The Week We Let Taylor Swift FinishS

This week: hookers, chickens, Kanye, race, and murder.

A young lady named Ashley, who used to be an "escort," has a lucrative cross-promotional agreement with a local tabloid. Betty Draper, a fictional character, gave birth. Everybody died at Yale. We met Princess Coldstare! Steve Jobs cannot stop lying. Kanye might've been an inside job, and even Obama's in on it. (He thinks Kanya is a jackass, or at least that is what he wants us to think he thinks.) The Jay Leno Show was what we thought it was. No one has any perks at Conde anymore. Gossip Girl involved ponies. President Obama remained black, though it was considered impolitic to point that out. (He also is a Jedi.) Melrose Place continued to be a thing on television again for some reason. We learned all about Ray J. Clark. (He probably killed someone.) (A person, not a monster.) Someone took bad pictures of a little girl. We partied with Perry Farrell. Glee kept having the singing and dancing and whatnot. Not singing and dancing: Phil Spector. Wolf Blitzer sucked on a different show for a change. Project Runway saved the LA Times, by destroying it. Anna Wintour smiled.

So we beat on, boats against the current, ceaselessly fucking that chicken.