll my eyes and she’d see the tail end of it and she’d hit me and say, “You’re an asshole!” But then she’d laugh. And she’d say something mean about Britney’s failing marriage. I know she would because she did it all the time. She actually told me, “Watch the awards show tonight. I’m going to surprise Brit and make out with her. That’s going to piss Kevin off! I can’t wait” And I said, “Madonna, sometimes you really are an Evil Eye, you know that?” And she said, “That’s why I bought Brit the wrist band and not Kevin.” Sometimes Madonna is too smart for her own good.

About Brit’s bad nuptials. Britney said she’s been seeing this “Crystal Lite Coach,” and I was really excited to hear more about it (just think what you could learn!!!) until I found out that it’s actually a “Christian Life Coach” who was helping Britney save her tattered marriage. “I really wanna wurk this owt with Kehvun!” she announced. I couldn’t help but look at that tattered red piece of yarn on my wrist from Madonna. “Yeah, Brit,” I said, “There are some things worth saving, but sometimes you just have to let things go.” And I’d be lying to you if I said that at that very minute that piece of sad, soggy, mystical yarn didn’t come undone on its own and fall onto the coffee table on top of the new Entertainment Weekly … and made a big circle right around the headline, “People and Things We Love Right Now” … and neither Madonna nor Brit was on that list! “Beeep … Listen Brit, I gotta go … it’s You Know Who on the other line …” I said, immitating the callerID beep Brit falls for again and again. She kind of sighed in a drawal and said sadly, “Well, y’all have a good day.” Yeah, Brit, you too. You too.

Heather! Word on the street is that you’ve been spending a lot of time with David “Finch” Spade – a well-dressed boy and possibly a member of a Hollywood Gay Mafia. And imagine my (tasteful) surprise and (delicate) confusion when you showed up to my pool party dressed like a chola and with a HUGE tattoo emblazened in olde english across your chest that said “DAVID”. I was like, “Heather, what’s the 411 on your 911?” “It’s love.” And that’s all that you would say! And I was like, “LOVE?” And you were like, “LOVE!” And she had this far-away look in her eyes (it wasn’t percocet, I checked her purse when she was in the bathroom) that I’ve only seen once before in my life – a story for another time. “Love,” you said. “Love,” she said. Sigh. Not this again, Heather.

She’s apparently fallen hard for Spade, and I wouldn’t have believed it until I heard it straight from Zsa (who does all the makeup for the stars) – but Spade’s totally got this thing for tough latinas and so she begged Zsa to user her schooled-in-the-streets-tough smarts to make her into a chola, which for those of you outside of Cali is basically like a latina who is tough. Take Penelope Cruz and mate her with Angelina Jolie and sprinkle in a tiny perjury (less than a year, more than nine months) of L’il Kim. ¡Bam! Chola.

Still, I was kind of surprised by her new ‘look’. Why put on so much black eyeliner if you’re just going to smear white eyeshadow over it? And that olde english tattoo and the big arm tattoo … are those henna? NOPE. It’s permanent! And those earrings – solid steel and very … large.

We had a scare later in the evening when everyone jumped into the pool. Heather forgot to take off her earrings and it turns out that they were really, really heavy and she couldn’t swim back up to the top. Luckily Missy Elliot was there to give her the Breath of Life to bring her back around! I didn’t realize there was so much tongue involved. Apparently Missy likes the latinas, too?

While she was passed out, I did a little exploring and it turns out that all that blonde hair is really hers(!!) – I owe you $20, Zsa!! And I also found out that the really cute “Ricky” tattoo she had on her left hip is now completely covered by a ROSE! And on her ankle where she had a red heart wrapped in a vine … are you sitting down? … there’s now a little word in script above it! Any guesses, little tweeters? That’s right! “FINCH!” The name of Spade’s character on Just Shoot Me. Awww. A fling is a wonderful thing, especially when it involves tattoos and nuevoenculturation.

I took some other photos while she was passed out, but those are just insurance in case she fess up to The Thing She Did. This is what happens when you steal my new issue of Entertainment Weekly when I go to refill your Crystal Lite, Heather. I saw it stuffed down your leggings when you walked out! Don’t shake your head – we both know you did it.

PH called me yesterday after reading about my going to IHOP with Nicole. Apparently she wasn’t too happy and I was “summoned” to her apartment. I thought she was going to cry like last time and beg for my friendship (“No one understands what it’s like to be meeee but you!”) but instead when I got there, she just had a terry cloth robe on and said, “Come on, let’s go make popcorn!” I guess she wasn’t that pissed after all. She just needed someone who liked her. And these days those are getting fewer and farther between.

It’s not her fault, really. Her parents did the best they could with what they had to work with. All the private nannies, the tutors, the swiss boarding school (PH calls it a BOREDing school), the plastic surgery to try to correct her Dougherty Syndrome (one eye lower than the other, named after the foundation Shannon Dougherty started to combat this silent but deadly career killer) … nothing seemed to make PH any smarter.

So there we are, two best friends, lying in bed eating popcorn and sharing a tear over Pretty Woman (PH really gets it … more than anyone will never know!!!) and I made a joke about PH‘s new meds and how now I’m going to call her PH Balanced. She laughed really hard and vodka came out her nose, and I don’t even think she got the science reference. Oh well. That’s what best friends are for – to love and hug and tease! Proof: I’ve included a picture from a time when PH played a little joke on ME, going out in public with my name on her shirt! I love that she wore those hideous UGG boots she bought on eBay and used the wrong form of “your”. I think she did that on purpose because she knows I’m “grammar fragile.” Maybe secretly, deep deep deep (like really really deep) down, she’s smarter than we all could ever imagine.

Apparently Nicole’s dad, Lionel, thinks she’s too thin and we’re to blame. She just called me and told me that he said if she put on some “meat” that she’d get a free trip on a yacht. That really pisses me off. All this time we’re doing all the hard work to at least make her presentable to Paris and then he goes and tells her to go buffet. Just wait, Mister Richie. You won’t be so happy when it’s only a maternity dress that fits her … sans child … and the only person who will be around to clean up her too-late-but-A-for-effort binges will be Brittany. Murphy, not Spears.

PS – Check out her glasses – she TOTALLY ripped off that style from me. Grr. I snuck light syrup in place of the heavy syrup on her pancakes when she wasn’t looking so she’ll have to try extra hard to gain weight. Shit. Now I might not get the cruise. And speaking of Cruise … he just got back from the Carribean with some Rusty Limberger … Limebag … I dunno. Apparently this dude can’t keep it up and needs little pills to help. How he get his dick to take them I’ll never know. But Cruise said he’d fill me in as soon as they got back. I haven’t heard from him. I hope he’s okay! Every time I call I worry that Katie is gunna pick up. And that wouldn’t be good for anybody. Cruise is afraid she’ll find out the truth about the baby and disappear, like in some movie or something. I’d pay $8 to watch that.

 1. Barbara Walters‘ speech impediment is fake. She made it up at a college party as a gag when drunk – but her friends loved it so she kept it!

2. Elizabeth Hasselbeck drinks the blood of orphans before each show along with a danish (low carb please!!!) while singing the national anthem in reverse. Guess who she voted for … twice! Too many “love punches” from her Dubby hubby?

3. You lose 2500 brain cells each episode you watch, but they’re from the ‘childrearing’ portion of the brain and are mostly fatty cells … so you’re actually losing weight!

4. Starr Jones is a hologram developed by the good folks at Payless and Burger King to send out subliminal messages every time she refers to herself as a lawyer

5. Rosie O demands a fresh koosh ball at the beginning of each show, which mysteriously disappears from her dressing room and reappears after the show, sticky and much less “kooshy”.

I didn’t really want to go out today but You Know Who made me to out with her to show off the new dog she got. I tried to tell her that people just don’t do doggy purses anymore but she just broke up with You Know Who Else and so it’s either drag along some stupid dog and get some sun, or spend hours sneaking from theater to theater in the multiplex eating discarded candy and half-empty soda. You think she doesn’t do that? You’re wrong! You Know Who told me that she feels like since she’s in The Industry that she should have to pay for tickets – or candy or soda! Well, I’m sorry, but after I slurped down that backwash of chewing tobacco, I’m happy to pay $18.50 for a cherry Coke from the fountain.

Anyway, if you look close, you’ll see us at the beginning of the video next to the big tent. But look close. I don’t like being filmed in public, so I’m only on there a short moment. I’m in green, she’s in black with a blue stripe in front. AND SHE ‘CHECKED’ HER DOG, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT!!! I swear. If she didn’t have me to depend on, I don’t know what she’d do. Probably end up at Buena Vista doing a kids show or something. Shudder.

So I’m at this party the other day at an Italian restaurant (no names – but it ends in “Garden” … don’t hate me because I’m rich white trash!) and I’m telling this hilarious story about the Bush Twins – turns out they’re not really twins and that one of them was just slow (daddy’s mostest drunkest sperm got to the egg first?) and got held back two years but they didn’t want to hurt her feelings so they made up the twins thing. Two points for guessing which. Anyway, so the guy goes, “So you’re like the person at the party that people talk about from across the room … like … ‘Who invited him?’ … which I took a real compliment! So I called my PR assistant and got this site set up. I like it. So on to me.

Growing up in LA and NYC is tough – but it’s even harder with rich rich rich parents who know everyone who is someone. My dad is an accountant and apparently really good at his job. My mom … well, no one advises on fashion like her. So here I am. I’m a spoiled brat with too much money, too much time and not enough attention, and sometimes I need to strike out at my friends, at The Industry, at LA, at myself. Well, not a lot at myself. Mostly my friends. Mostly.

There are three of us who hang – and please DON’T ever call us Charlie’s Angels cuz Tori Spelling gets really upset what with the recent passing of her dad and everything – and we all specialize in a certain area: Bunny does hair, ZsaZsa does clothes, and I (Brad) do Personality.

What you read here and the pictures I share are the unabashed-gods-honest- cross-your-heart-and-hope- to-not-get-caught-fucking-while-on- the-phone-truth. Please only share this info with your closest – and I mean closest like Romy and Michele close, not like Mary-Kate and Ashley fake close.

That’s all.