Crazy Is The New Hot!

Dear Joey Lawrence,

How did you manage to look like Daddy Warbucks, Mr. Clean, a devil worshiper, my big toe and a bouncer at a gay club all at the same time? and WHAT exactly is this evil spell you cast over me that makes me think that you're

SO.

FRIGGIN.

HOT.

My lust for you has been a secret and quietly contained in the back of my mind under all other things that I'm ashamed of (speaking of which, how is my, "Love for Payless Shoes and Hulk Hogan" doing back there? Tell them I said hi!) And although your cheesiness factor is on a level so high that you leave a snail trail of cheese wiz on all your endeavors, I find myself secretly following behind you with a box of Ritz Crackers and a bib.
But this time, your creepy chrome dome will be on T.V everyday again via Dancing With The Stars. I'm afraid that amidst the twirling, the high kicks and the glare of studio lights bouncing off the top of your head, my love is going to burst forth and be known to all the world. I don't know if I can contain my Lawrence Love anymore! Why do you do this to me Joey? Why do you make me feel like a lovestruck Six? Why do I want to rub that crazy bald head of yours? Do you think you still dance with a midget humping your leg?

We could soon find out.

WHoA!

Love, me.


Dear Paramount,

Speaking of crazy... you DARE cut ties with Tom? The man who's fattened up your wallets so tight that you got panty lines from your depends?!?!?
YOU DARE SMITE upon the CRUISE-A-TRON?!!

Riddle me this oh' Paramount execs....

-What do you call a man who believes that we're all infected with bitter old alien seed?

-What do you call a man who will jump on Oprah's holy couch to profess his super straight love for Kate?

-What do you call a man who throws Good Nature vitamins at postpartum depression and spits upon Matt Lauer's so-called "good journalism" and expensive Armani suit?

-What do you call a man who has made the word "Glib" a worldwide phenomena?

-What do you call a man who's urine cures cancer and who's vitamin rich poop can feed a small Cambodian village?

Three words: YOUR. WORST. NIGHTMARE.

Be careful Paramount Execs and check under your beds, for I see an anal probe in your future.

Viva la Crazy.
Viva la Cruise.

I love you Tom.
(beeboobop beebodlgrrple knock ding ding wala wala shiZaaaaM!..you know what that means. wink wink.. gotta glow in the dark strap-on with your name on it baby...give me a call.)

Love, Me.

Dear Rosie,

Hey congrats on getting that slot on The View. Truly.
Congrats. Hurrah of all hurrahs and all that crap.
I'm only sad that Star's saggy ass didn't stay around for the chubby, butchy fun.

However, I'm writing you this letter to remind you to take a small baby step back into the closet. Less "opinions," and more funny please ..oh and less fried chicken girl.. you lookin' a little swollen. Call Nicole Ritchie. Her willpower is admirable, if not life threatening.
Last but not least, remember, you're not the boss anymore. Be careful.

Barbara bites.

Hard.

Your girlfriend told me.

Love, Me.


Dear Britney,

I was not surprised that, when you introduced your leech to world on the Nick's Viewer's Choice Awards, you were, yet again, chewing away on a piece of Hubba Bubba bubble gum like it was a piece of cud. I was not at all surprised that you chose to wear a nightie that could barely house your motherfunbags. I wasn't even surprised when your husband's debut failed to register an emotion out of me besides a mild case of nauseau before I quickly turned the channel.

Not surprising of the Federlines. It is, perhaps, what we have come to expect from Hollywood's Favorite Trailer Couple.

However, I was surprised and a slightly amused by the fact that when Jessica Simpson asked to kiss your belly. You looked her up and down like the ghetto ass you are and told her "Oh HELL NO!!" before waddling away and leaving her coughing in your Cheetoh dust. At first I was taken aback that, with you two in the same room, a supernova black hole of idiocy didn't open up and end all of mankind. After getting over that initial shock, I was...dare I say.... a tad... PROUD!?!
Proud, that as a mother, you FINALLY realized that your love for pork rinds and K-Fag's love for Archie comics will, unfortunately, be passed onto your brood.
Why risk getting Jessica's Dad's herpes on your belly on TOP of all that? And what IF Jessica's powers of stupid is SO incredibly strong that, by the mere touch of her lips, it will somehow pass on her penchant for canned tuna (chicken?) to your unborn child?
So, congratulations Britney, for showing us evidence that, even though most of the time it is on "idle" (or "off"), your brain does work indeed. (sometimes).

Love, Me.


That's it.
I'm spent.
HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND EVERYONE!!!!