Can O' Whup-Ass

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Grace Jones

Pssst.

Ms. Jones?

Hi. Why so tense? Tell you what, let's swap that goblet of Lancer's chablis for something a tad stronger. I'll have waiter bring a pair of double absynthetinis, stat.

Okay, to state the obvious, you're rather groovy for 60. We are old enough to have been a slave to your rhythm, and to tell you the truth (with your notorious rep for throwing tantrums and slapping chat show hosts), we've also always been slightly terrified of you. When you appeared as a nubian amazon in that Conan movie, you reduced Arnold to a girlie man. We're never quite sure whether you want to burst into a snappy disco song or heave a spear through our chest cavity.

We love that you used to chillax with Warhol, as we suspect you were constantly tempted smack the be-wigged albino so hard he'd fly across the Studio 54 VIP room and crash into Liza and Halsten as they hoovered blow through a rolled up c-note. We are also fascinated by the fact that you used to date Dolph Lungren. We imagine the two of you despised each other, yet clung to the disfunctional relationship for the sake of some truly mind-blowing hate sex.

On the other hand, all of us (if we're lucky enough) reach a certain stage in our lives where it's inappropriate to show up at a social event clad as an unholy hybrid of Ariel the mermaid and and Frank N. Furter from the Rocky Horror Picture Show (hint: if one is embarking on their seventh decade, that ship has sailed). Is that glitter on your boobs? Sequins? Age spots? Smallpox? Poor thing.

You look like (pick one):

1. Dennis Rodman, upon being informed he'll be going on as Roxie Hart in this evening's performance of Broadway's "Chicago"
2. Whilst taking a midnight stroll on Santa Monica Blvd, you've suddenly found yourself on the receiving end of a rude proposition from Eddie Murphy
3. The ghost of Kwaanza yet to come, in a spectacularly ill-conceived hip-hop interpretation of Dickens
4. Tito Jackson, caught red-handed by sister Latoya whilst playing dress-up in her closet
5. The reviews of your performance in P. Diddy's all-ho production of "Aida" just hit the stands
6. Flip Wilson's Geraldine, after dropping peyote and channeling Cleopatra
7. Bloody hell.

XOXOX
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Brandon Davis

Um...Brandon?

No, no...don't come any closer, we can smell hear you from there.

Ordinarily, at this point we'd suggest that we refresh our vodka-and-redbull-spazatinis, whilst we desperately rack our brains to come up with something nice to say before ripping you a new one. So. Let's see. [EDITOR'S NOTE: 20 minutes elapse] Oh! we've got it! You're heterosexual! Okay, that's not really a compliment; so was Ted Bundy and Idi Amin. But from our perspective, we're rather glad that whatever stank-ass STDs you're packing in your damp, clammy Fruit-of-the-Looms are unlikely to enter our dating pool.

So here's the deal. Right off the bat, you're the sort of "famous" person we're predisposed to hate; namely, your notoriety stems chiefly from the pair of bloody thighs from whence you plopped (although your mother was no doubt appreciative of the fact that you shot through her shame hole pre-greased). Your serial obnoxiousness hasn't helped matters, although your racist/homophobic on-camera rants briefly terrified us. Dropping the n-word actually isn't that disturbing; racists are stupid and loathsome, which fits your profile. But the f-bomb indicates that your sexuality is on shaky footing; that you have nightly fever dreams of skipping hand-in-hand through a field of daisies with Javier Bardem. We pause now to shiver in revulsion.

Dude, you're gross. You make Robert Mugabe seem like a hunk o' burnin luv. You make Antonin Scalia look like Antonio Sabato Jr.  We can smell you from your photograph, and you produce the heady aroma of barf, pee, dog poop, and rhino sweat; all unsuccessfully smothered under an entire bottle of Polo. You're a sperm whale with crabs.

When an impressionable starlett gets drunk enough to get with your nasty stuff, it's a sure sign that she's 1) a nasty ho with absolutely no standards (see: Hilton, Paris), or 2) she's desperately self-destructive and/or has severe substance abuse issues (see: Lohan, Lindsay). A ride on your permanently pre-lubed pony always arrives at the same destination: rock bottom.

Lindsay, God bless her, discovered re-hab and lesbianism after sampling your treats (the best possible reaction, we surmise). But if, as in her spunky flick "Freaky Friday," we had switched bodies with her on the night of your stomach-churning hippity-dippity, we would have reacted by boiling our vagina and slitting our wrists.

Below, we list a few things we'd rather do than go drilling for oil on that syphillitic slip-n-slide otherwise known as "coitus nauseum ursus." Do we want to do what? Um, no thanks, Brandon. We'd rather:

1. Felch an ebola-infested baboon
2. Hire Rosie O'Donell as a scat top
3. Lose a soggy biscuit contest in Haiti
4. Get a boston pancake from Barbara Bush
5. Eat a bowl of tapeworm spaghetti
6. Ride a camel from Katmandu to Ryadh while smuggling scorpions in our butthole
7. Watch "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull"
8. Lick Madeline Albright's pap-smear

XOX
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Sharon Stone

Um...Share?

Wow. Okay. Hi.

Let's flag down a waiter and freshen our cinnamonapplefrappetinis, how does that sound?

So here's the deal. We know this photograph is a few months old, and is therefore as stale as "Basic Instinct 2." But it took that long for us to wrap our sensitive mind around this horrifying image. Now, ever the brave soldier, we're ready to confront our nightmare; in fact, for the first time EVER, we've broken our long standing policy of keeping everything an artsy-fartsy black-and-white so that we might communicate the full extent of fashion horror you've unleashed. Yet there you are, in full debutante slouch, Arte Johnson's "Laugh-In" wig perched on your head and an impish expression on your face. As if to say "I DARE you to say it."

Sharon. Sharon, Sharon, Sharon. We've had similar discussions. Did we learn nothing from your Make-a-Wish camel-toe inducing cat woman jumpsuit? Why are you feeding our unhealthy obsession with celebrity crotchular regions? Are you toying with us? Don't get us wrong, we still think you're a righteous old broad. Anyone who can enrage the entire nation of China AND raise $10 million for AIDS in the SAME NIGHT is okay in our book. And we reiterate: we rather suspect you're a hilarious drunk. 

But let us pause to ask the obv: whence the alarming menstrual hurricane ravaging your oft-displayed lady-hole? For the love of God, woman! Invest in a tube a vagisil; it's not expensive!

You look like (pick one):

1. You made the unfortunate choice of hiring Donda West's plastic surgeon to oversee your vaginal rejuve job
2. After a brief holiday on the Island of Doctor Moreau, a baboon butt has inconveniently materialized in place of your shame hole
3. A publicity still from a Lifetime movie called "Not Without My Fetus: Portrait of a Socialite Do-It-Yourself Abortionist"
4. Ms. July in the "Yeast Infection Babes of 2008" promotional calendar
5. In a desperate attempt to cool off, you overzealously inched your clitoris fatefully close to a high-powered oscillating fan
6. A wormhole has mysteriously appeared in your labia, offering all who venture near a chance to be transported to the Crab Nebula
7. You lost a food fight at Tom and Katie's place on placenta au gratin night
8. You're showcasing the winning design from that episode of Project Runway where the contestants had to produce a wearable evening gown from a whale sphincter
9. Bloody hell.

XOX
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Agent Scully

Um...Dana?

We KNOW.

We're just as shocked as you are.

Listen, let's get you covered up and do a shot or five of Jager. How's that sound?

Okay, so here's the deal. We know you think "The Truth is Out There." And while that may very well be true, it can also be said that "The Mystery is In There" if you catch our drift.

Now, you might understandably accuse us of being obsessed with celebrity shame zones. Guilty as charged. But we remain convinced our vigilance is a public service. Case in point: if we hadn't thoughtfully schooled Adrian Grenier on the hazards of going commando in spandex, he might re-offend, prancing about in public looking as if he's smuggling a litter of kitty cats into "Pippin" rehearsals.

But the bizarre phenomenon going down in your crotchular region simultaneously defies rational thought, laws of physics, and common decency. Perhaps Fox Mulder needs to go a-spelunking up your vajayjay (you know he wants to) to discover why your dress, our attention, light, and indeed all four Einsteinian dimensions seem to be disappearing into your hair pie.

You look like (pick one):

1. In a rare mutation of the dreaded "camel toe" (see: Stone, Sharon), you have manifested the world's first documented case of camel sphincter
2. In an unforeseen spasm of bohemian iconoclasm you almost pierced your clitoris, but opted at the last minute to wear a clip-on; and the tasteful bauble now dangling from your hoo-hoo has become entangled in your toga.
3. A still from that lost episode of "The X Files" wherein the alien baby you're baking in your lady oven has fashioned a super collider out of your fallopian tubes and a black hole has appeared in your uterus
4. You've just remembered where you parked that chewed piece of Juicy Fruit
5. In a desperate attempt to "feel fresh" you dumped a box of lemonheads up your tw*t
6. Your labia would very much appreciate it if you'd stop hogging the sheets, thank you very much
7. Bloody hell.

XOXOX
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Heather Locklear

Heather. Hi.

So. Let's wiggle out of our boob-flattening turtleneck swim midriff (?) and whip up a batch of frozen pomegranate daiquiries, what do you say? Sit here. Wait, let's put down a towel first.

We don't know where to start. First, of course, we suppose we should tell you Amanda Woodward rocked. We loved it when Kimberly killed her with a bomb but not really and you emerged from the rubble with perfect hair and freshly applied lip gloss. You're a gorgeous bitch, and we're rather certain you're hilarious after several shots of Jager. Yet we were worried for your sanity when you dated Scott Baio, Tom Cruise and David Spade (hereinafter referred to collectively as The Lollipop Guild). We were further addled when your shrink called the cops on you cause you threatened to kill yourself (we're guessing you just recovered suppressed memories of dating The Lollipop Guild).

But here's the deal. Celebs occasionally get papped in horrifically unflattering candid shots (see: Shriver, Maria), and sometimes a bitch gets cornered by a shutterbug sans face paint, with nightmarish results (see: Ross, Diana). But Heather. Heather, Heather, Heather. You're POSING for this shot.

You look like (pick one):

1. Jocelyn Wildenstein's half-formed "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" pod doppelgänger
2. You've just taken the Nestea Plunge, and there was entirely too much lemon in the pool
3. Harry Potter's Rupert Grint (aka Ron Weasley) in a Lifetime movie called "Brunhilde Glop: Portrait of a Blind Transsexual Surfermole"
4. The twin sister of the banjo player from Deliverance posing for a Rita Hayworth-style WWII pin-up
5. Miss August in the "Sexy Down's Syndrome Mamas" promotional calendar
6. The centerfold in Albino Burn Victims Quarterly
7. The Austrian basement lady; who, shortly after catching her first glimpse of the sun, has been ingeniously stunt-cast as the Annette Funicello role in the eagerly-anticipated remake of "Bikini Beach"
8. Bloody hell.

XOX
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Nikki Hilton

Hey, Fat-ass.

Haul your cottage cheese thunder thighs over here and cop a squat. No, not on the wicker. We are NOT spending the rest of the evening trying to extract your enormous fanny from a broken chair. Waddle over to that brightly painted elephant stool we purchased from Ringling Brothers. It's reinforced steel. Atta girl, park that über kiester. Shall we freshen our cosmos?

So here's the deal. We are not entirely without sympathy for you. Along with Ashley Olsen, you have dubious attributes. While you both, unfortch, are tanks of lard, you do have just a smidge of likability which stems from the fact that we loathe you just slightly less than your insufferable sibling. And although we have a long-standing policy of ignoring pap-whores who derive their fame exclusively from the pair of bloody thighs from whence they plopped, at least we don't pray on a daily basis that you have a near-death experience. For example, when we find ourselves gazing at a beautiful sunset or sitting down to a sumptuous meal, we frequently say to ourselves "Dear Lord, please make Kim Kardashian enter an elevator that malfunctions and shoots her into orbit." Or sometimes we say "Greatest Yahweh, please send a scary voo-doo doll to terrorize Nicole Richie in the same way a scary voo-doo doll terrorized Karen Black in that movie in which a scary voo-doo doll terrorizes Karen Black." Then we smile and say "amen" before taking homo communion (also known as eating the olive in our martini).

The thing is, we're a giver. Guilty as charged. So when we encounter a sloppy bitch who's let herself go to such an extent, we have no other choice but to throw down the gauntlet with the resolve/camp/high drama of an inebriated Alexis Carrington and stage a long overdue intervention. By the way, do we smell a cheesecake in your purse?

Okay, here goes. Bitch, you're enormous. You look like:

1. That woman who had to be removed from her house with the jaws of life and was carted away to the hospital on a double-wide flatbed while the neighbors pointed and laughed and little children burst into tears
2. You're understudying Henrietta Hippo on "The New Zoo Revue"
3. Every night you put on your eatin-dress and binge on a crate of ring-dings
4. The Momma Cass "before" picture
5. The planet Gargantua, whose gravitational pull explains the retarded space trash hovering round your sad little orbit
6. Bloody hell.

HEY, KIDS! IT'S THE WILD GAME GAM GAME!
Object: Match up the totally HOTT legs at left to the malodorous cloven hoofed creature it belongs to!

A gazelle
A gnu
A camel
A giraffe
Nikki Hilton
A moose

(the deluxe version comes in "Scratch-n-Sniff")

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Olivia Newton-John

Um...Olivia?

We hesitate to approach you in your current fragile state, as you seem a teensy bit discombobulated.

We understand. Traipsing about on the Great Wall of China, one can be suddenly overtaken by the heady aroma of pollution mixed with labrador chow mein. So let's have a seat, sprinkle a little Carpet Fresh in our immediate environs, enjoy a Diet Peach Snapple and have ourselves a chit-chat, what do ya say?

We totally dug it when, as Sandy Dumbrowski, you taught little girls everywhere that if they want John Travolta to like them they need to tart themselves up, pick up smoking and act like a slut. And we felt your pain when you roller-boogied right past the end of your career in your portrayal of a radioactive disco muse. When you desperately clung to your relevance by opting for a butch hairdo, going bi and "getting animal," we died inside. And when your boy toy faked his death so he could escape your clutches and move to Tijuana, well...that had to suck. In spite of it all, however, we're hopelessly devoted to toi.

You see, there was a time when we were in a hurry as you are. We were...like you. But we've got something to tell you, that we never thought we would. And we believe you really ought to know. We're not trying to make you feel uncomfortable. We're not trying to make you anything at all. But this feeling doesn't come along every day...and we shan't f*ck up the chance when we've got the chance to say: bitch, you're a hot steaming pile of "oops."

You look like (pick one):

1. A beached flounder
2. Loretta Swit performing her dazzling one-woman show "Oh, Leona! (the Helmsley Monologues)"
3. You've unwittingly entered a spiritual vortex and have spontaneously begun channeling the spirit of a transsexual bullfrog
4. In an unforeseen spasm of cultural empathy, you're giving an impromptu performance of the Traditional Chinese Opera "On the Hoof: the Dog Meat Musical"
5. Your agent just phoned you and said "two words: Xanadu Two! Hey, we'll call it Xana-Deux!!")
6. Bloody hell.

OXOXO
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear John Mayer

Um...John? Jay-jay?

Hi. Listen.

Perez Hilton (technicolor lard-ass, semen graffiti specialist) went on Ryan Seacrest's radio show recently. And while those two preening biddies minced about and dished the dirt, Hilton claimed you...

Excuse us. We'll be right back.

(We exit hastily to the loo, and return five minutes later, dabbing the corners of our mouth with a wet-nap).

We're sorry. The vegan vegi-wrap we had for lunch suddenly found itself at irreconcilable odds with our digestive policies. Where was I? Oh...well, Perez is saying that you kissed him at a party. No, not in a continental, metrosexual way; he described a prolonged session of slobbery halitosis-swapping, tongue-wrestling tonsil hockey. Ew. Excuse us

(We dash off before the curtain goes up on act 2 of the gastrointestinal follies. We return).

See here's the thing. Oh, do you have a Tic-Tac? Thanks. Anyways, we buy the haunted troubadour act. That 21 Jump Street I'd-be-a-rebel-if-I-wasn't-so-damn-sensitive schtick works for you. That your music is dull as dishwater is quite beside the point. We even forgave your brief passing interest in the professionally retarded sports-jinxer Jessica Simpson. Sometimes we like 'em dumb too. But engaging in a bacteria exchange program with a man so disgusting he makes Karl Rove look like a pin-up? Dude, no. Oh, and P.S...don't have your publicist deny things like this, as we have a long-standing policy of accepting all publicist denials as incontrovertible proof that the rumor in question is gospel.

Below, we've itemized a list of things we'd rather do than the saliva-drenched tongue tango with Princess Chalupa McManboobs. We would sooner:

1. Attend a blind-folded felching party at Rosie O'Donnell's house.
2. Dress in a tu-tu and dance "Afternoon of the Faun" in downtown Tehran while eating a pint of rancid pork lard
3. Roll naked in a vat of ebola monkey sperm
4. Drill sheet metal screws through our testicles
5. Lick Antonin Scalia's taint, live on the 700 Club
6. Visit Tuscaloosa
7. Fist every single Claymate
8. Read a scratch-and-sniff Qur'an
9. Write the entire text of "Remembrance of Things Past" with our tongue on Courtney Love's labia
10. Vote for McCain

OXOX
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Renee Zellweger

Um...Renee?

Time for a chit chat. Over here. Try to focus. You seem distracted.

So. Can we offer you a wet-nap? You sure?

Anywho, did Jiffy Lube open a day spa? En route to the red carpet did you swing by Bally's for a jazzercize class? Why are we sweating to the oldies?

And while we're on the subject, what's going on with our hair? You were aiming for a Posh, but you've landed in three stooges territory. Is Stevie Wonder your stylist? And the pearls aren't helping your case. It's like putting some poo on a doily.

You look like (pick one):

1. Andy Warhol at the all-drag Turkish bath
2. The air conditioner is out of order in the "worst hairstyles ever" wing at Madame Toussad's
3. Owen Wilson has been possessed by the malevolent spirit Posh Spice, just like Karen Black was possessed by the malevolent spirit of a scary voo-doo doll in that movie where Karen Black is possessed by a scary voo-doo doll
4. You're starring in a sequel to "The Fly" wherein you take an unfortunate jaunt through a telepod and are consequently fused at the molecular level with Brandon Davis
5. You've just completed the world's first formal-attire tri-athalon
6. In an effort to comply with a cheeky pap's request to "make love to his camera," you've thoughtfully applied a thick coat of face-lube
7. Bloody hell.

XOXOX
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Sara Jessica Parker

Um...Sara?

Hi.

Feeling down? We can't imagine why. Okay, okay...so Maxim magazine rudely voted you the most hideous woman alive. But hey...screw 'em, right? First of all, you've got that Sexy City movie coming out soon. Secondly, you presumably do the hippity-dippity with Ferris Bueler on a regular basis. Third, there was your stunning recent "best in show" upset at the Westminster Dog Show.   

Were you suddenly overcome by an overwhelming existential sense of futility? Did you catch a glimpse of your equine features in a mirror and faint? Did you have one or twelve appletinis at the SATC wrap party? Why, oh why have you so carelessly transformed this elegant soiree into your own private Poseidon Adventure?

Whatever the reason you've spontaneously reclined on a grand staircase and hoisted your size 15 mega-pump toward the chandelier, we feel a true friend would point out that in your haste to get dressed you forgot to put on your Little Orphan Annie underoos.

Considering how no one looks particularly good when they fall on their ass, in today's Brief Note of Friendly Concern (out of an unforeseen and heretofore latent sense of charity), we're not going to tell you that you look like bloody hell (although you do). We've decided instead to itemize (in chronological order) exactly how we might have reacted were we fortunate enough to have witnessed this spectacle in person:

1. We would enjoy a long, boisterous laugh at your expense; the kind that makes us pee our pants a little and progresses until our hands are on our knees as we cough out that bit of beluga caviar that we inadvertently inhaled down our windpipe.
2. We would have made a quick grab for our cell phone so we could text a few pics to our 500 closest friends.
3. We would have enjoyed a brief mental image of how Perez Hilton would inevitably embellish the pics with his endlessly clever semen graffiti.
4. We would have stood on a chair so we could point up your dress and scream "I see London, I see France!"
5. We would have offered comparisons to Barbaro, and wonder aloud whether you've run your last Kentucky Derby.
6. We would have enjoyed another boisterous laugh, this time until Cristal comes out of our nose.
7. We would have lept up to the landing without hesitation to ask if you're all right.
8. We would have discreetly handed you a Lady Schick and mentioned through a megaphone that Little Orphan Annie needs a shave (and a breath mint wouldn't kill her either).

XOXOX
WAM