Friday, June 20, 2008



The time has come in this GO! writer's life

When she must define what's "too much,"

And so, dear readers, I bring you this week

Some subjects I'll no longer touch:

Naughty pictures of countless young starlets,

Spreading the 'net like a virus;

Showing in public what's best kept in private;

The most recent is young Miley Cyrus!

Playing grown-up, she posed nearly topless
Back in April for Vanity Fair.

Also making the rounds are some sleepover photos

Showing Miley in underwear.

She's Hannah Montana, not Hannah Nicole!

Sure, she made a bad judgment call.

Comparatively speaking, it could be much worse –
Some stars wear no undies at all!

Enough of this stuff!Young stars in the buff!

I'm sick of the hubbub and horror!

Next thing you know, there'll be a peep show
Of Dora the Explorer!

Britney Spears will no longer be gracing this page;

I've grown weary of all her inanity.

No more jokes about K-Fed or Sean P. or Jayden;

No more potshots at her insanity.

Giving Britney attention's like giving rewards

To a toddler who keeps throwing fits.

Let's put her in time-out and simply ignore her

Maybe then she’ll re-gather her wits.

Tom Cruise is another one stirring up headlines

Some say he's a religious nut.

That's his business, I say, and so as of this day,
I am keeping my eyes wide shut!

Cruise and his family now are off-limits

Even though daughter Suri's real cute;
Should I break my word and share gossip I’ve heard,

May Lord Xenu render me mute!

And let's not forget 'bout a redhead named Lindsay,

Whose every last movement is media fare;

The latest reports say she's dating a woman

Hey, it ain't me, so why should I care?

Now Lindsay's whole family is riding her coattails,

Mom and sibs have a reality show, man!

I hope it gets cancelled – and soon – 'cos I'm tired

Of living la vida Lohan!

I, for one, will be glad when Angie and Brad

Have enough kids to start a new nation;

'Cos then maybe they'll buy their own island –
In a far-off, top-secret location!

Amy Winehouse, I'm not touching that one,

Not in print – or with sterilized tongs!

And the same goes for Ms. Paris Hilton,

Whose scandals will outlive her songs.

And last, but not least, we have Ashlee and Jess;

I'm bored with their affairs of the heart.
The only Simpsons who'll get my attention

Are named Homer and Lisa and Bart!

Friday, June 06, 2008



Having recently rejoined the world of full-time employment after what I like to call an “involuntary extended hiatus,” I’ve decided that “work” is a four-letter word – and not just literally. According to Roget’s Thesaurus, work also is known as drudgery, grind, slave, strain, struggle, and other words meaning “no fun.” If it was fun, it’d be called “playtime.”

I have two college degrees, a decent résumé, and many scintillating, star-studded stories, some of them unprintable even in the tawdriest of tabloids. But thanks to our limping economy, I was out of work for about the time it takes to have a baby – or three babies, if your surname’s Jolie or Pitt. It took 37 nail-biting weeks of scanning job ads till my eyes were swirling sockets of pain to find employment that didn’t require swallowing evidence if apprehended or uttering, “Please pull around to the second window.”

As I went on interview after interview, family and friends advised me, “Just be yourself.” If that’s all it takes, why am I not getting paid to sit around in my jammies, watching “Law & Order” marathons and mainlining pure, uncut caffeine?

My sabbatical afforded time for deep introspection that led to a powerful revelation: I don’t want a job, I just want paychecks. Or more specifically, doubloons and pieces of eight. That’s right, dear readers … I want to be a pirate. So maybe this epiphany came during a “Pirates of the Caribbean” marathon and maybe I was under the influence of couple or 12 cans of Mountain Dew, but it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.

Besides, I’m stuck with this parrot I bought on a whim, so I have no choice but to buckle my swash and hit the high seas, looting and pillaging in the tradition of my forebears – among them, Errol Flynn’s Capt. Blood; Robert Newton’s Long John Silver; Capt. Hook (in both animated and Dustin Hoffman form); and of course, Johnny Depp’s rogue with a heart of tarnished gold, Jack Sparrow.

Sure, there are drawbacks to being a pirate – scurvy has sent many a marauder to Davy Jones’ Locker (that’s “six feet under” to ye landlubbers) and they have hideously bad teeth, but that just proves they don’t worry about whether their employer offers dental coverage. Health, hygiene and halitosis issues aside, I can think of several arguments in favor of being a pirate:

* All-expenses paid traveling.

* Wenches galore!

* The loot? Tax-free.

* No shoes, no shirt, no problem!

* Keith Richards as Jack Sparrow’s dad proves pirates can outlive pretty much anything.

* You can say things that sound dirty but really aren’t, e.g., poop deck, booty and “Hoist the Jolly Roger!”

* Yo-ho-ho, many bottles of rum!

* Pirates are a happy bunch, always singing and dancing with perfect choreography. Don’t believe me? Rent “The Pirates of Penzance.”

Last but not least, when someone asks, “Where’s your buccaneers?” it’s fun to reply, “Arrrgh, matey, they’re under me buckin’ hat!”