IN THE GREEN ROOM…

BRITNEY SPEARS: (Sauntering up to JENNIFER. Tauntingly) So…what do you think of my new fiancé?

JENNIFER LOPEZ: (Flaunting her wedding ring) I prefer my husband. You know what they say: one in the hand is worth two in the bush.

BS: Oh, I’m sure you can fit a lot more than two in that bush.

JL: I’m sorry, did you say something? I can barely hear you through the Great Wall of silicone embedded in your chest.

BS: Really? Well, why don’t you turn around and let me say it to that Grand Canyon of an ass you’ve got. Maybe you’ll catch one of the echoes.

JL: Oh, Brit-Brit, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to go home and fuck the shit out of my highly successful husband.

BS: Is that supposed to mean something?

JL: Only that I didn’t have to stoop to marrying a freaking backup dancer.

BS: No, you just went for the choreographer.

JL: At least Cris has some rhythym.

BS: At least Kevin and I are in love.

JL: As in love as you were with that fatass in Vegas?

BS: So in love that I’m not even going to make him sign a pre-nup.

JL: Well, that’s good news for your future husband’s divorce lawyer.

BS: Oh, please, bitch. Look, I’m sorry if your crappy upbringing and disastrous marriages have made you bitter, Jennifer–

JL: Mira! How many times have I told you to call me J-Lo? It’s in my fucking contract!

BS: Um, hello? You don’t have a contract with me, freakazoid. In fact, I don’t think you have a contract with anyone right now.

THE GHOST OF MARIAH CAREY: (Entering through wall, above the hors d’oeuvre tray) Beware! Beware!

BS & JL: Who the fuck are you?

TGOMC: I am the ghost of Mariah Carey! I am a cautionary tale to all pop princesses whose heads grow larger than their talents!

JL: Mariah? Bitch, you’re not dead.

TGOMC: Aren’t I, J-Lo? Aren’t I? When did you last see me on the cover of People magazine?

JL: Well, I–

TGOMC: When was the last time they dissed me on “90 Second Pop”?

BS: But that’s not–

TGOMC: WHAT WAS THE NAME OF MY LAST SINGLE?

BS: Hey, c’mon.

JL: Yeah, you’re starting to scare us.

TGOMC: That is my mission, bitches: to freak you out. Now go! Go home and throw yourselves into the arms of your meagerly talented lovers. Go into the recording studio and do not emerge until you are sure you’ve gotten it right. And most of all, avoid all movie offers–all of them!

BS: But–but they’ve asked me to star in Glitter 2!

TGOMC: BE GONE!

(BS and JL run screaming from the room, clutching each other for dear life. TGOMC floats toward the buffet.)

TGOMC: Oooh! Shrimp!

HILLARY DUFF: (Entering) Hey, where’d everybody go?

Note to the man who just disturbed an otherwise delectable Sunday morning merely by driving in front of my house: owning a Corvette with bass speakers the size of newborn elephants will not make your tiny, tiny penis any bigger.

Forget me, darling–go vote for my boyfriend!

Dave Eggers may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but damn, he can find some funny writers.

Personally, though, I think they missed a few one-hit follow-ups–namely:

• “As My Eyes Became Accustomed to Her Science, My Sight Was Restored”
• “Baby Lost 20 Pounds of Back (on Atkins)”
• “Oh, Mickey, I Knew You Before You Insisted Everyone Call You Michael”
• “I Am No Longer Too Sexy for My Ten-Year-Old Shirt”
• and of course, “100 Luftballoons”

Speaking of low-rent one-trick-ponies, I ask you all to take a moment of silence and thank your goddess of choice for the prolonged absence of Carrot Top from the airwaves. (What? Hadn’t you noticed?) With any luck he’s in rehab, where he and that Olsen twin will fall in love, move upstate, and have dozens of little craggy-faced, coke-addled babies who’ll shill anything for a buck.

UPDATE: I have been informed that the aforementioned Mr. Carrot Top (aka “Brian”) will likely not be procreating with either of the Olsen twins because he is, in fact, a fudgepacker. To paraphrase my source, who shall remain nameless, just in case he’s way wrong: “Well, dearie, he hasn’t sucked my cock, but…”

It is terrifying, no?

Nevertheless, it’s amusing to wonder if Carrot Top is really a bottom–and, conversely, too, too disturbing to envision him a top.

ANOTHER UPDATE: I’ve received a second email asserting CT’s penchant for cockgobbling. In the words of my source, who alleges that CT likes to party on his knees, “Dial down the center, indeed.”

(No, I don’t know exactly what that means either, but my source is admittedly smarter than I, and it sounds terrifically nasty.)

Is the boss at lunch?

Are the kids at school?

Is your volume on your computer turned way down?

Good. ‘Cause my sister’s new video for her kick-ass single, “If I’m in Luck, I Might Get Picked Up”, is loud and nasty.

So nice to know it runs in the family.

P.S. In case you’re curious, Tiff explains that the song was originally performed by Betty Davis. “Not the actress, Miles Davis’ second wife, who was the baddest funkiest bitch to ever walk the planet! She was soooooooo funky, the Pointer Sisters & Sylvester sang back up for her!”

It’s not surprising that celebs lie about their age. It’s not surprising that Welsh wench-turned-trophy wife Catherine Douglas (formerly Jones, née Zeta) would consider 35 “old.” What’s surprising is that Irene Cara has a publicist. [thanks Marty]

I’m still not sure how I feel about this Sordid Lives business. For those of you who don’t know the play (or the movie), it’s basically a black comedy about a one-step-above-white-trash Texas family mourning the loss of its matriarch–a woman of a certain age who dies during a tryst in a seedy motel room after tripping over her adulterous lover’s wooden legs.

Yes, I know it sounds funny. And we’ve got a fantastic cast who really excel at Southern parody while still managing to find the realness of the story so that it’s not a two-hour-long cartoon brought to life.

The problem is that the show is framed by the story of the dead woman’s grandson–an actor living in New York who’s having trouble coming out, especially to his family. He has these endless monologues about being closeted and his fears, and frankly, I don’t give a shit. I mean, maybe when the play was written a decade ago–back when everyone was writing her/his coming out story–these were seriously pressing concerns, but in the era of Queer Eye and Queer as Folk and Gay Sex in the Gay City and The Simple Gay Life and everything short of Matt Lauer buttfucking Al Roker on national TV (now there’s something I’d pay money to see), does anyone really care? Especially audiences here in New Orleans, where there’s a huge, highly visible gay population? Maybe if we were doing this in my hometown in Mississippi, it’d be a little more meaningful and political and stuff, but here…. Personally, I think it distracts from the bust-ass funny other parts of the script. Note: you may want to consider some revisions, Mr. Shores, given the current political climate.

I know I’m speaking from a position of relative priviledge. I know that I’m a well-educated white male who lives in a gay ghetto and who’s had the luxury of being out for some time and who’s never really felt any repercussions from it. I know there are other folks in other parts of the country to whom this play would speak profoundly. Unfortunately, they’re not the folks who are going to be buying tickets to the damn thing.

Not that I’m worried about ticket sales, per se. We’ll do fine. The show will make money. We haven’t even opened yet, and we’re selling well. Still I’ll be glad to get back to the really fun stuff.

So I’m reading last night–The Stepford Wives, the latest in a series of light reading endeavors–and I get to the climax of the novel, and I think to myself, “Damn! That’s a lot more interesting and poetic than that nearly unwatchable movie with Tina Louise and whatserpuss. Someone should put together a remake…”

And that’s how dizzy I’m getting in my dotage.

Oh. My. God.

It’s…it’s like…like…flames…on the side of my face. Thanks a lot, boyfriend.