Dear Starf*cker,

First of all, I am obviously glad to see you're out of jail and up to all your old antics. But earlier this week, as I was making plans to see The TV Set and loving David Duchovny's obligatory TV writers' beard, I suddenly remembered your now-imfamous divorce -- so, I've got to know: what happened there?

Love always,

Liz in LA

Dear Liz in LA,

It is good to be back. And wouldn't it be even better if I could tell the world the story of how I made my comeback? Well, I can't this week. Because here I am, reliving a very dark, very personal time in my life because of you and your letter. Thanks. Well, as part of my comeback--which you won't hear about this week, Liz from LA--my new Press Secretary has suggested I publicly answer some of the letters I get, rather than wiping my ass with them. Not that I wipe my own ass, that's Rodriguo's hat to wear, but you get the point.

So be grateful.

And I do understand that you were most likely left unfulfilled by what little truth you could extract from the tabloids concerning my divorce from David Duchovny--just as I was left unfulfilled so many nights during my marriage to Russell Crowe. And so, as an ambassador of truth, I present to you a page out of my very own Ex-Files.

I met David on Boston Common. He was walking his dogs, and I was being led around on a leash by then-husband Dennis Rodman. While Dennis was signing autographs or something, I broke free from the tree he'd tied me to and approached David. Okay, I humped his leg--you know, to break the ice? David laughed and invited me back to his place for a vegetarian dinner. I was a bit worried about being with a vegetarian, but I assure you he loves the cock.

Our sex-life, which is undoubtedly what you sad, dirty little people come to this site to read about, was out of this world. Naturally, nothing excited me more than when he'd pretend he was Fox Mulder. This was the nineties, people, who didn't want to get it on with Mulder? Well, Scully didn't, but she was a frigid bitch. "There must be a scientific explanation for that bulge in your pants, Mulder."

(Just between us, Liz from LA, my favorite sex with David was the time I donned that rubber alien mask, sensually shaved his entire body, then "probed" him until he begged me to stop.)

Yeah, it's true that I poisoned David Duchovny's dog. But he left me no choice, the dog always came first. No, not literally, you sick fucks. Anyway, I'm not a jealous person, but that's like the first commandment of marrying Starf*cker--no wait, the first one is about the rugby cleats. But whatever. The point is, you can't love anyone, and by extension any beast, more than me. For no one was that extension more difficult than Richard Gere, but that's another story.

Now poisoning a dog, or even a child, doesn't usually result in divorce for me. But this wasn't just any mangy beast. It was Téa Leoni. Jay-kay Téa, get off the phone with your lawyers. It was Beethoven. I guess he was gonna get sent to the glue factory or whatever after the movie wrapped, and David--who as you may, but probably may not recall was in the movie--took the dog. Why he didn't just pawn it off on Charles Grodin, I'll never know. It's not like Charles has been in anything since... except my ass of course.

At any rate, David let Beethoven stay in the room when we made love. At first, it didn't bother me. But then I got to thinking, "That dog is an implied co-conspirator in our bedroom hijinx." And that to me was unacceptable. Simply put: the dog knew too much. He had witnessed nearly all of the carefully choreographed moves in my sexual repertoire, including the trademark "Salty Sailor," which not even my husbands have seen, as it is advisable to close one's eyes for that one.

I might've gotten away with it, but it's an assload of work digging a hole big enough to effectively bury a St. Bernard. So I just threw a tarp over him, made a pitcher of Mojitos, and called it a night. It didn't take long after David got home that night for him to discover that Beethoven had, in fact, rolled over for the last time. And of course he chose the dog, even dead, over me. Which just proves I was right, not that I ever had any doubt.

I tried to make amends by donating a very generous $500 to the MSPCA, but David saw it as too little too late and filed a restraining order.

So that's about it, Liz from LA. But before you go writing me another letter, I will briefly address my 1999 arrest for violating David's restraining order. Yes, it is regrettably true that the police found me naked on David's lawn holding a boom box over my head, blaring Bree Sharp's novelty hit, "David Duchovny."

He'll always be the one that got away.

Cheers,
Starf*cker

It took awhile for the trial to get started, chiefly because the police couldn’t ascertain my identity. As you should know, if you call yourselves Jr. Starfuckers—which incidentally is the name of my new fan club as well as a very popular new sandwich at Arby’s—I changed my name to Starfucker on my 18th birthday, as it had become obvious by then that star-fucking was to be my profession. While all of the other teenagers were at the mall or huffing white-out, I was strengthening my gag reflex by deepthroating bananas.

I believed in destiny.

My birth name is a closely-guarded secret, known only to those in my inner circle. And Dr. Phil. He sees right through me.

Anyway, I love screwing taxpayers out of money. So I opted to go to trial, against the advice of my army of lawyers. Long story short, I was found guilty, as my lawyers told me, “by the court of public opinion,” whatever the fuck that is. Some secret tribunal or something.

The judge threw the book at me. Apparently I didn’t “show any remorse” for tea-bagging that cop at Jacques Cabaret, even though I very clearly stated that I was sorry the guy was a cop. In my defense, I was high on methamphetamine for my day in court, and also at the sentencing, and you know how it is, I just could not shut up.

I said to the judge, “You’re just jealous! Because you know that I wouldn’t spread for anything less than a Supreme Court Judge… or a TV judge, like Judge Joe Brown. He’s sassy, and he’d be all like, ‘I’m gonna hold your ass in contempt,’ and I’d be like, ‘What it is, judge,’ and he’d spank my ass with his gavel.”

That was my honest interpretation of the situation. The judge obviously felt otherwise. Press Secretary III suggested that the whole thing was bad timing. The citizens of the great state of Massachusetts were simply sick of celebrity justice and seeing people like Bobby Brown get off again and again, and I paid the price.

Prison is no joke. I mean it is compared to those two nights I spent in a Moroccan prison—during which time I was bent over for so long, I required the services of several dedicated chiropractors just to stand upright again—but overall not a joke.

Sure, Chuck visited me at first. But his visits tapered off after a few months. I think he was slightly put off by the fact that I became Bobby Brown’s prison wife when he was in for that $19,000 he owed in back child support. We never got nasty. I mean, the guy fucked Whitney Houston for how long? He’s a walking venereal disease. In return for my protection, I agreed to pay off his debt.

Despite the arranged nature of our “marriage,” Bobby and I did have some good times together. I tried, with moderate success, to teach him how to read in the prison library. We made potholders together in arts and crafts. And I still vaguely remember the night we got trashed on a batch of prison wine we brewed in our cell toilet and lovingly picked the lice out of each other’s hair.

In six months, I was released. I had supposedly paid my debt to society, but really society should be paying me for letting them get close enough to smell the sweat on my professionally waxed scrotum, because that’s closer than most of you bitches will ever get to Starfucker.

Dear Starfucker,

I spotted that thinly-veiled allusion to Lost in your last thrilling blog entry! My friend and I have a bet going. I say you were never married to a cast member of Lost, but she says you were. Who's right? The loser owes the winner a backrub.

Your fan,
Lost in Kink Fic

Lost,

Well, my friend in kink fic, get out your massage oil because I was married to Lost cast member Josh Holloway in 2001! It all started on a fateful day in the summer of '69, while Bryan Adams was strumming that old six-string—a day that I consider one of the "best days of my life," the day Josh was born.

But it was Aerosmith that brought Josh and I together. In late 2000, I was still reeling from my bitter divorce from David Duchovny when I saw the 1993 music video for Aerosmith's "Cryin'" on some VH1 countdown. And Josh Holloway plays the thief who gets beat up by clueless blonde Alicia Silverstone.

"Who is that hot bad boy?" I recall shouting at the TV.

Well I'm a Capricorn, and I am nothing if not persistent. So I got on the horn and called up my ex-husband, Steven Tyler, and asked him who the guy from the video was. Steven said he'd tell me if I agreed to meet him in a certain gas station bathroom where he'd been drilling a gloryhole for quite some time, and I said, "Dream on," and hung up on him.

So I opted for Plan B and just IMDb'ed my mystery man. I would've done that in the first place, but I hate typing. I have carpal tunnel syndrome from years of handjobs. I need a typist. And a pianist, not because I like piano music, but because "pianist" is such a funny word.

Josh and I were married after a whirlwind romance. It was a private ceremony on, get this, a beach. And like his character on Lost, Josh is a rogue with a heart of gold. He taught me how to spit (though it's so much easier just to swallow) and how to bluff in poker, but deep down he's a southern gentleman. He always made sure I came first, pun most definitely intended.

I used to accompany my Georgia Peach when he was on the set. That was my pet name for Josh, my Georgia Peach. He did an episode of Walker, Texas Ranger actually, a poorly-conceived episode titled "Medieval Crimes," in which a gang of burglars disguised as knights descend upon Texas and Chuck Norris, of course, saves the day.

That was how I met Chuck Norris, actually. Around that time, I was getting bored with Josh's slow southern comfort in the bedroom, and after that visit to the set, I found myself fantasizing about Chuck Norris. Josh and I tried couples therapy for awhile, and though we loved each other, we decided to go our separate ways. Josh and I are still great friends though, and we recently attended each other's weddings.

Well I think that should settle the bet, but if I were you I'd make that backrub extra good, Lost in Kink Fic, because I was married to Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje too! But I'm going save that tongue twister of a story for another day. But next time, do your fucking homework before you go making bets. And you call yourself a fan...

Cheers,
Starfucker

I have been asked, considering my history with him, why I allowed celebrity chef and ex-husband Emeril Lagasse to cater my reception for the vow renewal. There’s been a resurgence on the message boards, Press Secretary II says, of chatter about “the incident.”

“Weren’t you worried he’d poisen [sic] your food?” one of my more melodramatic fans writes. “That man has a cruel streak!” And yes, he does, but clearly this so-called fan doesn’t understand the concept of “motive.” You see, Emeril admitted “the incident” was a result of his overactive libido and has since apologized for it.

For those of you who’ve been playing backgammon on a deserted island somewhere for the last decade, I’m referring to what the tabloids dubbed “the punch heard round the world.”

It’s called, my people tell me, a “donkey punch.” Now I’ve been accused of being many, many things, but no one has ever accused me of being vanilla. I have widely traversed the sexual landscape, and I freely admit to all of it, including the Hannibal Lecter roleplay with Anthony Hopkins and that ill-advised foray into autoerotic asphyxiation. But I naively thought the donkey punch was an urban legend.

(Press Secretary II has persuaded me not to include the definition of “donkey punch” here, but for the sexually unaware among you, I suggest you look it up before proceeding.)

I’m not entirely sure it’s possible to see something like that coming, chiefly because it’s happening behind you, but I feel I should’ve suspected it with him. Emeril Lagasse is an unabashed narcissist, ladies and gentleman. It’s all about him. I mean, the man refers to his semen as “the essence of Emeril” for God’s sake.

“We’re gonna kick it up a notch tonight, babe,” he’d always say. Emeril was a very demanding lover. I had to do my own special kind of kegel exercises every day to be ready. So when he said, “We’re gonna kick it up a notch tonight, babe,” on that fateful night, I had no reaction apart from the compulsory cringe.

That night, Emeril Lagasse was taking me from behind when he grunted, “Tell me you want my essence, babe.”

Ever the dutiful husband, I replied, “I want your essence.”

“Bam!” he shouted into my ear. This was not unusual. To this day, if you ask me what sound an ejaculation makes, I will say, “Bam!” I sometimes picture myself being interviewed by Detective Green on Law & Order and saying, “Well…this Escalade pulled up, the window rolled down, and I heard a loud noise—like a man ejaculating.” But this time Emeril’s trademark “Bam!” was accompanied by a blinding pain caused by something, which I now know to be his fist, striking the back of my cranium.

The story leaked to the press when a sympathetic doctor in the ER started me on a sweet, sweet morphine drip and I began telling the embarrassing story to anyone who would listen. Well, some vulture sold my story to Star magazine, which ran the infamous headline, “The Punch Heard Round the World” and later did a follow-up story about the divorce which, by the way, I made a killing on when my lawyer convinced Emeril’s lawyer than a donkey punch could be prosecuted as a hate crime.

Later, Emeril sent me a card which read: “We always hurt the ones we love, babe,” which I thought was a very nice gesture, but too little too late.

Raffi was my only Armenian husband. I say this, but I don't even know where the hell this "Armenia" place is. I'm pretty sure it's an urban legend. Either that or it's one of those little countries that we big countries test our nukes in.

Press Secretary II has cautioned me against making such ignorant statements in my blog concerning world geography, but she also claims Armenia is south of Georgia, and having recently paid a visit to the Dirty South, I know she's full of shit. The only thing south of Georgia is Florida. And south of that? Just Cuban refugees floating in with the tide.

It was very difficult for me to adjust to being called "Mr. Cavoukian," mainly because it sounds so similar to "Mr. Kevorkian." I don't like to talk about my marriage to Jack, because while I'm all for a patient's right to die, I can't stand when a man brings his work home. Do you have any idea how hard it is to decorate around a Thanatron?

I didn't think much of Raffi until I saw that after-school special, you know the one, "How Bananaphone Saved My Life," where that little girl, Emily, falls ill with meningitis, but keeps her spirits up by singing "Bananaphone" on endless loop until a hospital employee, in an act of misguided mercy, finally puts her out of her misery by smothering her with a pillow?

I can't remember what the lesson was supposed to be, but I couldn't get that fucking "Banaphone" song out of my head.

So I tracked Raffi down at Berklee College of Music, where he was doing a show. I approached him after the show with a clever line that I had spent a week developing, "Is that a bananaphone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" It was, in fact, a bananaphone, but Raffi still acquiesced to a date.

After several vodka gimlets, Raffi and I were married and spending our honeymoon in a suite at the Ritz under assumed names. I get a kick out of signing the register at hotels as "Nancy Kerrigan," because that snob wouldn't let me wear her silver medal during a publicity parade in Walt Disney World following the 1994 Winter Olympics. Let the public think she's a hotel slut for all I care.

In our suite, I proclaimed my love for Raffi. "Raffi, ever since I saw that after-school special, you know the one, I have wanted you to shake, shake, shake my sillies out," I said, unbuttoning a button on my Egyptian cotton dress shirt for each shake, "and wiggle my waggles away."

Raffi wiggled my waggle so well that night, I had to stop mid-wiggle to ask him if he'd obtained a degree in waggle-wiggling.

"A Ph.D," he grinned coyly.

"Sing to me, Raffi," I panted in ecstasy, 90 minutes later. "Sing to me!" And he launched into fan favorite, "Baby Beluga," thrusting his hips in time to the song.

But when Raffi got to the second verse, and crooned the line, "The waves roll in and the waves roll out/See the water squirting out of your spout," well you can imagine what happened. Let me just say that Raffi is one of the most talented lovers I've ever had. I'd rather be with Raffi than get tag-teamed by Patrick Duffy and Tom Selleck. Impressed, huh? My God, the way he strummed my guitar. The way he could talk on my bananaphone for hours...

What's Armenian for "le sigh"?

Surprisingly, there's no horrific divorce story to report. Raffi's self-imposed ethical responsibility to "honor children" simply came at odds with my devil-may-care persona and general apathy towards society. We went our separate ways, but I've been known to see him between husbands for sexcapades.

I asked for clemency on Michael Stipe’s behalf because, whackjob or not, I know from a very intense roleplay he and I did once that he would not last a single day in prison. So instead he’s undergoing psychiatric therapy, and I’m sure he has about a million hours of community service which should be a piece of cake for him.

Having come so close to losing each other, Chuck Norris and I decided to renew our vows and we asked our mutual friend, Tony Danza, to officiate as a minister of the Universal Church of Life. But I’m sure all this is redundant, as you’ve surely seen it on TV or, for the more primitive among you, read about it in the newspaper.

Chuck wanted something quiet and romantic, but I vetoed that. So it turned out to be a red carpet event with all Chuck’s friends and my ex-husbands in attendance. Even Raffi showed up. (We didn’t invite Michael Stipe though. Not even I’m that generous.) Tommy was my best man because he looks better in a tuxedo than the not-so-lean George Foreman. Of course by the second course of the reception dinner, catered by ex-husband and Fall River native Emeril Lagasse, Tommy was topless and banging on his chest, but I don’t think he was trying to steal my day or anything, it was just Tommy being Tommy.

I don’t think the press even picked up on that though, they were waiting for Ted Kennedy to get loaded and start shooting his mouth off.

Standing at the altar, I took Chuck’s hand in mine, cleared my throat audibly, and recited the vows I’d meticulously prepared, “I was alone, but adored by a hundred thousand more. Then I said that you were the last. And I have known love like a whore, from at least ten thousand more. Then I swore that you were the last— ”

“Hey! Is that The Dandy Warhols?” Tony interrupted.

“Yeah!” I beamed, holding up the liner notes that I’d been reading from, “I’m so glad someone picked up on that. To be honest, Tony, I thought that reference was just going to zip right over everyone’s heads… Oh, sorry Chuck, where I’m going with this is that I swear to you before God and Tony Danza that you will be my last. And look! My fingers aren’t even crossed!”

I produce my hands, fingers uncrossed, as evidence and there isn’t a dry eye in the church. There were even heartfelt tears from my harshest critics, who’ve maligned me over the years as everything from a “golddigger” to a “himbo,” some silly slang word which my Press Secretary and I had to look up online:

himbo n. A man who is good-looking, but unintelligent or superficial.

“You know,” I said to my Press Secretary, “I think I am a himbo. I’ll take that. What a delightful word! Put that on my MySpace! With an ‘LOL’ after it maybe.” And she asked me what an ‘LOL’ was and I fired her and said, “And don’t BRB, you old cow,” and got a much younger, trendier Press Secretary. We call her Press Secretary II. All women look the same to me.

And then Chuck said his vows, “And I swear to you on this stack of cinderblocks,” he motioned to a strategically-placed pile of ten cinderblocks, grunted, and broke them with his bare hands to the deafening applause of our guests, “that I will love you forever.”

And Tony Danza smiled and said, “Now that’s love. You know what to do, you crazy kids.”

Chuck Norris and I then engaged in what the tabloids have since described as “a full three periods of homosexual tonsil hockey.” The kiss, which did in fact last a full exhilarating sixty minutes, is also rumored to have turned several “straight” men, most notably Kevin Spacey, who was in attendance. During the kiss he fell to his knees proclaiming his love for men before he collapsed in a fit of ecstasy and was carried out on a stretcher.

And my mind turned into mint jelly and all I could think to say was, “That ruled.”

I was on my fourth pitcher of strawberry daiquiri, waiting for news about Chuck, when I made a discovery, “Michael Jordan’s done it again. Jus’ when I thought he couldn’t make my underwears any better, y’know what he does, George? Y’know what Michael Jordan does? He prints the fucking tags into my underwears! Fucking brilliant!”

“Sir,” my manservant Rodriguo says, working on a rather large knot between my godly shoulder blades, “Mr. George is downstairs reviewing prototypes for the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat Liquefying Blender.”

“You liquemify that fat, Georgie, and while you’re at it make me another pitcher of those dai-queeries with extra queer,” I say, then whisper, “The queer is what makes it pink. You know what, Rodriguo, I think I have a… a little thing for bald, black guys. I’m starting to notice a pattern.”

Now I’ve never followed basketball, but of course I knew who Michael Jordan was. I fell in love with him at the Hollywood premiere of Space Jam, where we first met. You see, I’ve had this unusual fetish for actors who have appeared with cartoon rabbits ever since I saw Bob Hoskins in Who Framed Roger Rabbit as a kid.

Michael Jordan is a cigar aficionado. I will tell you that he has a walk-in humidor in his home, which he and I made love in frequently during our marriage simply for the novelty of it. Needless to say, he smoked my cigar like a pro. Michael had a bit of an oral fixation, which is why he always chewed gum during his games. There’s no cock-smoking in basketball. Well, not while the clock’s running anyway.

I divorced Michael because I eventually became desensitized to him. Bombarded with advertisements for products he was hawking, particularly seeing him in his briefs every time a Hanes commercial came on, I was no longer able to sustain an erection. He suggested pills, and I suggested a generous divorce settlement. I only wanted his royalties from Space Jam, because I firmly believe it will be a cult classic.

“What’s takin’ the FBI so long?” I shout belligerently to no one in particular. “Rodriguo, bring the car around! I’ll be right down.”

Rodriguo couldn’t get very close to the Myogyo Ji Buddhist Temple of Greater Boston, where the stand-off was, on account of all the media and police presence. So I had him drop me off and I stumbled the rest of the way, wearing my black, ostrich feather boa, my bathrobe, and a pair of Ray-Bans.

“Sir,” a man with an assault rifle said, “this area is restricted.”

“Restrict this,” I said, grabbing my crotch. “Do you know who I am? I am Chuck Norris’ husband is who I am, bucko, and if you Feebs keep dicking around down here, I’m gonna be his fucking widow, okay? Now gimme that assault rifle.”

“No.”

“Okie dokie. That’s fair, that’s fair. How about a bullhorn then? I’ll lure him out and you shoot him,” I suggested. After a few moments of secret FBI deliberation, I found myself flanked by two sharpshooters and holding a bullhorn.

“Stipe, show your face, you bastard! I want some fucking answers. How did you kidnap Chuck Norris in the first place, you feeble motherfucker?” I shout into the bullhorn.

“Chloroform!” Michael Stipe shouts back, appearing in one of the temple’s windows.

“Really?” I say, excitedly, “Do you have any more? I’ve always wanted to huff some of that shit!” Michael Stipe opens the window and tosses out a rag soaked in chloroform. Well, I dropped the bullhorn and ran for the rag, but there were gunshots so I hit the dirt, seizing the rag and holding it to my face.

And when I came to, Michael Stipe had been arrested and Chuck Norris was being flown to Mass General in the MedEvac helicopter for some tests. The FBI, of course, wanted to know how I did it.

“Well,” I said, trying to remember what Vinnie had said to me, “I’ve been developing this theory that Michael Stipe really just wanted to be caught. But the answer, it was in the haiku.” And the FBI nodded appreciatively, and I said, “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” and Rodriguo drove me to the hospital to see my husband.

George Foreman is still camped out at my house, boo-hooing about his big Teflon tragedy. This morning I awaken to his fists banging on my bedroom door.

“This better be important,” I say, pushing up my hand-sewn sleep mask and looking at the clock. “It’s too early for another fucking Teflon update.”

“It’s 3:00PM, champ… Are you wearing a boa?”

“I’ve taken to wearing it to bed, yes. Do you like it? Touch it, George. Go on, don’t be shy. These are real ostrich feathers. I had two very real ostriches poached just to make this boa. Don’t tell Bob Barker,” I guffaw as George approaches the bed to examine the boa. I slap his hand, “There. You touched it. Now what the fuck do you want?”

He seizes my remote and turns the TV on. Michael Stipe’s face instantly fills my widescreen and I gasp, “Oh my God, they’re pre-empting General Hospital! Those bastards at ABC, if this is about that fucking macchiato I threw… George, do you still have that bomb out back? I think we’re going to need the bomb— ”

“Shh! Listen, champ,” George says.

Charles Gibson’s familiar, dull voice accompanies a series of innocuous pictures of Michael Stipe at various charity functions: “Again, for those of you who are just tuning in, Michael Stipe has claimed responsibility for the disappearance of Chuck Norris. Twenty-five trained FBI negotiators are stationed outside the Buddhist Temple where Stipe is reportedly holding Chuck Norris, but so far Stipe has not made any demands…”

The TV thing, it's surreal. I hear Charlie's voice, which I admit normally bores me to tears. In fact, I used his voice as a sort of organic sleep-aid during our brief marriage. I'd ask him how his day was and be zero to REM in 90 seconds. But what Charlie's saying, it's not really sinking in. I'm thinking, instead, about how Charles Gibson is the poor man's Peter Jennings in every sense. And I should know, I've been married to them both.

“I don’t get it, George. How could Michael Stipe kidnap Chuck Norris? That’s just not very realistic. I mean, Chuck Norris wears a live rattlesnake as a condom, for God’s sake! And let me tell you, George, we’ve had a few close calls with that, but good ol’ Chuck sucked the venom right out of my— ”

“I get the picture, champ,” George says, clutching his stomach in what I can only describe as mock disgust. He's visibly jealous.

“Do you know what this means?” I shout, shaking George Foreman by his broad shoulders. He shakes his head. “Vinnie was right! It means I owe Vincent D’Onofrio an apology, George. How mortifying! This can’t be happening.”

“In other news,” George adds, “The EPA is giving us until 2015 to eliminate Teflon.”

“In other news, George? In other news? There is no ‘other’ news, George, because my husband— you remember him, don’t you— has been kidnapped by a has-been rockstar and is being held against his will. But just so we’re straight, you are not living here until 2015, George. Now be a dear and mix me a strawberry daiquiri, this is going to be a long day. Oh, and hold my calls.”

“Sure thing, champ.”

"You... want me to... to help you?"

"Vinnie, Vinnie! Forgive and forget," I say. I'm on the phone with Vincent D'Onofrio, trying to get to the bottom of this mess with Chuck. "Look, Vin, I punch like a girl, it couldn't have hurt that bad. Anyway, you're the closest thing to a detective I've married, so are you going to help me or not?"

"A thing? You think of me as a... a thing? Just read me the haiku... again."

If something happens to Chuck, I don't know what I'll do. He came into my life at just the right moment. I was so jaded after my divorce from Ray Nagin, you know, the crazy mayor of New Orleans? Well, he wasn't crazy when I married him. He was strong, ambitious, and a damn snappy dresser.

But for Ray to make all those comments on Martin Luther King Day about rebuilding a "chocolate New Orleans" sanctioned by God, while his very white husband sat unprepared in the audience? That was insensitive at best, and political suicide at worst. Well I'm no rat, but I sure as hell know when to jump ship.

Sure, Ray came home that night, all apologies, saying, "Baby, baby! It wasn't what it sounded like. It's a political thing, you wouldn't understand. Oh baby, you know you're my little white chocolate. Haven't I called you that? Okay, well I'm starting right now. You're my little white chocolate kiss, baby," but I wasn't having any of it.

"Don't patronize me," I said to him, "I watch the Food Network! White chocolate isn't even chocolate! I don't contain a single drop of chocolate liquer and you know it. I'm Scottish! How could you, Ray? You can white chocolate kiss my ass!" And I walked out, never looking back.

And then I met Chuck.

"All right," I sigh, "I'll read it one more time. For Chuck. 'Corner and spotlight. I'm losing my religion. Now I've said too much.' That's it. Vinnie, it's a fucking haiku. It doesn't mean anything. It's just words that Micheal wrote—"

"Michael... Michael Stipe, he wrote the... the haiku, didn't he? He would be our... our logical first suspect, wouldn't he?"

"This isn't TV, Vinnie!" I shout into the phone, "This is real life. No, this is far more important, this is my life. And the 'bad guys' don't just intentionally leave evidence. And stop with the rheatorical questions!"

"No," Vinnie pauses for dramatic effect, "I think our guy, he... he wants to be found. A... a narcissist. Leaving us a trail of... bread crumbs to... to follow. Always one step ahead. No, the answer... it's in the haiku."

"Whatever," I say, making a "W" with my fingers, cradling the phone with my shoulder, "Just analyze the fucking haiku then and get back to me, okay?" I hang up. Can you believe that man's arrogance? He actually believes he's a real detective! Unfortunately, he's all I've got.

"Hello?"

"Noah? It's Bob Barker—"

Let me just interrupt to say that, no, I was never married to Bob Barker. I was, however, married to Rod Roddy, The Price Is Right's flashy-dressed announcer. I loved Rod dearly and our marriage was great until I began receiving messages from Satan. They came in the form of Magic Eye puzzles hidden in the complicated patterns of Rod's jackets. We both agreed that a divorce was the only solution, and I sought no settlement.

Rod died, of course, of breast cancer in 2003. For his wake, I convinced his brother to play a recording of Rod's famous line, "Come on down!" so the mourners could "come on down" and view the body. He looked so hip in his stunning rhinestone-covered white jacket with gigantic lapels. The family donated the rest of his jackets to the Smithsonian.

But back to the phone call....

"Listen, Bob," I shouted over the blow dryer I was using to dry the clear polish on my fingernails, "my pets are already spayed and neutered. I even had the vet scoop out some other unnecessary internal organs, just for shits and giggles. And since when do you make house calls anyway?"

"I appreciate your effort in helping to control the pet population, young man," Bob paused, "but I was supposed to meet Chuck in his hotel room this morning for my Tang Soo Do lesson, and when I arrived, the door was ajar. There was evidence of a struggle. And on the nightstand, I found a haiku addressed to you."

"A haiku? Holy Plinko!" I exclaimed, turning off the hair dryer and feverishly blowing on my nails to compensate. Then Bob read me the haiku:

corner and spotlight
i'm losing my religion
now i've said too much

"That's another one of Michael Stipe's goddamn REM haikus that got rejected from The Haiku Year. Clearly, someone is trying to torture me. Oh, Bob, while I have you on the phone, how many Viactiv chocolate calcium chews can I buy for between $20 and $21?"

"Two," he said without hesitation. "Preventing osteoporosis isn't cheap. That reminds me, when we first started The Price Is Right back in 1972, a new car only cost—"

"Yeah, that's just peachy, Bob," I cut him short, "but I should probably find out who's behind my husband's disappearance. You can bore me with stories about the 'good ol' days,'" and I made the little quotation marks with my forefingers, "some other time. Okay? Bye."

Click.

Ted Kennedy ended up sleeping it off on my Cleopatra Chaise in the Egyptian Room. When I was putting coffee on the next morning, I heard him groaning, "All right, all right... I'll vote to confirm Alito, just get rid of this goddamn hangover," and then puking into my lacquered, mother-of-pearl inlaid Egyptian wastebasket.

Oh, and I got Tommy a gig. He's going to be the host of America's Next Top Drummer. We're going to have a panel of three C-list celebrity judges. Rikki Rockett, the former drummer of Poison; a different Playboy Playmate each week, on loan from my brother Devon's personal friend and employer, Christie Hefner; and Tiger Bill Meligari, the drum "expert" I became acquainted with through Chuck Norris. He's also a Black Belt.

When we met, Tiger Bill explained to me the link between drumming and martial arts, "Speed requires that you keep your muscles loose and relaxed. The faster you strike, the more powerful your stike will be."

After every third-rate drummer takes the stage, Tommy will walk over and slap them five, smile at the audience, and say, "That ruled!" It's perfect. I may have forfeited my alimony, but I'm now taking 20% of Tommy as his agent. Double agent is more like it. There's something to be said for subtlety when it comes to revenge plots.

The show is going to air on NBC. I originally tried for ABC, just because they air Lost, but during negotiation, one idiot suggested we stage a reunion between Pamela and Tommy during the season's final episode. "Do some fucking research on my personal history before you make such stupid fucking suggestions!" I shouted, and threw my Caramel Macchiato in his face.

As Tommy and I were escorted out and the afore-mentioned idiot was screaming like a baby, I knew I'd fucked up in making it about me. I can bend over and grab my ankles like the best of them when need be, but I've got a serious hate-on for Pamela Anderson. And you're thinking I should blame Tommy, right? Well Tommy wasn't the only man that bitch stole from me.

Does the name Robert James Ritchie ring a bell? No? Maybe you've heard of Kid Rock then. Picture it! June of 2001. When Kid got down on one knee and slipped that bling on my finger, I said, "Ka-ching!" and completely forgot he'd voted for George W. Bush. We were co-husbands by the 4th of July.

And there were fireworks well into August, let me tell you. I loved that he'd wear sunglasses when we fucked. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but when I'm getting my freak on with a rockstar, I don't care if he's sold his soul to the devil, I'm just pleased to be plowed.

But I guess to be truthful, I was done with him by the time he started his extramarricular activities with Pamela Anderson. He used to call me at work, when I owned that chain of nail salons in Chinatown, saying, "I feed on all that is forsaken. I'm gonna get you. I see through you. I'm gonna get you. Who am I?"

And I'd have to say, "You are the bullgod." I fucking hate riddles, even when I know the answer.

Even so, when Kid divorced me for that whore, I put a cowboy hat and a gold cross on my voodoo doll and stuck it full of pins. And then in 2002, he ended up recording "Picture" with Sheryl Crow, so I guess it worked. I don't care how much money he made off that song, it still sucked.

So I feel I have the right to get a little upset at the mention of her name. I shouldn't have thrown the espresso, though, I'd paid more than $4.00 for it. And anyway, it all worked out. I kept my cool at NBC and America's Next Top Drummer was born.

I was plucking my eyebrows last night in the master bath when I noticed Chuck Norris' beard trimmer on the sink. I haven't heard from him since he left. "The poor thing probably looks like a hillbilly by now. How we suffer for our principles," I thought, though it had been only a few days.

"I should call him," I said. I went into my bedroom and stood there in my boxer-briefs, the beard trimmer in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I nervously dialed his number, my thumb braced to press the green "TALK" button.

But the doorbell rang. "Christ on a crucifix! Now what?" I grumbled, putting on my terry bathrobe and sliding my cell into the pocket. I descended the spiral staircase, stomped through the Main Hall and opened the door, half-expecting to see Chuck Norris standing there.

But instead I found myself face-to-face with a heavyset man in a black ski mask. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked gruffly, a fog of Jim Beam rolling from his mouth-hole. And as the fog hit me, I realized it was my ex-husband, Ted Kennedy.

So I said, "All right," and led him into the newly redone Egyptian Room, where I invited him to sit on a surprisingly comfortable and ergonomically-designed replica sarcophygus I'd had imported. I thought it best not to ask him if he wanted anything to drink.

Ted removed the ski mask, and slid something across the table to me with a snicker. Upon closer inspection, it was an anti-Kerry bumper sticker:

Ted Kennedy then erupted in laugher, which soon dissolved into a coughing fit. I dug a Halls cough drop out of my bathrobe, unwrapped it for him, and placed it on his tongue. During our marriage, I learned how to cater to that obnoxious sense of entitlement common among the Kennedys.

"I don't get it," I said, passing the bumper stick back. Annoyed, Ted explained that he wanted us to drive into Beacon Hill to play a practical joke on John Kerry. Just because. I tried to pacify him, but he'd already put on his black peacoat and was cursing that he'd lost his keys.

"I'll drive," I said. "I don't feel much like taking a swim in the Chappaquiddick."

"I make one mistake, thirty-five years ago--" he blustered.

"A woman died, you pompous ass," I teased him, tousling his white hair. (The Kennedys have excellent hair genes.) Ted insisted on driving, however, so I pulled out the home breathalyzer test I'd picked up on a whim at Brookstone. He blew a .18 and said he'd driven on a .23 before, so we played Rock, Paper, Scissors.

"1, 2, 3, shoot!" I pulled scissors and Ted flipped me off, so I drove, still in my bathrobe.

Ted is often known as a "lion" of the Democratic party. I too knew him as a lion but in a completely different context. After going halfsies on a bottle of Jim Beam, we'd retire upstairs for our now-famous foreplay ritual in which Ted would pounce on me, growl, and bite the back of my neck. Rawr, Ted.

It is a little-known fact, though a matter of public record, that my marriage to Ted Kennedy was my longest. We shared a pension for recklessness that had been distinctly neglected in my other marriages. I might've stayed with Ted, were he not 50 years my senior. I'll do a lot for money, but I can't see myself laying out a pair of Depends on the bed each morning for my husband.

You really have to respect Anna Nicole Smith's work ethic.

In Beacon Hill, I turned off my lights and parked just down the street from John Kerry's brownstone, so Ted could slap the bumper sticker on Kerry's car. "Make sure to place it on a smooth, dry surface!" I reminded him as he stumbled up the cobblestone street.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Chuck's number again. It was 1:44AM. I wondered if he was awake. I wondered if he was thinking about me. And I sat there, by the greenish glow of my cell phone, with my thumb on the "TALK" button, waiting for Ted. Waiting for the punchline.

Beep.

“Hi, Tommy. It’s Noah. I’m sitting here watching Tommy Lee Goes To College. Yeah… I know chimpanzees that could tell this shit is scripted. Is Jack Kevorkian your agent, Tommy? Because this shit is career suicide. Anyway, I have a proposition for you. Call me when you get this. Ta!”

I need an excuse to get out of the house, and seeing Tommy's latest “effort” has given me an idea. George Foreman has commandeered my living room to wage his war on the EPA over the Teflon thing. He’s currently holding a meeting with a couple of suits from DuPont.

I signed for a truckload of manure this morning. “Just put it out behind the tennis courts,” I said. I assumed one of my army of landscapers had ordered it, but now I’m pretty sure George is making a bomb because there’s a Ryder truck in my driveway and its blocking in my Subaru Baja.

“I’m going to meet Tommy Lee for lunch,” I say. “Would you mind moving the bomb, I mean, truck?”

“Sure thing, champ,” George says with that boyish toothy grin of his.

In the car I put on Mötley Crüe’s Shout At The Devil, tuning in to the drums the way I’d do when Tommy and I were married and I’d go to all his shows. Vince, Nikki, Tommy and I would do lines backstage while the crowd cheered for an encore. Sometimes I forget why I ever divorced the son of a bitch.

I want to say, for the record, that Tommy never hit me without my consent.

Tommy was always naked around the house. That was a convenient novelty at first. I’d be doing something innocuous like beer-battering haddock fillets and Tommy would swagger in, or stagger in, depending on how trashed he was, and wrap his tattooed arms around me. And he’d fuck me the way only a drummer can. In time. And after we’d sweated the sheets, or countertops sufficiently, Tommy would look directly into my eyes and say, “That ruled.”

But the novelty of Tommy’s perpetual nudity wore off when I had my parents up over Labor Day weekend and Tommy loafed about naked, hitting on my mother. But what ended Tommy and me was when he “surprised” me with a threesome for my birthday. I was blindfolded, led upstairs to our bedroom, and when Tommy removed the blindfold, that blonde bitch Pamela Anderson was splayed out on our bed. She waved.

96 hours later, including the familiar four hour flight to the Dominican Republic, Tommy and I were divorced and that whore was professionally known as Pamela Anderson Lee. When their sex tapes were “stolen” and made publicly available in 1997, I considered releasing Tommy’s and my sex tapes, to allow the consumer to compare and contrast, but then I thought the better of it. I get enough press as it is.

I tell you, that human blob of silicone is a thorn in my side. Not only did she steal Tommy, but she had to make this big show out of sending me birth announcement cards when she squeezed out those two kids. (Read: The kids I couldn’t give him.) I’d like to see her custom-made porn star vagina now! I bet George Foreman could drive that Ryder truck right up inside that thing and—

I’m at the restaurant. I walk in and sit down across from Tommy and order the duck l’orange. I don’t much care for duck, but I do like saying l’orange. Say it. L’orange.

“Tommy,” I say, “I have a proposition for you. I’m prepared to forfeit my alimony on one condition. I can tell by the expression on your face, Tommy, that you’re wondering just what the catch is, right? I want you to make me your agent. I want to,” I insert a dramatic pause and use my hands to draw an invisible marquee in the air between us, “resurrect Tommy Lee.”

“Awesome,” he says.

George Foreman was at my door this morning. I went out to get the paper and there he was, gripping it in his teeth. "Did you read the paper?" he asked, when obviously I hadn't and no longer intended to because my ex-husband had been chewing it on my porch all morning.

He's in a twist over the EPA's preliminary report that a chemical used to make Teflon is carcinogenic. Teflon, of course, is what makes the Lean Mean Grilling Machine and the entire line of Fat-Reducing products so easy to clean.

I can see why he's worried. We've sold upwards of 70 million grills and now those EPA do-gooders want to ban Teflon because of some cancer scare. I define myself by that grill fortune, it opens doors for me. But let's be honest. George counts on it. I mean, it isn't like he's going to make yet another boxing comeback at his age.

"Well I for one, George, would gladly die of cancer for a mess-free and convenient life. I mean, aren't we all going to die of cancer anyway?"

"Thanks, champ. That means a lot to me," George said, digging a coupon for a free oil change and lube job at the Meineke of my choice from his breast pocket. Then he left.

This Teflon thing is really wearing on him. George has always been very concerned with appearances. I recall lazy afternoons, sprawled out on my chaise lounge like Cleopatra, watching All My Children and eating Hostess Cup Cakes. George would come home and slap the snack cake out of my hand, yelling, "Knock out the fat!"

These incidents, of course, were what led to my very public battle with bulemia. During the day, my hands would literally shake if I so much as touched a Little Debbie. But at night, after slipping a Rohypnol into George's tea, I would binge by the heavenly glow of the refrigerator light and purge until the sun came up.

When I was married to George, he had seven kids. We'd be camping or something, and he'd tell me to go get George III or George IV, and I would invariably come back with the wrong one.

"I can't tell them apart!" I would laugh.

"What? Because they're all black?"

"No, because you named them all George, you self-absorbed fuckwit!"

We would bicker like that a lot. Ultimately, there were a lot of reasons why our marriage didn't work, but it always comes back to the bedroom for me. George and I were both submissive. Who would've guessed? That and he'd always shout out, "George! Ohh, George!" during sex. I don't know who the hell he was talking to. Himself? One of the kids? The President? Steinbrenner? He'd even "mistakenly" called me George a few times.

At any rate, I went black and I went back.

Chuck Norris and I are having a lovers’ quarrel. See, I’ve been on edge since Marshall remarried that bitch, Kim. Tonight I put in a call to my ex-husband, I said, “Do I have to remind you of the lyrics we wrote about that skank?” I cleared my throat, reciting them from memory, “‘So long/Bitch you did me so wrong/I don’t want to go on/Livin’ in this world without you/Now bleed, bitch, bleed.’ Yeah. And I just don’t give a fuck if she’s your baby momma, Marshall, she’s a gold digging slut and I—”

“Noah, you know Kim and I have reconciled,” his voice crackled over his cell. “And as for that song, I don’t have to live without her anymore.”

“What happened to ‘bleed, bitch, bleed,’ huh? I’ll tell you what happened, Marshall. You’re a pussy is what happened! What happened to you? And what’s all this bullshit about retiring? Ending on a high note? Encore wasn’t even that good. I have to say, Marshall, I kinda wanted my $17.98 back.”

“I sent you a free copy! Man, this really isn’t a good time…”

“That crack whore is in the car, isn’t she? Put her on the fucking phone! I dare you! I’ve got news for you, Marshall, our little Dominican quickie divorce? It’s not going to hold up in court.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” I cackled evilly.

“What about Walker Texas Ranger?” he called my bluff. “If you contest our divorce, it’ll be like you two were never married.”

He had me there, and I should’ve put my foot in my mouth, but of course I didn’t. I was a man on a mission. I said, “Fuck Chuck—”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch, I’m on the phone!” he interrupted, apparently speaking to Kim. “Sorry, what was that?”

“This thing with Chuck, it means nothing,” I said, feeling the lie expand in my stomach like so many Styrofoam packing peanuts. “He’s just another alimony check for me. And clearly someone needs to stop you from fucking up your life.”

“You need to step off! You always were a controlling bitch.”

“I was controlling? Me? I’m not the one who expressed sexual fantasies of sodomizing my husband with a pistol! That’s control, Marshall.”

“Sure, bring that up again. It was a joke!”

“And after all the work I put into the Marshall Mathers LP, I have to walk in on you and Elton John sixty-fucking-nining backstage at the 2001 Grammys. To be humiliated like that? To be betrayed like that? Marshall, I can’t do this with you right now. It hurts too much,” I said and hung up.

I went upstairs to find solace in my lover’s arms, and put to use the chocolate body paint I’d received from Dani for Christmas, but instead I found Chuck stuffing wrinkled Wrangler shirts and jeans into a suitcase. It turns out he’d been listening on the upstairs phone the entire time, biting one of the tasseled throw pillows from our daybed to muffle his sobs.

I told Chuck I’d back off. That I wouldn’t contest the divorce. “You know I love you, baby. Please don’t go,” I begged. There I was on my knees in front of the man I love. I’d been in this position before, but never begging. Well, that’s not entirely true. Oh, you get what I mean. I love him. He’s my life support. And tonight, Chuck Norris pulled the plug.

Chuck Norris and I were playing a Law & Order drinking game last night. Detective Green said something about things not being the same since 9/11 and we each took a shot of Crown Royal. Detective Brisco bought a hotdog from a street vendor and we each took another. Lt. Van Buren used the phrase, “the business end of an automatic,” and we cracked up and each took two shots. By the second commercial break, we were lit.

“So,” Chuck placed his hand, which we’d recently had insured, on my inner thigh, “what was it like being married to Tony Danza?”

I paused thoughtfully and said, “I remember on our wedding night, we made a seamless transition from side-by-side to doggy style, which is no small task let me tell you! And I was praying, literally praying to God, Chuck, that he wouldn’t slap my ass and say, ‘Who’s the boss?,’ and wouldn’t you know it, he did!”

“Get outta Texas!” Chuck laughed, his strong fingers massaging my thigh.

I made the hand motion that has now become synonymous with “checking for air bubbles,” and said, “I swear on my half of the Lean Mean Grilling Machine fortune, it’s the truth! I tell you, Chuck, it wasn’t the first time I’d married an ex-boxer, but it will be my last!”

“You divorced him for that?”

“No, no something far worse,” I said, lowering my voice to an ominous, drunken whisper. “When Tony was laid up after that go-kart accident, I found something stuffed between the mattress and the box spring.”

Chuck’s eyes widened expectantly.

“It was a Playboy, Chuck,” I said, beginning to tear up, “in our home! And you know how easy I am! I was beyond insulted. Am I not good enough? I have to say, my self-esteem plummeted in that moment, Chuck. But who do you think was in this Playboy, Chuck? Who?”

“Don’t even say it,” Chuck shook his head in preemptive disgust.

“Alyssa Milano, Chuck, that’s fucking who! Well I sent Tony’s busted ass packing for Brooklyn. I said, ‘You’re one sick motherfucker, Tony Danza, do you know that? That’s your TV daughter! Do you think Bob Saget whacks off to pictures of Mary Kate and Ashley in Teen People? No!”

“He probably does though,” Chuck said. And we both fell into a raucous, drunken laughter naming other dads who probably masturbated to their TV daughters. Then he kissed me on the forehead and said, “Okay babe, I better get to bed. Bob Barker’s coming over in the morning for his Tang Soo Do lesson.”

I have to say it’s easy with Chuck. He makes me feel safe. And a man with as many disgruntled ex-husbands as I have, raking in as much alimony as I am--well, let’s just say I don’t want to be the next Law & Order episode “ripped from the headlines,” okay? I dodged a bullet just yesterday, for Christ’s sake. And I know it was you, Harrison, back in town for your "movie premiere." So if you’re reading this, Chuck Norris is my husband and I’m not afraid to use him!

I ended it with Michael Stipe over the haikus. I thought we could make it work because we're both bisexual, though he shuns the label. He still insists he's "an equal opportunity lech." Clever. Having suffered in silence during his period of infidelity with that wretch Natalie Merchant, I suppose I agree. Anyway, he was absolutely unbearable when he was writing those haikus for The Haiku Year.

That's 365 awful haikus people, and you're all very blessed that Michael didn't write all 365 himself! Michael is an undeniably talented songwriter, maybe one of the best of our time, but he doesn't know spit about haikus.

You should also thank me. Why me, you ask? Well, most people don't know that before Mr. Stipe and the editors settled on the haikus which would be included in the book, he had the idea of adapting his songs into haikus. He says he got the idea from those people who attempt to encapsulate classic novels into a paragraph.

As a prospective Literature major, and a budding REM fan, I was appalled.

everybody hurts
everybody hurts sometimes
so hold on, hold on

If you think that's bad, you should've seen the one he did for "Shiny Happy People." That's six syllables, ladies and gentlemen! He was an absolute tyrant while he was searching for that seventh syllable.

In my own little way, I tried to help. I told Michael to just eliminate "shiny" altogether, and make it "happy people holding hands." (I'd never much cared for that song to begin with.) He bitch-slapped me. Then he apologized profusely as I sobbed in one of our white high-back kitchen chairs with a bag of frozen corn on my cheek.

Things really weren't the same after that, but my settlement did increase exponentially when I mentioned the term "spousal abuse." I should say, generally speaking, it's enough just to threaten to go public with these secret marriages, but Michael needed some extra persuading.

(This was, of course, long before I had the persuader.)

He called me last week, all excited. He said he'd recently heard himself described as "the greatest man ever alive, besides Chuck Norris." I told him in no uncertain terms that I could only attest to the fact that Chuck Norris is a better, more senstive lover, then I handed the phone to Chuck and he super-kicked it across the room.

Vincent D'Onofrio and I have managed to maintain a civil relationship after our quickie divorce, which is in itself surprising because he always thought he was better than me.

Last night we were drinking tea and putting the finishing touches on my Car Crash Mix CD when Vinnie, as I called him during our marriage, said out of nowhere, "Anger...is the only true...emotional response."

Vinnie always makes those damn dramatic pauses when he speaks. If I've told him once, I've told him one thousand times, "Vinnie, baby, you're off the clock, speak like a normal human being, not a detective."

It's as if he rehearses his so-called "brilliant" observations all day, affecting small changes to his tone for maximum effect. Mostly I think Vinnie's observations are bullshit, but whenever I've dared to call him out, he's turned it around to make me seem like the stupid one.

"The amygdala...it sends a--a message to the...to the hypothalamus which governs...the subconscious, and the...automatic," Vinnie says, making broad hand gestures which very loosely, if at all, correspond to his mini-monologue.

"Vinnie, I took The Human Brain with David Maxwell in college. I've heard of the hypothalamus," I say, putting my hands on my hips to emphasize my indignation.

"Rage!" Vinnie bangs his fist on my coffee table, "Rage... it's accompanied by... noticeable physiological reactions. An increased breathing rate... a--a flushed face... trembling."

And I don't know what it was (all that talk about rage I guess) but I sucker-punched Vincent D'Onofrio in the gut last night, shouting at him that it was my hypthalamus that made me do it. I shouted, "I can't be held responsible for my actions, detective!"

But as he crumpled into a well-dressed ball on my living room floor, I remembered why I'd loved him so much in those first weeks we were together. It was the sex, more specifically the way he'd always assume the fetal position and cry after we'd made love.

No, Vincent D'Onofrio never made me feel incompetent in the bedroom.