If you were out doing something important last week like, say, leading a group of orphans across Africa in an attempt to save them from the liver-spotted hands of a white devil named Madonna, then you probably haven’t heard the latest news about Jaime Pressly yet. And before you get too excited, I should tell you right now that she isn’t dead nor dying nor been kidnapped by an angry group of Juliette Lewis fans intent on getting their idol a new starring role on “My Name is Earl”. [Sorry Juliette, but screaming into a microphone while sweating all over the place is really the only way you’re going to eat nowadays. Enjoy the rest of your life, you rebel.]

No, instead Jaime Pressly is alive and well, and apparently, now happily engaged to a friend she’s known for the past nine years. His name? DJ Eric Cubiche. The amount of alcohol it takes before he starts reciting the long list of men his fiancé has slept with? Three beers and a shot. Sometimes less if he skipped lunch that day.

So far, there’s been no word yet on when the marriage will actually take place, but I doubt Jaime’s too concerned about a little detail like that. After all, she’s got more important things to do like show off her engagement ring to everybody and show off her engagement ring to everybody while showing off her engagement ring to everybody. Yeah, Oskar Schindler she ain’t.

All of which brings me to a little pet peeve of mine [wow, just writing “pet peeve” made me feel gay] – the constant fawning over something like an engagement ring; as if it actually serves some kind of purpose besides that of just sitting there on a woman’s hand waiting to get lost or stolen. For once, I would love to see a woman – when asked about her engagement and the absence of a ring – answer by saying, “I decided to go with the plasma and trip to Hawaii instead.” Ah, the sexiness of pragmatism.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Jessica, but dressing up like Nancy Sinatra from “The Wild Angels” will not get you Peter Fonda. Nor will doing mounds of coke get you Dennis Hopper. Those guys are clean now and have grandchildren and stuff. They don’t run around with hussies like you anymore. I do though, so hey, give me a call. Just make sure you have proof of your shots before you come over. The kids don’t call me Colonel Cautious for nothing.

Editor’s Note: Hey, did someone just mention Nancy Sinatra? I thought so. Kick it, Nancy…

Unless I just cured your hiccups, you’re probably cursing me out right now and wishing me dead. This I can understand. After all, you probably came here looking for fun and excitement and were instead greeted with absolute horror. For that, I apologize. Deeply.

In fact, from here on out, I give you my word as both an American and a scoundrel that I will never, ever show another picture of a crucifix again. Swear to God.

Editor’s Note: Yes, I know. I’ve already broken my word by posting some more photographs containing the crucifix below. But look at it this way. By not breaking up this lovely set of photographs, I was able to feed my OCD and keep myself from picking up that gun and killing my neighbors. Something I’m sure no one would want since I currently live next door to both Tom Cruise and Paula Abdul.