I Wonder If Whoopi Goldberg Is Nervous About Ever Getting Sleep Again.

I carried a watermelon to your funeral, Johnny.

In Your Face, Ungrateful Rabbits.

Cute Overload clearly has questionable judgment, because I've joined Not That Mike, The Other Mike, as one of their writers.

Check it out:

http://cuteoverload.com/

The One Hundred And Tenth One: Look, It's Someone Who's Not Dead.

I wasn't sure if I'd be the lucky one assigned to shatter everything you believed to be true, but I won the rock/paper/scissors shoot-out over Potsie.

Ron Howard is a jerk.

Look, I'm not saying he's as bad as Stalin, although curiously, he does looks like him. Or, he looks an awful lot like how I think Stalin would look if I knew who that guy was. But listen, my lack of knowledge about Turkey and its peoples has little to do with this. This is about Ron Howard being an asshole.

I know you don't believe me, but I have it on a first hand account – I know a girl who dates this guy whose sister's best friend's cousin's teacher knows this gardener who swears on tortillas that Ron Howard makes him mow his 3-acre lawn using only pruning shears.

Right?

It gets worse. I hear he has a real shitty sense of humor. Oh, and he killed someone.

Makes you wonder about Tom Hanks.

Yet Another Special Death Edition: Jesus Christ, I'm Actually Running Out Of Rabbits.

What the hell is in the water this summer? And more importantly, why aren't far crappier people chugging it? And is it possible that this can all be traced back to Kevin Bacon? His last name is dripping with artery clogging killers. I'd like some answers, but this summer has been so ridiculously fatal, that I'm scared I'll end up with an anvil on my head.

The Summer of Death rolls on...

Another Special Death Edition: Glasses-Wearing Chihuahuas Who Look Like Crime Writers.

Poor Dominick Dunne. He's officially the Farrah of today.

But now who's going to write a Vanity Fair article on his death?

Special Death Edition: The Lion Of The Senate Becomes A Rabbit.

Good news: Joe, Kathleen, Jack, Bobby, Rosemary, Eunice, The Big Guy.

Bad news: Mary Jo Kopechne.

The One Hundred And Ninth One.

I bet you never knew that sucking on lemons turns you Asian and wins you an Oscar.

The One Hundred And Eighth One.

This is for "Ishtar".

SPECIAL EDITION: Sportos, Wastoids, Neo-Maxi-Zoom-Dwebbies, And One Ceramic Elephant.

Dear Mr. Vernon,



We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see as you want to see us...in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions.

But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain...



...and an athlete...



...and a basket case...



...a princess...



...and a criminal.



Does that answer your question?

Sincerely yours,

The Breakfast Club

The One Hundred And Seventh One.

In 90% of the photos taken of her, Megan Fox inexplicably insists on sticking her tongue out. She must really like the taste of her own plaque.

The One Hundred And Sixth One.

As someone who studied art and took many art history classes in college, I feel I can speak with authority on the subject of Keith Haring. Or dare I say "Hare-ing." (Had to.) But more importantly, my uncle actually knew him! So that means that I practically knew him and can call him a friend. It's rumored my uncle, an artist, had one of Haring's pieces because the two would often trade artwork. It's also rumored that he no longer has the piece–allegedly. I say "rumored" because my uncle is very elusive, and I picture him sidling around the city looking like Inspector Clouseau. And I say "allegedly" because my uncle is also kind of cagey; I would not be surprised to learn that he owns a top-secret bunker housing millions of dollars worth of Warhols and Lichtensteins. And possibly Warhol, himself.

My uncle is also a notoriously private person. Seriously private. He hates if people know his business. I mean, he gets angry if you forward one of his emails to someone without getting his permission first. I respect that.

Have I mentioned that my uncle once dated Fidel Castro's daughter? Those were heady days. Everyone was giddy with anticipation that he would bring her to Thanksgiving dinner. Unfortunately, he knew better and we were forced to eat our capitalist pie alone. It would have been an interesting dynamic that year because eating at the same table was my great aunt, rumored to be a CIA agent. (Note to all you curiosity seekers: If you ever cross paths with my great aunt, whatever you do, do not ask her flat out if she works for the CIA. It will not go over well.)

But back to Keith Haring. He draws scribbles real good.

The One Hundred And Fifth One.

One of two things will happen if you ever find yourself out with Shatner for a night on the town. Either you'll have a gay ol' time and end up guzzling a liter of scotch and booking a honeymoon suite together in Bora Bora–on Priceline's dime, or you'll have a terrifying time and end up guzzling a liter of scotch while Shatner berates you and then stabs you to death.

Either way, color me intrigued.

The One Hundred And Fourth One.

Do you think in real life this one knows that she's pretty adorable? Because she might as well have rainbows shooting out of her ears.

The One Hundred And Third One.

That's the scariest goddamn picture of a rabbit that I've laid eyes on.

The One Hundred And Second One.

I was recently reminded that about 10 years ago, I said I would give myself a mullet for the right price. Bidding got up to $500, and frankly, I probably would have done it for less–like a sandwich–but in the end, I just couldn't go through with it. Two months ago I went to my usual hair salon for a simple trim. After listening to my stylist about "layering options", I realized that an hour later, I had paid $150 for a mullet.