Megan Fox gets her bikini on and opens up in the October issue of GQ, and boy, do I mean “open up.” I’m talkin’ wide open. Spread eagle. Feet-behind-the-ears kind of open. She tells the men’s magazine

“I was in love with this [stripper named Nikita] that worked at [a strip club on Sunset Boulevard]. I was there all the time—I would go there by myself. I turned into a weird middle-aged married man. I’d get lap dances so I could get to know her, and I’d give her what I thought were great little sound bites of inspiration—like You can do it, you’re better than this! She’d do these beautiful slow dances to Aerosmith ballads. She had really long stick-straight hair and was Russian. I just liked her. She was really sadistic and sarcastic and funny.”

“I could see myself in a relationship with a girl—Olivia Wilde is so sexy she makes me want to strangle a mountain ox with my bare hands. She’s mesmerizing. And lately I’ve been obsessed with Jenna Jameson.”

Consider this story the antidote to any Lindsay Lohan/Samantha Ronson posts you happen to encounter on this site. I’d write more, but I’m gonna need my fingers for the next fifteen or so minutes. Pleasure before business, I always say! I’m pretty sure it’s the main reason why I still don’t have a real job.

Summer’s almost over, and the summer supererogative will soon mercifully come to end. I can’t tell you how much fun it is drumming up something snarky to say about generic blond actresses that appear to all have been cloned from the same generic blond host and their toned-to-perfection bikini bodies and porcelain Hollywood smiles. It’s like trying to make fun of the number 7. Your average person would say it couldn’t be done. But as you well know, I’m not your average person. Those standardized test they made me take in elementary school actually proved I was “special.” Suck it, Ali Larter!

Ali with her boyfriend on the beach:

Sadly, this wasn’t the first time Keeley had mistaken husband Pierce Brosnan for a delicious gator-sized corndog and tried to eat him. Only his cries of “Look! It’s raining jelly doughnuts!” and “free ranch dressing hose!” were able to distract her long enough to facilitate his escape.

Speaking of things you don’t ever want to see, here’s Katie Couric in a bathing suit:

In case you’re wondering who the behemoth in the picture is, it’s Pierce Brosnan’s wife Keely Shaye. A long time ago, she looked like this. Now she looks like she should be dodging harpoons and swallowing puppet-makers whole. I’m not sure if those are chins or just a stack of backup pancakes for emergencies. Either way, it’s probably best not to poke at ‘em. You wouldn’t want to lose a finger in the attack.

Kate Beckinsale is 35 years old in these bikini pictures taken in Mexico yesterday. 35 years old. To put that in perspective, when my mom was 35, she was tipping the scales at 280 and routinely herniated herself hitting the TV when her stories went out. Of course, Kate Beckinsale didn’t give birth to the greatest voice of our generation, so it’s not even a competition, really. I’m pretty sure birthing this kind of talent buys you a mulligan or two on the aesthetic greens of life.

Interesting tidbits about Veronica Mars here: 1) she has a lazy eye, 2) her first movie role was in the cinematic classic “Pootie Tang,” and 3) she once petitioned her parents to legally change her name to “Smurfette.” It’s a real shame her parents never indulged her. If they had, you might actually remember her name instead of just calling her “that chick from Veronica Mars.” I know it’s the main reason I named my only daughter “Cuntee McBeaverson.” Try washing that name out of your cerebral cortex! Science says it can’t be done!

Kristin Bell smurfing it up on the beach:

Today when I was lying prone on the couch, high on Vicodin with fluid draining out of my ear, I asked myself, “Why don’t I look as good as supermodel Helena Christensen in a bikini?” Then I went back to drinking cake batter with a straw and watching hour number four of “B.J. and the Bear.” Some of life’s mysteries were never meant to be solved, my friends.

It’s hard to say what I hate most about Rihanna’s beach look — the mismatched prints, the Lucky Star jewelery, or the Pete Wentz hairdo. Fortunately, one of the great things about hate is that it doesn’t require you to be specific. All you really need is a deep-seeded sense of self-loathing stemming from years of abuse and maybe a gun and a megaphone. Check, check and check, baby!

In Barbados this week:

When I’m holding out my swimsuit bottoms so I can admire my own genitals in public like Paz Vega here, I usually try to make more of a “surprised” face. Then I like to squint and crane my neck a little closer, fan myself in disbelief before elbowing the person next to me and exclaiming, “Hey, buddy — get a load of that beaver!” Of course, it helps to actually have a semi-aquatic rodent in your drawers. The YMCA staff can’t ask you to leave that way. They have to call animal control first, which buys you a good ten or fifteen minutes before the guys with the tranquilizer guns show up and ruin everybody’s good time.

Here is the other of the “elephant in the room” promos Britney shot with British comedian Russell Brand for the MTV Video Music Awards. And as you can see, she does not play the part of the elephant. Apparently the execs at MTV wanted the lumbering land mammal in the commercial to have an actual trunk. Those head honcho-types can be so picky!

Britney pachydermying it up in Malibu yesterday:

If you get tired of having to use your imagination to conjure up images of seventh grade boys in bikinis, these pics of Kate Bosworth frolicking in Malibu over the weekend will be a welcome relief. And they’ll definitely free up some time to work on your “my name is ___ and I’m a registered sex offender” handshake and your door-to-mailbox suicide sprints.

Leonardo DiCaprio might be 5′8″ on a good day and lack the ability to grow facial hair or pubes and have a higher pitched voice than my eight year-old niece, but make no mistake: he’s porking Bar Rafaeli, and I’m not. Also, both he and his girlfriend share names with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. My name, on the other hand, rhymes with “scabby” and “flabby.” I think it’s pretty obvious who wins here.