On Sept. 7, Pluto, the former 9th planet was assigned the asteroid number 134340 by the Minor Planet Center, the official organization responsible for collecting data about asteroids and comets in our solar system.

On September 8, the Major Planet Center gave Pamela Anderson's breasts (formerly asteroid numbers 38A-22-34 and 38B-22-34), official planet status. They will now officially be known as Sweeeeeet and ZaZaZowie.

I don't want to brag, but I have a big woman fan base.

FOUNTAIN VALLEY, Calif. - Workers at Angiano's gourmet chocolate company, Bodega Chocolates, discovered under a vat, a 2-inch-tall column of chocolate drippings that they believe bears a striking resemblance to the Virgin Mary.

This brings up the age old question: The Virgin Mary: dead religious figure, master illusionist or yummy confection?

This Virgin Mary loves surprise appearances! She’ll show up anywhere—a pizza pie, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a rock formation, moldy cheese, and don’t ever let her get near a scented candle. Your candle starts dripping and heeeerre’s Mary! I’m surprised she hasn’t hosted "The Tonight Show" by now.

Is the human race so desperate for a religious sign that we should look for it in dessert? Since the discovery on Monday, Angiano's employees have spent much of their time hovering over the tiny figure, praying and placing rose petals and candles around it. Um... shouldn’t they be putting her in the fridge? Hell hath no fury like a religious woman melted.

I’d love to be hanging around management’s office as they try and figure out how to get their employees to stop worshiping a Raisinette and get back to work. I bet you that there’s one guy so zealous he’s whispering to himself, "I’m gonna eat her! I’m gonna eat the Virgin Mary! Then God will literally be inside me."

On a related note, I had chicken wings last night and a strawberry shake. I’m pretty sure the devil is inside me! TVM, where are you? I need you to appear in my colon! I’d better go find a Pepto Bismol tablet shaped as the baby Jesus on Ebay to help me through this time of religious crisis. Oh God, my stomach hurts.

I have to go now, in an explosively figurative way. Pray for me everyone.

Next week, aliens from other planets: pure science fiction or comedy club owners?

LOS ANGELES (Sept. 13) - The tumultuous marriage of Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown—which withstood drug addiction, Brown's numerous arrests, the decline of Houston's once sparkling image and domestic abuse allegations is coming to an end.

"She just doesn't seem like the same girl I married," said Brown.

Yesterday on our Superstar Talent Bitcom page, we got a comment on Episode 3. It came from a guy named John Kennedy. It said something like, “They did this on Extras, come up with something original.” Neil, who plays Avi on the show, woke me up and requested that I remove the comment, so I did.  I think we were hoping for a few good comments prior to the hate mail and/or law suits.

Paraphrasing this piece by Teddy Roosevelt, “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”

So for all of you who are the watchers and not the doers in life, you can have your opinion(s), I can respect that, it’s a free country. Most of the time I’ll just ignore you and keep going. Neil on the other hand, is an actor, my friend, and a sensitive soul. You hurt his feelings. (Don’t worry, he sees a pair of big breasts and he’s happy again). The point is, anything we put on this site is art and art will have critics and fans.

But realize this: I get to be a critic too. And I get the last word - which brings us back to John Kennedy.

You think I should do something original? First may I suggest you call David Chase and tell him that you think the Sopranos is just “another mob show.” Then call Broadway and tell them that bringing back "A Chorus Line" this fall is stupid – geez we’ve never seen that before – it’ll only sell out every show for the next ten years. I know you can’t, you’re too busy emailing Jenna Jameson and the porn industry and explaining how you’ve seen it all before. But if you really want to do something about people being derivative or unoriginal, why don’t you call your mom and tell her to change your name – John Kennedy? Where did she possibly come up with that? How can you ever tell anyone that they’re unoriginal? You’re walking irony. You wake up hacky. You’re not findable in a google search or a phone book. With that name you should be nervous that you’ll make it to fifty years old. Your dad was probably named John too, so you’re not even unique in your own stupid family. Who’s your mom, Rose? Ethel? Bobby?

Do us all a favor John John, take your peanut gallery self, change your name to something less ridiculous, like Osama Smith, and do something creative. Then show it to ten strangers and see what they think. You might actually think twice about broadcasting your cold timid opinion.

LONDON (December 1) - Italian security expert Mario Scaramella who met with a former KGB agent Litvinenko the day the ex-spy fell fatally ill with radiation poisoning, has also tested positive for for a significant amount of polonium-210, British media reported Friday.

"I'm sick, but I started vomiting when I saw that picture of Britney Spears' crotch."

- Mario Scaramella

Every year I take my Dad to the U.S. Open Tennis matches. I get to spend a day with him and he gets to watch his favorite sport. There’s just one problem. The Tennis Center is like most of the people you play tennis with, they're dressed great but they suck.

Bad First Service. The will call window line—two open windows, 50 people on line. It took us a solid half an hour to pick up our tickets. Luckily there are three thousand workers there doing absolutely nothing but telling you where to go. Apparently the ticket-dispensing skill is advanced.

Douche (I mean Deuce) Security. It's a tad high. A guy wearing a turban and a, “Fuck the Jews" T-shirt at the El Al terminal in Kennedy airport would have an easier time getting through this place than me and my 81-year-old poorly sighted father who decided to bring a jacket and a box of raisins. Bomb sniffing dogs, pat downs, random searches, a million cops—I could navigate through a Victoria’s Secret one-day sale faster. WHO THE HELL WANTS TO BLOW UP TENNIS? Yeah I’m sure Osama Bin Laden right now is saying, “We must destroy Tennis! Roger Federer and Justine Henin-Harden are infidels! Tennis Jihad! Lalalalalalalala...ve - 40."

Ad-vantage capitalism. Ticket prices are like a swift backhand to the face. The cheapest nose bleed seats in the big stadium, $64. In the sun! For $64 a want a way better look at Maria Sharapova’s ass. The cheapest t-shirt with a bad logo, $25. A beer, $9. A turkey and swiss baguette, $8.50. Water, $4. Air, $7. Pay toilets, $13.50. (Boredom, free. It’s tennis, not a Kung Fu movie.)

Gay, Set and Match. The irony of the whole day is that they just named the whole place after Billie Jean King, who couldn’t be more liberal, and the whole event couldn’t be more Republican.

Championship Point. Prices, ridiculous. Security, ridiculously annoying. The event, frustrating. A day with Daddy, priceless. There are some things money can’t buy, but this I can. I’m going to buy him a big plasma TV and we’ll watch it at home.

What: Seven day cruise.
Where: Bermuda and The Bahamas.
Who: Here are the five vacationers:

Sister: Married three years. Mom to 16-month-old. Pregnant again. Vomits multiple times a day and tells the rest of us about it, like us boys care. Husband doesn’t speak. We think it’s by choice or maybe he can’t get a word in. Good mom except that she shuts off the lights and hides in the cabin’s bathroom as a ploy to force the baby to fall asleep. Moral: Deceive your kids to get them to do what you want. Some day the kid is gonna hide her medication. She thinks she’s really smart. She picked this ship. The food sucked. That’s right, she picked a cruise ship with food that sucked which is virtually impossible. I saw fat people on the deck crying after one lunch. Then the genius put my cabin adjoining her cabin so the baby could wake me and Dad up at 6 a.m.! Thanks genius. Next time she wants me to do something for her, I’m gonna hide in the bathroom when the phone rings.

Brother-in-law: Good egg. Very patient. Well, he did marry my sister. Will go along with brother-in-law hijinks. Says like, ten words a day. You know the phrase, Speak when spoken to? He’s the guy. At dinner, if there’s silence, don’t expect him to be livening things up: “Hey, how about that Kim Jong, what a character!” Forget it. He will talk baby-talk to the baby. Sometimes I’m kind of afraid that’s all he knows. You get better dialogue out of the GPS in your car. Grew up on a farm. Loves meat. Looks like he’s in good shape—but could be dead by 40 from clogged arteries—from all the meat. Also loves Diet Coke. Meat and Diet Coke. Nice diet. Probably hasn’t taken a good dump since 1982.

Dad: 81-years-old. Last summer, quadruple bypass surgery. Gets tired fast doing anything, with the exception of asking when I’m getting married. For this he has the strength and vitality of Samson on Viagra. Cannot see so well, but if there’s a gin game, he kills you so bad, you’ll think he’s wearing X-ray-vision glasses and can see your cards. Can’t hear so well, unless I’m sneaking into the cabin at 1 a.m. Then he’s got better hearing than The Bionic Man. Never ever sleeps well. Ever. Not one day in 81 years. Funny thing though, we go to the movies, out cold. We sit on the deck, out cold. I wake up in the middle of the night, he’s snoring like Rip Van Winkle. “How’d ya sleep Dad?” “Terribly.” Yeah, okay.

Nephew: Age: 16 months. Says like three words (which is three more than his daddy). The words are Meps, Bep, and Bop. Occasionally you’ll get a Grandpa and a Mama out of him. I jokingly called him Meps and then got yelled at because my sister thinks that the baby will think his name is Meps. Apparently he’s a little slow too. I think Meps means, “I see you hiding in the bathroom, stupid face.” ALWAYS gets his way. He eats, we eat. He sleeps, Mom and Dad sleep. Uncle Lenny is sooooo onto him. He can’t even walk and he’s calling the shots. I’m this close to putting itchy powder in his diaper. Likes to point and smile for no reason. I’m telling you, he’s deranged.

Lenny: Anti-social comedian. Lives on Yankees baseball and potato chips—neither of which you could find on the cruise. Loves his family but may commit suicide if he vacations alone with them again. Left alone after family eats at 6pm and goes to sleep at 9pm. Definitely relaxed on the trip because he did NOTHING. Forced to watch "Fun with Dick and Jane" in the ship's cinema. Review: No fun with either. Likes the dilapidated, chachke-selling islands like he likes the French. Hugged the doorman when he returned to Manhattan. Thrilled to have a pillow not made out of iron.

LOS ANGELES (Oct. 10) - Actor Mel Gibson says his anti-Semitic outburst after a drunk driving arrest last summer was, “Just the stupid rambling of a drunkard,” and he does not want the public to think of him as a monster.

"Fire baaaaad. Jews Baaaaad."

What, I said I was sorry... seriously, what?