Just a quick update to let everyone know that Jessica Alba has apparently gotten back together with her ex-boyfriend Cash Warren. Well, at least she thinks she has since I’ve been wearing his skin for a while now. And mimicking his voice. Which, to be honest, really isn’t mimicking as much as just remembering to reassure her that she’s hotter than Jessica Biel when asking her for money every day.

Editor’s Note: Forgive me for cutting this post short, but I’m typing this from her bedroom right now and would really hate to wake either her or Angelina. Or the donkey. He’s such a light sleeper.

I can’t believe it has been twelve days since I last updated this blog. It seems like just yesterday I was wishing for the death of Paris Hilton and myself (in that order, of course – I mean, why waste all that energy trying to perfectly time an orgasm with a gunshot when all it takes to die with a smile on your face is Paris Hilton being mauled to death by Ving Rhames and/or his pack of rabid dogs) and fielding not one hateful e-mail because of it. Thanks, guys.

For those wondering where I’ve been, I can only say that I was off doing God’s work (or Santa’s – whichever one sounds like less bullshit to you) and that I now walk a wee bit slower thanks to all these new medals on my chest.

For those who haven’t been wondering where I’ve been and were instrumental in coaxing me out that fetal position in my bedroom closet, I can only say that you’re all a real pain in the ass.

Seriously, guys, if I really wanted a ten-day pep talk, I would have simply parachuted into a tree in Tony Robbins’ backyard and watched as he tried to rescue me with speeches on empowerment and toothpaste laced with steroids. And before you all go congratulating yourselves on getting me out of that closet, you should know that I was only getting up to kick all your asses and that I would have too if I didn’t take those two steps and faint. Damn you, need for food.

Anyway, I guess the point of this post is to simply mark my return – although, to be honest, I’m not going to kick back into high gear until September – and to announce that Jessica Biel is now wearing clothes inspired by the walls of your local library. She wants to remind everyone to read. And masturbate.*

*In case you were wondering what the short skirt was for.

Why? Because I have a toothache that is slowly driving me mad. Seriously, I wish I was dead already.

Oh yeah, and here’s a picture of Paris Hilton giving her dog herpes at her summer home in Malibu. I wish her dead too.

Editor’s Note: Oh merry day! I’m off to the emergency room because I just saw John Goodman in the mirror.

Editor’s Update: Woo Hoo! Hydrocodone! The party starts —————–> here.

Editor’s High: Woo Hoo! The pain is gone and I no longer want to die. I still, however, want Paris Hilton dead. Hurray for consistency!

Special Note To Todd: You need to continue your education so I can count on a steady supply of this shit.

Because she’s a big movie star who’s obviously better than everyone else (except maybe other big movie stars – and then only a good ol’ fashioned coke snorting contest could measure that), I’m going to automatically assume that Keira Knightley really doesn’t know these fine gentlemen behind her.

In fact, judging by the way she’s holding onto her purse and checking her pocket to make sure that her dime bag’s still there, I’d say she’s about two seconds away from breaking into a sprint and yelling “Rape!” or “Inappropriate Fondling Imminent!” or whatever the hell these snooty English broads like to scream.

Editor’s Note: Check out the guy who’s been playing with chalk all day. He looks like one of those public masturbators I’m always reading about in TIME. Apparently, they walk around with their hands in their pockets all day except that their pants have NO POCKETS and they’re not wearing any underwear either. It’s really quite ingenious when you think about it – much better than wearing those long tan trench coats and having people mistake for some pervert flasher.

Here’s a picture of John Travolta with wife Kelly Preston and wife eater Kirstie Alley at the Scientology Celebrity Centre’s 38th anniversary gala last Saturday. Isn’t it odd how they all look so deceptively normal? Like they’re not even Scientologists, but instead run-of-the-mill Roman Catholics out celebrating the death of a homosexual and his descent into hell. Although I guess if that was truly the case, their smiles would be a lot wider and there wouldn’t be any robot waiters in the background.

Editor’s Note: Let’s forget for a moment that Kirstie Alley looks like a chicken in drag and instead concentrate on what the fuck is going on with Travolta’s hair. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure if it’s a toupee or my Social Studies book. I’ve been looking for that for a while now.