The Real World: McLean Hospital*

As if there needed to be more evidence of my lack of life, I'm going to go ahead and admit that I still sometimes watch "The Real World." I'm not proud of this, but I can't help myself. The worst is when MTV runs a marathon on the weekends; if I had a nickel for every beautiful Saturday or Sunday I have wasted because I was sitting slack-jawed and drooling in front of the TV, unable to tear myself away from some asinine MTV marathon, I could buy out Trump.

Take last Sunday for instance. Sunny, low 70s, not a cloud in the sky...and yet, there I was beached out on the couch in my pajamas with a bag of chips at my side in the middle of day. If that wasn't bad enough, I was hypnotized by the latest eps of the Key West installment of RW—not because it's good or engaging or even fun to make fun of, but because I think that they may finally have a certified mental patient in the cast. And I thought Frankie the Cutter from the San Diego season had issues—I honestly can't figure out if this chick has some truly serious issues or is simply an attention whore of the highest order. Either way, I haven't felt this uncomfortable watching someone on TV since "The Ashlee Simpson Show."

First off, let's meet Paula. She's a 24-year-old desk jockey who claims to be from "a padded room" in Connecticut. If her virtually unreadable MySpace page is any indication, she's a party girl! Who loves to drink! And loves to party! WHOOOOOOO! She only looks sweet and innocent! She can go from zero to bitch in 1.3 seconds! In other words, she was a shoo-in to become one of the Seven Strangers. Other things you can learn from her page is that she loves Nicole Ritchie (who she seems to be taking diet tips from), she deperately wants to meet the "inventor" of Miller Lite, and she appears to be a drunk of the "You'rrrre my bethst friend!" then starts sobbing variety. (She also loves annoying avatars and ridiculous "Which 'Sex and the City' gal are you"-style quizzes. Warning: I almost had a seizure looking at that page, so prepare yourself.)

Her MTV profile describes her as "Confrontational, yet sensitive; bitchy, yet likeable; damaged, yet self-aware; attractive, yet insecure." You may sarcastically say (as I did), "Wow, what a brave new avenue for RW to cast someone of this ilk." But seriously, this chick's issues are on par with those in a V.C. Andrews novel. In the first five episodes, the following things have happened:

• A clip from Paula's try-out video is shown where she says, quote: "I'm kinda, a little bit bulimic." As opposed to completely, full-on bulimic, I guess.

• She continues to call her mentally and physically abusive ex, who once beat her up to the point that she had to be taken to the hospital, and she drunkenly tells everyone unfortunate enough to be within shouting distance about it. Unless that person is, of course, actually qualified to help her deal with these issues.

• She whimpers to one of her roommates that she thinks she is not pretty or smart and doesn't want anyone looking at her, which I'm sure is why she signed up to be followed around by television cameras every day for five whole months.

• During an argument with roommate John, she accuses him of having a small dick and he retorts that she has small tits, leading Paula to sob hysterically and begin hyperventilating to the point that the car they are riding in must be pulled over so she can get out, crumple to the ground and fan herself dramatically.

• She announces that eating a slice of pizza would make her depressed.

• She takes diet pills and then drinks alcohol on top of them, on an empty stomach mind you, and then passes out by the pool area.

• She compulsively cockblocks John.

• She declares that her biggest fear is becoming "pudgy, fat, single, alone forever." However, doesn't seem to think that having crimped hair is problem.

• She downs bar snacks and then starts sobbing

Roommate Janelle described Paula as "a wet puppy" that you want to help, and this is perhaps the most coherant and insightful observation ever made on this show. Yes, she is a pitiful little lost yappy lapdog, but I also loathe her. There's nothing worse than a crying drunk with 99 problems. "Hey, everybody, let's party! WHOOOOOO! Look at me! I'm dancing on the bar and making out with other girls! I'm so fucking fun and wild and out of control...but I hate myself and want to die! Everyone just sees a skinny blonde party girl! But I'm crying on the inside!" I know I'm a big uncaring meanie, but I feel like I should be getting paid $95 an hour just to watch.

In other "news," the Real World's hunchbacked stepsibling Road Rules is being resurrected with a "new format." Unless that involves a gladiator tournament to the death, I'm not watching.

OK, I lied. I probably will watch. Because I have serious problems.

* Disclaimer: I'm mean. I know this. But understand that I'm not making fun of this girl's serious issues; I am making fun of (a.) the fact that she chose to air them on a reality TV show, on MTV no less, and (b.) MTV's drooling willingness to air them, with nothing but an arbitrary message "to find out more" at the end of each Very Special Episode. And, again, if my time is being wasted in this manner, I should at least be getting paid.

Abracadouchebag

Fucking David Blaine. Somebody needs to put a stop to this guy, stat, because he's got another stupid stunt up his sleeve, and I've had just about enough of it.

If you don't know who David Blaine is, count your blessings, as he is officially one of the most useless and annoying people in America. It's true. The National Center for Useless and Annoying People (NCUAP)'s offical logo is a picture of him. Anyway, this guy's deal is that he performs these asinine feats in an attempt to become a modern-day Houdini. But unlike the great escapes performed by the legendary magician, Blaine's stunts are not even really stunts—it's basically just him doing *things* for a long period of time. Like standing on a pole. Or laying in a box. Or sitting in ice. For a long period of time.

"So what?" you say. "Big deal! Who cares?" E-fucking-xactly.

Not only that, but he performs these superfluous feats with a smugly heightened sense of seriousness and importance. He "practices." He prepares. He broods. And he still finds time to wax his eyebrows. After performing a stunt in which he was "buried alive" in a plexiglass coffin in NYC, he pretentiously had this to say: "There were Chassidic Jews standing next to Muslim cabdrivers who were next to black kids. Businessmen in designer suits stood beside heavily pierced street kids. Every conceiveable social type was represented. I saw something truly incredible. I saw every race, every age-group, and every religion gathered together smiling, and that made everything worth it. I saw magic." Take that, Blackstone! Blaine solves the world's problems with his magic. What have YOU done lately? Nothing quite so monumental, I suppose.

Not surprisingly, few take David Blaine as seriously as he takes himself. When he encased himself in ice for 62 hours on a New York City street, Howard Stern sent the Wack Pack down to flip him off, flash him and generally shower him with the harrassment he so richly deserves. When he suspended himself in a glass box over the Thames in London for 44 days with only water to drink, the Brits pelted the box with anything they could get their hands on, flew hamburgers by him on a remote-controlled plane and held delicious-smelling barbeques under the box. The Brits—they are the best! They sure can take the piss out of anyone, can't they?

Anyway, Blaine is back with a brand new ridiculous stunt: he will float around for a week in a "human aquarium" at Lincoln Center. Allegedly he will stay under water the whole time, breathing through a straw and recieving nourishment through a feeding tube. What fun is that? It would have been better if the aquarium is also filled with sea creatures that he has to catch, kill with his bare hands and consume—now THAT'S enterainment. Or what if they introduced a new, deadly ocean beast into the tank every day? On the first day, a blue-ringed octopus. Next, a Portugese man-o-war. And for the grand finale, a sea wasp—the most dangerous creature in all the sea! Let's see him break the world's record for holding breath under water (which he plans to do his final day in the aquarium) with stinging tentacles, snapping piranha teeth and octopus ink all up in his face.

Unfortunately, it appears we will only be getting Blaine in all his glory, prancing about in his big, stupid aquarium, all satisfied with himself. Naturally, his big breath-holding extravaganza will be televised, and I for one will NOT be watching. I'm sure if something really good happens (like he gets the bends), it'll show up on the 'net somewhere.

For his next stunt, I'd like to see him go trick-for-trick against Doug Henning. Nobody can sit on a rainbow like Henning can. Nobody.

Four twenty: Hey, bud, let's party

Four and twenty blackbirds, baked.

ANOTHER EXCLUSIVE: No, sir, the TomKat fetus doesn't like it

Good day, RockitQueen, and Happy Easter! Did the Easter Bunny visit you? Unfortunately, he seemed to have skipped my house. I'm sure Scientology has some kind of retarded edict banning marshmellow peeps and Cadbury creme eggs so the thetans don't get too hopped up on sugar, because my mom hasn't been consuming anything delicious like that. Guess I'll have to do without this year.

I just wanted to say thanks for letting me bitch. My current situation is less than satisfactory and if you haven't noticed, the shit hasn't just hit the fan—it's splattered all over the walls and is soaking into the carpet. Believe me, I'm trying to figure out a way that I can just stay in Mom's belly, not only because I know the world is going to be scrutinizing me upon my emergence, but also because my dad is batshit crazy and is preparing to use me on some kind of PR jag to promote his stupid new movie.

In fact, he's already started. First, there was the publication of this embarrassing picture in GQ magazine with his hands all over my mom trying to look manly and like he's way into chicks. Come on, I'm not stupid and neither are you. I'll be raised by this guy and I'll call him "Dad" and everything, but you and I both know that my real father is a turkey baster. Seriously, remove your hands from Mom and knock it off with all the mania and mind-melding.

My mom is not exempt from this rant, and I'm going to be frank here: bitch is greedy. All you need to do is show her the money and she's a vacant-eyed Stepford girl with built-in robotic responses and a permanent glazed expression. Yeah, yeah, I love her and all that jazz, but let's face it: she wasn't going to win any Academy Awards and, now that Michelle Williams is a Hollywood golden girl, the chances of a "Dawson's Creek: The Post-College Years" series are pretty much nil. What's a girl to do? Hmm, how about get embroiled in a freaky high-profile "relationship" with a fading A-lister, fake like you're in love with each other and gallavant around the world awkwardly kissing and making well-calculated public appearances. Then, just add a baby (me!) and voila! Instant tabloid darlings!

Which brings me to the most humiliating portion of my week: my dad's overenthusiastic public declarations about how great it is to do it with my mom! Let me tell you, the embarrassment I feel at his eager blatherings is unparalleled. In the same GQ article he shoots off at the mouth about how "spectacular" you-know-what is and how they have such great communication, yada yada yada. Gross! Imagine hearing your dad talk about what a great lay your mom is—that's bad enough. Now imagine he says it in a national magazine to be permanently on record for your friends to pull out and use against you later in life. I know how it is, and this is just setting me up to be mocked and ridiculed. As you can well imagine, I'm not happy about it!

I guess there is not much I can do at this point, but you better believe I am fully prepared to save the most spit-up and bad poopy diaper incidents for him. Hopefully, I can drop a good load on the red carpet or at an auditing session or somewhere else of equally bad timing.

I also think my first word will have to be "help". Lord knows I need it. Thanks again for listening. You rock.

Sincerely,
The TomKat Fetus

P.S. I heard a little bit of the dailies of Mission Impossible 3 and I cried for the first time.

Are you there, god? It's me, RockitQueen...

Dear god,

Bless mom and dad and sister and kitty and all my family and friends. Please bestow peace on the world and help all the sick, starving, hurt and destitute.

And, if you would, please send a special prayer to Sean Preston Spears Federline in the hopes that his little head feels better from that suspicious "tumble" he took out of his high chair and that he can forgive his mommy and daddy for waiting six whole days to take him to the hospital. I hope Sean Preston understands that his daddy is trying very hard to launch his career as The Great White Dope and simply can't bother with time-consuming hospital visits—he has lots and lots of rhyme-dropping to do. And mommy, well...one day SP will understand that mommy is just a big dum-dum. Like when she gives Sean half of her bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos to gum 'cause it's easier than having her assistant open up two bags? That's not smart. Or when she pokes the soft spot on his head because she thinks she might be able to feel his brain thinking? That's not smart either. Some day he will understand, but in the meantime, please make sure that he has at least one good nanny that isn't afraid to break the confidentiality agreement to help him out.

Anyway, thanks for listening, god. I'm confident that you'll do the right thing.

Amen,
RockitQueen

The National Park Service needs to get with it

The National Park Service announced last week that Graceland will now join the parade of dead presidents' homes and other boring historical sites as an official Historic National Monument. Yee-ha—I love it! It's a rock n' roll mecca and one of the most popular tourist stops in the country. It's well-done, serving as a one-stop-shop to all things Elvis, where you can see the house, cars, planes, costumes, awards, etc., plus visit E's final resting place. And it's also a very fucking cool attraction that is very deserving of this honor.

Which brings me to my point du jour: it's about time the Park Service made an effort to ramp up their cool factor. For years schoolkids and tour groups have had to suffer through tedious monologues about the War of 1812 or how years of erosion shaped this or that, blah blah blah. Thousands of family vacations have been ruined because, hey, who wants to go to Gatorama or to see a two-headed cow when we can listen to some elderly docent drone on about Thomas Jefferson's swivel bookstand or Millard Fillmore's chamberpot? We've all been dragged through some stale-smelling "historic home" and subjected to placards and stories about looms and smithing and life on the farm. God help you if there is a gristmill out back.

Now the swingin' crash pad that's filled to the hilt with the tackiest shit you've ever seen in your life, where the King of Rock & Roll died on the toilet, is considered historic! I have hope that perhaps the NPS is finally coming around. Why stop there? No more of this "Paul Revere Stood Here" bullshit—let's add some more cool sites with historic merit to the list. Here are some helpful suggestions:

• The Hotel Chelsea, New York City
OK, so this place has been around since 1884 and the list of notable people that have stayed there is endless—Mark Twain, O Henry, Thomas Wolfe, Dylan Thomas, et al—but I'm sure nine out of every 10 people that passes by the building says, "Oh my god, that's where Sid killed Nancy!" The King of Rock n' Roll lived and died at Graceland, and the King and Queen of Punk Rock lived and died at the Chelsea—it only makes sense.

• The Liberace Museum, Las Vegas
This place would give Graceland a serious run for its money in the tchotchke department. Where else could you see a disco-mirrored grand piano, feather-adorned outfits that would make that thing that Cher wore that one time look like a nun's habit, and a collection of tasteless costume jewelry that rivals no other (including a 115,000-carat rhinestone). Imagine school groups learning about "Mr. Showmanship," while being led past his very own red, white and blue hotpants outfit and rhinestone-covered roadster—the kids would be all over it! I believe this man's world-class collection of gaudy crap is of historic interest and should finally get the iconic recognition it deserves by the U.S. government.

• The Brady Bunch House, N. Hollywood
If I showed the average person side-by-side pictures of this house and, say, Chester A. Arthur's boyhood home, which one do you think they would recognize? And if this modest-yet-mod, middle-class abode doesn't just scream "Americana", well, then I don't know what does. The current owners are apparantly very upset by all the tourists tromping around in their begonias and shouting "Porkchops and applesauce!" at all hours of the day and night, so they have erected some kind of privacy fence to keep curiosity-seekers at bay. The NPS should buy them out, open the house to the public and give the people what they want. Think of all the questions that could finally be answered. Why would an architect with six kids design a house with only three bedrooms? Was there really no toilet? Where did Alice sleep anyway? And finally, the age-old mystery of who got the attic would be solved! Sick side note: Another house I thought about mentioning for a possible historic marker was 10050 Cielo Drive, but decided that it would be in poor taste. In my defense, it IS the site of arguably the most infamous crime of modern times, and Alcatraz and Ford's Theater are on the list, so you can see where...oh, nevermind. I'm ashamed that I even mentioned it.

• The Cathouse, Los Angeles
So much debauchery has happened at this infamous Sunset Strip rockery that there needs to be, at the very least, some kind of monument here—a bronze reproduction of Vince Neil passed out on the sidewalk out front would work. Anyway, imagine how much fun it would be to lead fanny-packed tourists through as they eagerly snap keepsake photos of the very spot where the bass player from Jetboy ODed. "And this is the barstool that Nikki Sixx crashed his Harley into when he rode into the club naked." "Slash once fell down this very staircase, taking an artificial Christmas tree along with him." "That vomity stench you smell comes from years and years of throw-up jettisoning from the throats of '80s rock greats like Taime Downe, Tracii Guns and Chip Z'Nuff." I really think I'm on to something with this one. Does anyone know how to get ahold of Riki Rachtman? We need to start the paperwork immediately and assemble a dedicated group to lobby Congress—if we could get Axl on board, I think we could really win them over.

Speaking of famous rock clubs, I seriously think CBGB has some pretty good clout to be made into a National Monument. It would be the perfect way to help save it from foreclosure—turn it into a monument and preservation society to American rock and punk. I would go as far as to say that this club has introduced more Rock N' Roll Hall of Famers, like The Ramones, Blondie and The Talking Heads, into the public lexicon than perhaps any other place in the world. What do you say? Let's put a little more of the "H" into history and a little more of the "cult" back into culture. No more should innocent children and travelers be exposed to dull lectures on trundle beds and silt loam and boring white guys wearing powdered wigs.

Come on, NPS, let's make learning SEXY!

Really shitty movies that you simply must see

Things have been a little intense around here lately, so I thought I'd lighten the mood with another fun list. This time I'm counting down 10 movies that are really, really bad but totally worth a rental. You'll laugh your head off, but then you'll probably cry afterwards because even the cost of the rental is sometimes too much.

Anaconda
J-Lo, Ice Cube and Eric Stoltz are filming a movie about the elusive giant anaconda, but get lost in the jungle only to run into an inexplicably-accented Jon Voight who offers to help them catch the coveted creature. The absurdity includes Owen Wilson's face bulging through snakeskin, Voight strangling a chick with his thighs and a totally improbable J-Lo/Stoltz romance subplot. This movie is a must-see for one reason only: the snake pukes up Voight in what is my favorite stupid-funny scene of all time.

Fear
Marky-Mark jacks Reese Witherspoon off on a rollercoaster (the hill equals climax!) and then stalks and terrorizes her and her family in an attempt to make her his "4 eva." CSI's William Peterson plays the skeevy patriarch, and Alyssa Milano is the slutty friend.

Friends 'til The End
This is a TV movie that is sometimes shown on VH1's "Movies That Rock" and, boy, is this one worth a viewing. Shannen Doherty plays a sorority chick who is also the lead singer of her cute boyfriend's horrible band. She befriends the new girl at school who moves into the sorority house, horns in on the band and starts macking on Shannen's man. Take a drink every time Shannen says, "You're ruining my life!" But promise you won't drive afterwards.

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle
Hell hath no fury like a woman who wants a baby. I get the feeling the TomKat fetus may be in for something a bit like this.

Hard Target
Van Damme as a drifter with a heart of gold. Lance Hendrickson as a hunter of human prey. Wilford Brimley as Van Damme's moonshine-swilling Cajun uncle. "Careless is what you are, Randall. Careless and stupid and now you're sorry, too."

Hush
Jessica Lange gets all Shante Kimes with her son when he knocks up and weds Scarecrow Paltrow. See, she's the headmistress of a lucrative horse farm and doesn't want anyone's hands on her son's share...or her son, for that matter. If you saw this movie without knowing anything about Gwynnie and I told you she would go on to win an Oscar, you'd totally laugh in my face. And then you'd throw up.

Motel Hell
There's something strange about Farmer Vincent's fritters, which he sells at a roadside stand outside a little no-tell motel just off the freeway. Bet you can't guess what it is! This movie is meant to be a parody of slasher flicks, but it's stupid-fun all the same.

Reefer Madness
It takes over the minds of teens after just one shocking puff! It leads otherwise good citizens to go on shocking, uncontrollable murderous rampages! It makes the most mild-mannered of people drooling, drug-crazed "undesireables" with only one shocking thing on their minds—another score! It's that most dangerous, destructive, violent and shocking of drugs...POT! Unintentially hilarious scenes include a girl in the midst of a pot-induced freakout jumping out a window and a guy who smokes a doob and starts...playing the piano. But shockingly fast.

Showgirls
Need I say more? It's one of the best dumb movies ever. Added bonus fun: watch the pool scene on fast-advance. She's got heat, all right—the heat of an outboard motor.

Valentine
Someone is sending abusive Valentine cards to snooty chicks and then wacking them in the worst of ways. Their offenses? They all spurned the advances of a nerdy classmate years earlier. Denise Richards is the bitchy one (named "Paige Prescott" no less), Kate Capshaw is the rich one, Angel is the sensitive hunky one, Marley Shelton is the perky good one, and the guy who played Matt on "90210" is the asshole. Rent this on V-Day and share it with someone you'd love to kill.

The best threat ever

Hurry up and tie off: it's the extreme metal fix you've been waiting for. Chop chop! This is a good one.

Today we are dealing with a man that is so hardcore anti-Christian that he has BURNED A FUCKING INVERTED CROSS INTO HIS FOREHEAD. Not many would fuck with a hater of this magnitude, but one dedicated group has succeeded in being a thorn in this guy's side for years.

But first let's meet your new boyfriend. This is a super-hot pic of Glen Benton, lead singer and bass player of the Florida death metal group Deicide (that's "god-killing" for those of you who think Latin is dead). Glen has served as a counterpoint talking head on Christian talk radio shows and once proclaimed that in order to live a life opposite of Jesus Christ he would commit suicide at age 33. He didn't, and went on to create such sing-along hits as "Bible Basher" and "Confessional Rape." He's also a big proponent of animal sacrifice and once said in an interview: "I partake in fuckin' what I would fuckin' consider fuckin' ceremonies, I don't fuckin'—I'm completely against god." Hmm. Confusing. I'm not entirely clear on his beliefs, so let's move on.

This is where the Animal Militia comes in. This European organization makes PETA look like lightweights; they claim to stop at nothing to save animals, including fighting to the (human) death. After sending terroristic letters, menacing concertgoers and generally making life miserable for Glen Benton, they showed their dedication to the cause by exploding a protest bomb at a Deicide concert in Stockholm, Sweden. They also write the very best threats ever, including this one that I plagerized from "Lords of Chaos". Observe:

Re: Deicide
Stockholm was just a taste of what is to come.
Benton is living his schoolboy fantasy but this is real life—wise up!
He's paranoid about Christians following him, Benton, there is NO god, there is NO satan,
as you are about to discover, the hard way.
You amuse us with your 'Ramboesque' threats of violence, and 'model boy' posing next to
inverted crosses, how dangerous, how desperate.
You are the irritating piece of shit we must scrape off the sole of the world's shoe.
You are the man in the spotlight, we are the invisible, we have our contacts and
we can be whoever we choose to be. The passenger at the airport, the van on the
roadway, room service at the hotel, the fan at the gig, or the security!
This city is ruled by the gun—anything's possible.
Benton, the venues and the press have all been warned, if innocent people suffer their
blood will be on the hands of the people behind the gigs, WE will not be held responsible.
Hell, this is going to be our easiest target to date, our only regret is that
Benton won't suffer enough, we'll try our best!
Wednesday 16th December at a venue we know inside out, this is going to be armageddon.
This is the final warning, shit, if Salman Rushdie had Bentons brain he would have
been dead years ago.
We thank you for your time
AM

Awesome. My favorite part is the reference to Glen's ridiculous "scary" photo ops in descecrated cemeteries. While I love the incessent poking they've plagued Glenny with, I don't understand why they felt the need to thank him for his time at the end of the letter. Don't thank him—bombs away! Glen needs knocked down a few notches, and this is your opportunity to come up with some creative dogging. How about filling the tour bus with gnats and fleas? Or hiding a hive full of pissed-off bees inside the kick drum? Or releasing a pack of rabid wolves lose on him during a stage show? I bet the crowd would love that.

Deicide's new album, cleverly titled "The Stench of Redemption", is due out 6/6/06—get it? Now that took some planning. I'll bet they finished this album five years ago, but sat on it just so they could release it on 666. I wonder how many death and black metal albums will release that day? Guess I know what I will be posting about on June 6. Sorry, life, I can't come and get you just yet.

On a related note, it seems that I have spilled something on my copy of "Lords of Chaos," as some of the pages are all mucked up. Luckily it doesn't seem to be beer, so I think this edition can be salvaged.

On a non-related note (except for the part about having no life), should it worry me that I'm really looking forward to the premire of "King of Cars" tonight on A&E? God, I need help.

Never mind the bullocks...it's Pete Doherty

"All of us are in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

The cracksmoking creature pictured at left is called Pete Doherty, singer of the British alt.-lite-punkers Babyshambles, but you may know him as The Guy That Kate Moss Got Busted Hoovering With Last Year. If you're anything like me, you love a good public breakdown, especially if it stars a bitter, out-of-control, drug-addled rock star—and let me tell ya, Pete Doherty brings the bitter, the out-of-control and the drugs like no other rocker of the day.

Blowing rails with frail supermodels is the least of Petey's offenses. This is a guy who allegedly spends $1,500 a day on his habit, which includes pretty much every illegal substance known to man, and some that haven't even been discovered yet, has had 10 run-ins with the law since January, and last week pleaded guilty to seven counts of hardcore drug possession. After the verdict was read, he kicked a microphone out of a reporter's hand, climbed over a wall outside the courthouse and swerved off down the road in a new Jaguar. Gang way, birdbait...Petey needs a fix!

Even more bizarre, recent internet claims speculate that Pete's power drugging and supermodel corrupting are an elaborate hoax designed to poke fun at the media's love of real-life soap operas. The people supposedly responsible for cooking up this whole story are ex-members of '90s one-hit-wonders The KLF (remember "3 a.m. Eternal"—"KLF, uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh"?) Allegedly, the two KLFers discovered Pete when he was a young Buddy Holly impersonator (riga wha?) and drafted him to be the centerpiece in the biggest media hoax in UK history. Yeah, I couldn't make this stuff up.

Besides all that, Pete has been a favorite son of the evil British media since his days in the late, great lo-fi/garage outfit The Libertines, during which he fought constantly (sometimes on stage) with bandmate Carl Barat and went so far as to burgle Barat's flat and sold the loot for drug money. Not surprisingly, The Libertines went on tour without him and broke up soon after. Pete went on to start Babyshambles, but has yet to get his shit together. He's been jailed countless times, flunked out of numerous rehabs, ODed at least once, wrecked several cars, performs solo gigs and private shows for fans to earn drug money and even fell asleep on stage in the middle of a Babyshambles gig. Hardly a week goes by without news of another arrest and it's really hard to keep them all straight. I swear I saw the headline "Pete Doherty arrested" about 873 times when I typed his name into Gawker.

The thing that makes looking away most difficult is that he makes no secret of his crack-headedness, openly smoking and shooting up during interviews and saying things like, "I'm 300 grand in debt. Why do you think I'm dating Kate Moss?" During the course of a recent Rolling Stone interview, he smoked and shot heroin, smoked crack and took an Ecstasy pill in front of the reporter. Even if there wasn't documented proof of this, you know anyone who has a gold-fronted ex-drug dealer named "Johnny Headlock" as a personal assistant is seriously smacking.

So I'm sure you'll completely understand why he has become an icon of sorts in his homeland. He was voted "Sexiest Male" by NME magazine readers and is also supposed to be the pillar of fashion in Londontown—all the little mods are donning the junkie look—fedoras, skinny ties, striped rugbys and Jackie O sunglasses. I'd personally describe his look as Baby Huey with an uncombed Louise Brooks bob haircut. Couple that with a requisite fag dangling from the corner of pouty but parched lips, perpetually cracked and blackened fingertips, a stylish chronic case of crackne and a loogie at the ready (to be hacked at errant journalists), and you are ready to hit the runway, superstar.

I have been reading so much about him lately that I thought I'd post about it. Up next: Whitney Houston's drug den, as exposed by The National Enquirer. What's the greatest love of all? Crack!

BREAKING: The Count beheads Federline!

In a tragic tale that has stunned and kind of saddened the world (but not THAT much), convicted murderer and black metaller Varg "Count Grishnackh" Vikernes broke out of a Norway prison, snuck into the cargo hold of a plane bound for Los Angeles, broke into the Spears/Federline compound and chopped the head off of professional mooch Kevin Federline. He then impaled the head on the "H" of the famous HOLLYWOOD sign then covered the "-LLYWOOD" with black cloth, so that the sign spelled "HO."

No motive for the heinous act has been uncovered, but jailers from Norway say a bootlegged copy of Federline's not-yet-released rap album was found in Vikernes' cell. It is unclear how Vikernes recieved the CD.

When finally reached for comment, popstress Britney Spears said of the crime, "Did you see the baby driving the car? He said 'Vrroom vrroom'! I want a Frappacino."

Vikernes is currently on the run from the law. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous. LAPD extends a serious warning to all hangers-on in the greater Los Angeles area to be on the lookout for a neo-nazi with a Scandinavian accent waving a machete and ranting about Mordor.

Happy April Fool's Day, mofos!