Hopefully, 2008 will be the year that Brooke Burke finally stops shoving penises into her vagina drumsticks into her mouth and starts working out more.

Seriously, what is she up to now? Like 200 kids pounds?

I don’t know about you, but if I was Sum 41 vocalist Deryck Whibley (aka Mr. Avril Lavigne), the last thing I would do would be to dress up like a vacationing Freddy Krueger while walking hand in hand with someone who looks and acts like a twelve-year-old. Especially if that supposed twelve-year-old weighed a whole lot more than me and I was already fighting an 8 mph crosswind coming across the parking lot. Because if you couple those odds with a few drunken fathers stumbling out of Chili’s, you’re looking at a good ol’ fashioned ass-kicking and maybe, if you’re especially lucky, some nice punctured lungs as a souvenir.

Special Note to Deryck Whibley: The safer option here would have been to dress up like Jerry Lee Lewis. No one fucks with that guy. He’s crazy.

I have to admit that, as a man of considerable musical taste, I am not a fan, nor do I think I think much of, Canadian “rocker” Avril Lavigne. I say this because, well, for one, her music sucks, and two, she seems to cater to those same whiny teenage girls I’m always trying to coax into my house get off my lawn.

Not only that, but there’s always been something else that’s bugged me about her — namely, this image she’s created for herself. I’m just not buying it. It’s like the more she goes around exuding this “look at me, I’m punk and tough and I like to spit on my fans” nonsense, the more I’m convinced she spends most of her free time trying to get her My Little Pony to eat her “awesome” concoctions of Smarties and Nerds.

Hell, even at the age of 22, her angst appears to be more pre-teen than teen, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she accidentally lets it slip one day that her favorite movie of all time is “High School Musical 2″. Just like I did last week. And now again.

So, with all that being said, here are some HDTV caps of Avril performing on Letterman last night, along with a video of that performance. Feel free to do whatever the hell you want with them –- laugh, point, cry, masturbate, photoshop your dead girlfriend’s head onto her body, print it out, cry some more, look up, yell “Why God?!? Why did you have to take her!?!”, crumble it up, go fuck her best friend, eat dinner –- I honestly don’t care.

I think it’s time for Avril Lavigne to learn a very important lesson. A lesson I like to call “the first person who sends me her two middle fingers in a box will receive a cashier’s check for one million dollars and a hug”.

Sorry Avril, but if you’re going to continue to act like an eight-year-old, we might as well go ahead and treat you like one.

Editor’s Note: This post was inspired by Sam Peckinpah’s “Bring Me The Head Of Alfredo Garcia”. Do yourself a favor and rent it this weekend instead of “The Break-Up”. And don’t worry about your girlfriend. If she starts to complain, just tell her that Alfredo Garcia is Spanish for Jennifer Aniston and that she should really shut her mouth before you shut it for her.