Garbage Pail – Scene & Herd – Column

Garbage Pail

Scene & Herd

The latest gossip, hearsay, conjecture, slander, calumny, fooferaw, unsubstantiated suppositions, and inoperative statements from the world of entertainment!

by William Ham

Greetings, fans! There’s a whole pantload of scuttlebutt to squeeze in this issue, so buckle up, folks! It’s gonna be a bumpy ride (not least for our fact-checkers and legal representatives)!… Tinseltown is abuzz yet again – this time literally, with the arrival in the city limits of tens of thousands of Brazilian killer bees, which have infested L.A. like nothing since Jeff Foxworthy‘s mouth-breathing clan descended upon LAX for the wacky inbred comic’s gala birthday bash/fish-stick fry last year (or “Peckerwoodstock,” as we like to call it behind the rouge-necked funnyman’s slightly-hunched back)! Faster than you can say, “Good lord! My face is swelling!”, these plucky pests have taken the town by storm, permanently inflating Oscar-winning Hollyhunk Matt Damon‘s lips, gums and tongue to the size of overripe pomegranates (at least they were able to save Ryan’s privates, eh Winona?), nesting in salsa-sucking sexpot Daisy Fuentes‘ hair and divebombing the audience at a recent America’s Funniest Home Videos taping, leaving thirty-six easily-amused tract-home denizens gasping futilely for breath before expiring in unthinkable anguish (on the bright side, Texan tourist Bink Zapruder was on hand with a camcorder and wound up winning the following week’s $10,000 grand prize! Way to exploit, Binky!), and slipping past the maitre d’ at Sunset Boulevard’s hottest “radical chic” restaurant, Chez Guevara, and “lunching” an offensive on a gaggle of gimlet-gulping supermodels during a noontime tutorial by exotic lingerie supermogul Gert Xlprnzk on how the snaps at the backs of their bras work. None of the mono-monikered, monosyllabic models escaped without serious, disfiguring injuries, but don’t fret, you vesicled voluptuaries, word has it that the “Waifs With Welts” look is sure to be fist-fed into the public’s eager gullets come ’99!… After a brief cold earlier this month, luscious limpet-head Drew Barrymore‘s chest has been declared a federal disaster area. Over $16 million in relief funds have been set aside to aid the bubbly beefwit’s beleaguered bosom, and a concerned President Clinton is slated to visit the site this weekend for what he calls “a thorough and exhausting – I mean, exhaustive – tour of the area.”… Looks like the honeymoon is over for curlicue-coifed dentist’s-office soundtracker Kenny G and his wife, Syzy. Rumor has it that the jugheaded jazzer subjected his spouse to a constant barrage of domestic Abuse (the new fragrance from Estee Lauder whose imported version is said to be much more aromatic), beating her severely at pinochle on several occasions and forcing sax on her, sometimes several times a day (ouch!). In an official statement, the snag-snouted one’s estranged scotched those rumors, claiming that “I just woke up one morning and realized, ‘F*ck, I’m married to Kenny G.'”… This is a fire drill. Don’t panic; just file out of the magazine in an orderly fashion. You will be alerted when it’s safe to return to this issue… The new look for fall? “A slightly quizzical-bordering-on-frightened expression with your head cocked to one side,” says Harpo’s Bizarre editor Roland D’Hey, shortly before being felled in a hail of bullets by U.S. marshals… Who was that on Jeff Goldblum‘s arm at the ultra-exclusive Condemned club last Saturday? Why, none other than psychotic psiren Sean Young, that’s who! Apparently, she had mistaken it for the bar rail… Okay, you can come back in now. The damned copyright notice had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette again and now the whole masthead’s full of smoke! Don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything good… And finally, a few minor corrections: formerly corpulent funnyman’s-sibling Jim Belushi is not, contrary to recent reports, wanted in thirty-six states on six counts of aggravated aggravation due to his performance in K-9; liver-lipped lovely Liv Tyler was not caught masturbating with an epee in the Viper Room last Wednesday, and bullet-headed brutarian Bruce Willis and wobbly, waddling weatherman Al Roker were not there, cheering her on and flinging sello-taped ten dollar bills at her, and skag-scoring…uh, actor Robert Downey Jr. was not violating his parole in a Brentwood apartment Sunday morning snorting up the powdered remains of Robert Mitchum. Evidently, those well-lit and explicit photos and DVD discs we received were very clever forgeries, as were the triple-signed and notarized affidavits that came with them. Our alleged apologies to all concerned. See you next time!

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