Friday, November 21, 2003

WULAD Quality, Friday-Style
After hours spent tabulating pledge amounts and hit counts for the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation this morning, I decided to take a break from that worthy cause to catch up on all the developments in the world of current events and refresh myself with a few news snippets. The first story to catch my eye was that the popular entertainer Michael Jackson (of “Say Say Say” fame) has been arrested for doing the nasty, or at least a nasty, with a young boy. His lawyer assured everyone that this was not the case:

"He is greatly outraged by these charges," Mr. Geragos said outside of the jail complex, in front of a phalanx of reporters, microphones and television cameras. ... He also said that if the accusations were true, "Michael would be the first to be outraged."
—Yeah, if Michael had molested that kid, Michael would be outraged. Well, if he later learns that he actually did commit the crime, I expect him to be appropriately outraged at himself and demand that he be punished to the fullest extent of the law, and to insist that he himself issue an apology to the fans, as well as to the person that his outrageous act has most outraged: himself.

In all seriousness, let me state that although I spent many a happy night at the Neverland Ranch during my Wrapped Up Like A Boyhood, Michael never successfully touched me in my private place; most evenings we stayed up late drinking oxygen shakes, talking about boys, performing plastic surgery on each other, and playing the MASH game (mine said that I would marry Liz Taylor, live in a trailer with my 28 kids and drive a Cadillac; Michael’s said he would marry me and live in my pants). But in spite of these allegations, I must stay true to how I’ve felt about Michael all along: he is a caring, kind, talented man, and is also the freakiest freakin’ freak in the freakin’ freak world of freaky freaks.

I also stopped by Dave Barry’s blog while on my idea-stealing, uh, make that inspiration-gathering, blog rounds, and discovered that many people have a crippling fear of peanut butter sticking to the roofs of their mouths. (Do they still fear this even when they’re not eating peanut butter? I have many questions to ask these unfortunate souls.) But thankfully, this program isn’t limited to arachibutyrophobics—help is now available for those poor folks who spend every waking moment in mortal dread ofLuckily, the best cure for the irrational fear of phobias is racing slot cars against a parrot.

And speaking of parrots, Paris Hilton stopped by last night on her way to a gold-plated toilet plunger auction in Monaco; while painting my toenails, sipping Red Bull & bourbon and listening to a mix CD she and Nikki had made for me the night before, she told me she’s feeling better and better about the use of her crotch shot to raise money for Afghanistan relief efforts. “But, dearest Ian,” she said as she delicately placed cotton balls between each of my dazzlingly adorned toes, “it really is out of our hands. You’ve issued the challenge; it is your diligent readers who must now rise to the task with their generous pledges. My crotch cannot win this fight alone.” Then she threw up.