Completely random, but the found cocaine party photos I photoshopped the other day ended up getting linked in the comments on a post about the originals on BoingBoing. I was amused and jazzed today when Wil Wheaton commented on this particular photo. Amber, per your request, on the remote chance that I ever have any further interaction with him, I will declare to him your feelings.

You be the judge. See Corey Feldman-less Strib article.

I just wanted to let you know that my level of importance in life jumped several levels as of Sunday. That's right, I know someone who knows Oscar® winner Diablo Cody. In fact, I know several people who know Diablo Cody. Of them, I know Amber the best. And Amber is a bit of a celebrity in her own right. So let's break down my various celebrity connections to show you how important I am.

3 degrees:
Jeremy -> Jeremy's grandfather -> Jeremy's grandfather's cousin -> The late Phil Hartman

2 degrees:
Jeremy -> Amber -> Diablo Cody

1 degree:
Jeremy -> Jason DeRusha

0 degrees:
A sandy ejaculation problem

I've been telling people this week that now that I'm two degrees of separation from Diablo Cody that I need to print new business cards. They chuckle nervously, deeply embarrassed over my desperate spotlight seeking and pandering humor. But I wasn't joking. My card, let me show you it.

Check out my Blogebrity profile!

Topher Grace, who was nominated for several Teen Choice Awards for his role as Eric Foreman on the FOX sitcom That '70s Show, was found alive today in his Los Angeles home. As Grace was forcibly removed from his residence by concerned authorities, a crowd of curious onlookers and paparazzi gathered outside. A Los Angeles Police Department spokesman said, "We were are surprised as you are that he is still alive. No one had heard from him since the premiere of Spider-Man 3 in 2007. Wow, that thing was stunningly bad. Just pure crap."

Police do not know at this time what Grace has been up to these last few months, but pizza boxes and a bottle of ibuprofen were found next to his bed. An assessment will be performed on Wednesday to determine whether or not his career can be revived. Topher Grace is 29.

Reports coming from Hollywood indicate that the breasts of Jennifer Love Hewitt are betrothed to Scottish actor Ross McCall's honk-happy hands. Rumors are swirling that this will be a polygamous marriage, likely involving Ross McCall's penis. Earlier this year, the penis denied an eyewitness' claims that she saw him "brutally slapping [Jennifer Love Hewitt's] breasts until they were swollen and bright red." His response was "I am not involved with Miss Hewitt's breasts, and I would never harm that fabulous rack. I bump into them from time to time, often coming across them in posh hotels."

Neither Jennifer Love Hewitt's breasts, nor their owner, what's-her-name, could be reached for comment.

During my formative junior high and high school years, one of my great joys was watching Saturday Night Live. This was during one of its rare upswing periods where it usually was more funny than not. I remember many a dateless, friendless (aw, poor Jeremy!) Saturday evening snickering quietly at Dana Carvey, Dennis Miller, Adam Sandler, et al so as not to alert my parents in the other room. It wasn't that I would get in trouble for watching it, but I certainly would be mortified to have them walk into the room to find me laughing out loud at the "penis sketch."

In the late 80's, my grandmother caught wind of my love of SNL and informed me that we were related by marriage to one of the cast members. "PleaseletitbeDanaCarvey PleaseletitbeDanaCarvey" No, she informed me, it was Phil Hartman. Who?? At the time I had no fucking clue who Phil Hartman was, as he hadn't yet really risen to any level of prominence on the show. But apparently his mother-in-law was my grandfather's first cousin. Oh.

During the Christmas season that year, Grandma produced a handwritten card from Grandpa's cousin in Thief River Falls, MN. Nestled snugly with the typical family blah de blah was a paragraph cooing about how much Phil and Brynn (her daughter, his wife) loved living in New York, how much Phil enjoyed working on SNL, and that they were estatic to have just had birth to their first child, Sean. Meh. I found it mildly interesting but for the most part, was unimpressed. Send me X-Rays of Phil Hartman paddling Jon Lovitz's balls with a cricket bat, then I might raise an eyebrow of intrigue.

As Phil Hartman proved his talent and rose in the ranks on SNL and especially after he left to do movies, voices for some of the most hilarious characters in the history of The Simpsons, and his hilariously assholish character on NewsRadio, he easily became one of my favorite comedic actors. So when a coworker at my on campus job during the waning days of my senior year at UND told me that "Troy McClure died today," I didn't quite process it right away.

"Huh? Troy McClure? So they're killing that character off on The Simpsons?"

"No, the dude that did his voice got shot today. What's his name?"

"Phil Hartman died?!?" I was incredulous.

"Yeah, that's it! Phil Hartman. Somebody shot him I guess."

From that description, I pictured him walking down the street, being accosted by a mugger, and catching one in the chest when the transaction went sour. Then it came out that this was in his home. A home invasion? A crazed fan? Finally came the crucial details that his wife had shot him and hours later killed herself. So my grandpa's cousin's daughter murdered one of the best comedic minds of our generation. Fuck 'sup with that?

First Mel Gibson drunkenly slung antisemetic slurs. Then the formerly funny Michael Richards when ape snap and threw around the n-word like a pre-Civil War plantation owner on a "hiring" spree. Then Don Imus made remarks both racist and sexist at once when he called an African American womens basketball team a bunch of "nappy-headed hos." Two birds with one stone, Imus? Impressive. And now Laguna Beach's Jason Wahler has apparently tossed around some not-so-nice slurs (as opposed to warm and inclusive slurs) after being arrested on Sunday. Shame on you, celebrities! Shame on you for using insensitive and hurtful words. That shit is so retarded and gay! And you know it.

Mexico City, Mexico -- In a Sunday press conference, Coldplay lead singer Chris Martin doomed his band's upcoming album to failure by spouting off about how great it is. Prior to a concert later that day, Martin said the album contains Coldplay's best song yet.

"In order for us to get excited about a new album, we have to have one song that we feel like everybody has to hear... before we die." He later added, "I can't tell you about it, but it's basically genius."

After Chris Martin's comments, the other members of Coldplay were seen slapping their foreheads in the background and making the neck slice motion with their fingers, motioning for him to put a lid on his self-aggrandizing cock-of-the-walkery.

An unidentified bandmate was later heard to say, "What the hell was he thinking? You don't go around telling people that your next album is genius and the best ever! We could have just slid by with another lame ass album that our fans would've lapped up like a dog eating a popped tick. Now we're under the microscope. We're only going to sell 4,000 copies and get dumped by our label. You can't jinx our shit like that. What a jagoff. I mean, yeah it's an ok song, but genius? Oh, God, we're going to be the next Right Said Fred if he keeps this up."

Details on Coldplay's 'genius' song were scant at the time of publishing this article, but insiders say it was written with Kevin Federline and the ghost of Doug Henning's mustache.

Not long after I first moved to the Twin Cities area, I briefly dated a woman (it seems like nearly all of my dating verbs are modified by the adverb "briefly") who worked in one of the countless theaters in downtown Minneapolis. Prior to moving here, one of the plays she worked on featured Bonnie Franklin in the lead role. Evidently Ms Franklin had a temper and a surprising case of sailor mouth, completely belied by her (I guess) relatively clean cut character on the long-running sitcom One Day at a Time. Whenever she would forget a line in rehearsal, her polite prompt for assistance always came in the form of bellowing, "Fuckin' line?"

One could only wish that we could all speak as we do in our civilian lives at the office.

"Bitch, you collate those fuckin' TPS reports yet?"

(forgetting an Excel keyboard shortcut and calling the help desk): "Fuckin' macro?"

"Fuckin' performance review?!? Where my fuckin' raise, mothafuckah? I beat that hike out yo' ass."

"I pooped on the conference table. Oh, sorry--I fuckin' pooped on the conference table."

Interviewed leaving the hot New York City club Lotus last night, 2007 had this to say about 2006's recent fall from grace.

"Oh, God! 2006 is so fat and busted! And did you see that hideous dress she was wearing the other night? No wonder I was able to steal her boyfriend from her. 2006 is a total fire crotch."

2007 then clumsily plopped into a waiting Hummer stretch limo, briefly exposing her cleanly shorn genital region to shocked fans and photographers.

Ok, so I'm engaging in hyperbole as to the steaminess and hotness of this poop, but according to this article, Diablo's movie Juno will start filming in January for release by the end of 2007. They also have actors for the two main characters. I believe it was originally supposed to start filming in May, then later was postponed to "this fall." Now January. We'll see about that. But it looks like Diablo has plenty to keep her busy regardless.

So NOW can I be a breathlessly vacuous commentator for Access Hollywood?

Finally catching up to public opinion from a year ago, Paramount Pictures has severed ties with Tom Cruise's production company, citing his kooky histrionics. Back when the possibility of spin doctoring his couch jumping and placenta eating still seemed within reach, they were awfully eager to come to his defense. However, when money talks, nutjobs walk. Reaction to MI:3 was mediocre at best, and it just didn't slap cash-spewing asses into the seats like Paramount hoped.

What we're finally starting to realize is that Tom Cruise has probably been arm-flailing apeshit for for years. He had a publicist whose full-time job was reigning in his Scientology-fueled insanity. But when that publicist was fired and Tom's sister, also a Scientologist, stepped into the role, that's when the leash broke and Tommy Tom ran into the street straight into the path of a garbage truck.

In Hollywood, stark raving mad and pulling in the Washingtons makes you a genius. Stark raving mad and dribbling in a few tens of millions dollars here and there means you might as well just get it over with and live under an overpass eating expired meat over a trash can full of burning copies of Variety (that no longer containing any mentions of your name).

Oops...she did it yet again! And this time but good. Britney Spears has apparently slow cooked her baby to death. A frantic Spears called 911 after finding her baby floating in a large crock pot filled with garlic, onions, and carrots. Paramedics attempted to revive the child, but his succulent meat fell from the bone. Afterward, a raw pork roast was reportedly found in a kiddie pool in the back yard.

While the rest of the Christian world celebrated our risen savior, Jesus Christ, I held vigil with bated breath in anticipation of the birth of our new and more fashionably worshipable savior, TomKitten (glory be to Her name). The divine TomKitten graces the earthly plane answering to Suri, a name bestowed by Her mortal zygotic host, TomKat. Her birth truly is a miracle of miracles, as TomKat's two personalities share no love or true emotional attachment to each other. They exist as a singular entity for the sole purpose of hiding the true nature of their individual weaknesses and fading appeal. And to promote Mission Impossible 3.

I'm quoting Jon, Diablo Cody's husband when he found out she was going to appear on Letterman but had to wait for her to announce it. I have news. Big news. No, not Letterman big, but big enough. But I promised I wouldn't say anything quite yet. GNAHHHH!

It's confirmed. Just saw a promo for tonight's Letterman, and Diablo was in it. Glad she wasn't bumped. Tivo, don't fail me now!

I knew it was only a matter of time before she hit the talk show circuit. In fact, I've had "Diablo Cody" in my autorecord wishlist on my Tivo for several months. According to her blog, she will tape an appearance on Monday, which will air either Monday or Wednesday (assuming she's not bumped, as sometimes happens with the third guest). I imagine the conversation will center around her book and her former strippery ways.

For those not familiar with her, Diablo Cody is a Minneapolis area writer who became a cult figure when she blogged while stripping and later working in a peep booth at Sex World, a multi-level adult megastore in downtown Minneapolis. Her blogging landed her a writing gig with the local alt weekly paper and eventually a book deal and screenwriting deals. She's always raunchy and hilarious. Read her blog and her book.