I thought I was alone in my sympathy for murderess Jodi Arias, but look, there is a whole website in support of her, unless they are joking, in which case I salute them. Actually, I salute them either way.

Like many people with no lives, I am hooked on Jodi’s trial. But I am totally on her side. I don’t blame her for killing Travis.

I’m not saying that she should have killed him, just that I understand.

When I look at Jodi, I see a poor girl who has never been loved, who was so desperate to be loved that she would do anything, be anyone, in exchange for affection. In my fantasy of Jodi, she was an ugly duckling who has worked hard to make herself attractive to men. She bleached her hair, got breast implants, plucked out her eyebrows, and even then she had to invite some Mormon douchebag to ejaculate on her face just to experience some facsimile of love.

Deep in my soul, I am Jodi, an unlovable girl with murder in my heart.

I have never had come on my face, nor have I put up with a boring ass-obsessed motivational speaker/salesman. Still, I feel a bond of unlovability.  I will thank my parents for this. Thanks, parents!

I haven’t shot or stabbed anyone because I hate violence and I will always duck or run if someone wants to hit me.  I know it’s wrong to kill Travis, but fuck him. Hearing his phone-sex with Jodi is to want him dead.

You probably think I’m being satirical or contrarian but I am sincere in this position. Not that I’d give Jodi a penny, even for her fabulous drawing of Lucille Ball.

(art © Jodi Arias)

A dead “swimsuit model” in a suitcase doesn’t seem very interesting at first glance. I remember another one they found out in the desert somewhere, murdered by some guy on craigslist.

But now the story has branched out in several directions, promising a perfect storm of sensationalist trash.   The murder suspect is a former reality show contestant who has just finished filming another reality show.   And not only that, but the cops have revealed that the victim’s teeth and fingers had been “removed.”

That is where I draw the line, and I hope you agree.   If you have to kill someone and stuff them in a suitcase, so be it. But the teeth removal, no fucking way. It’s just too awful and unfair. It’s such an insult in every way.

Now VH1 will have the choice of scrapping season 3 of “I Love Money,” out of concern for the murder case, or going ahead with some inane excuse that there’s a moral imperative to air the show.   They must be flipping out at VH1, thinking, “God, what a break! Our ratings will go off the chart!”

I don’t know where this will lead,   in terms of creating a frenzy to distract us from the lack of new Michael Jackson minutiae.   But for now we can all be grateful that we’re not stuffed in a suitcase somewhere without our teeth.

And when we watch a reality show and marvel at how crazy those people are, we will know there’s a chance theyr’e even crazier than they look.

After Jill and Braindance shared their childhood memories of   douche bags, I recalled my own uneasy feelings about those rubber things hanging over the bathtub when I was a kid.

They were certainly a fixture in our bathroom, along with an enema bag and maybe even some other scary medical-looking crap. Wow, our mothers and grandmas were so weird!

Try a Google image search for an actual douche bag, and most of what you’ll find are sickening guys and joke products that refer to the sickening guys. In other words, the old fashioned douche bag is a relic of another time, and its namesake is here to stay.

Who the hell invented the douche bag? What a maniac. In fact, what a douche! I am thankful to my mom for neglecting to give me any instructions on “feminine hygiene” or anything else. I learned everything I know from my sister, dirty books, and The Hite Report.

But I feel kind of bad about depriving my own kids of the douche bag experience. They never got to feel queasy about their mother’s weird rubber crap in the bathroom. They never knew the frisson of squeamish curiosity that is such a touchstone of childhood. God, I’m a failure.

Perhaps the shit on my dresser will make it up to them.   It seems like it might have that Mom Mystique that could haunt them for the rest of their lives. I’ll have to ask them. Take a look and tell me what you think.

Finally! For all of us who’ve been praying for Amy Winehouse to unload Blake Incarcerated, our prayers have been answered. Thank you, Lord, for saving our Amy from that rotten little scumbag, who now wants a divorce and half of her money.

I didn’t even know that Blake Incarcerated was back in jail after failing his drug test in December! What a horrible horrible shit that guy is. At least Pete Doherty is a musician, for Christ sake.

I blame Blake for everything. Poor Amy was under his spell, but now she’s learned that a nice clean hunky athlete is the way to go. According to the Daily Mail, which makes up its celebrity quotes, Amy even told a ‘reporter’ that Blake was “rubbish” in bed, “adding ‘Almost every time I slept with him it was like I was dead’.”

If only Blake could read, he’d be furious!!!

Now Amy can make another record, and her label can stop emailing me about all the extra special versions of Back to Black I can buy.

I love you, Amy! Don’t worry about that tattoo on your chest, you can have it removed. Keep up the eating and stay strong. As each day passes, you’re closer to realizing what self-esteem is.

And whatever happens, do NOT give that idiot your money, unless he promises to leave the planet and never come back.

*And also too, speaking of music, treat yourself to the genius of the Firstborn Wolf, whose song Omelette will make your day, or your money back!

I’m sorry, I can’t seem to avoid penises.   This time, I was browsing some gossip site and saw a picture of director/douchebag Brett Ratner at a party celebrating the launch of a new book. Sure enough, it turned out to be a new title by Taschen called ‘The Big Penis Book.’

“This hefty book is profusely illustrated with over 400 historic photos of spectacular male endowments, including rare photos of the legendary John Holmes.”

Okay! What’s not to love about this book? You can look at some of its contents at the Taschen website, but I personally am afraid to do so.   Maybe I will once the kids are asleep.   Let me know what you think.