I am presently writing this post with my toes while I sit in a washtub filled with creamed corn and rotten fish, dressed as Jude Law, fellating Ed McMahon, manually stimulating Linda Evans with one hand and Caroline Rhea with the other, with Eddie Vedder going to town on my stuff.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

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Whenever Michael Jackson is in the news, I always wonder to myself, "What's Jermaine up to?" More specifically, I sometimes wonder, "What would Jermaine do if Soupy Sales showed up on his doorstep with fire in his loins and sex in his eyes?"

So, last night, I dusted off my best Soupy disguise and went over to Jermaine's mansion. (Yes, Jermaine still has a mansion. Membership in the secret society of celebrities provides one with two mansions, six motorcycles and either a limo or two diamond testicle implants for life. Deal with it!)

When I got there, I told Jermaine that the boner in my 77 year-old drawers could very well be my last. With a wink and a smile, Jermaine led me to his dune-buggy, where we made love for fifteen disgusting hours.

Did I mention we were both covered in sour milk? We were!

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