I was up late last night drinking thinking, as I often do, and I got to wondering — how do I know that I’m not a computer? I mean, really know? The thing is — I don’t. But I figure if my existence were pieced together from a domain of ones and zeros, there’d at least be a way for me to edit out the wide-eyed seven year olds cowering in front of stage while Fergie skanked it up on the Today Show yesterday. The only time she even gets up off the floor is when she pulls herself to her knees to simulate oral sex on the guitar player. She could have finished up with R. Kelly hosing down the little girls in the front row and Roman Polanski tossing out handfuls of jelly-bean covered quaaludes and it still would have been a less offensive performance.

I’ve never been a huge fan of horse racing, but this news from last week’s Kentucky Derby was too tragic to dismiss. It seems the race’s second-placing horse had to be put down as soon as she crossed the finish line. USA Today says

Trying to become the first filly to win the Derby since 1988, Eight Belles finished second to Big Brown. Shortly after crossing the finish line she broke both ankles and had to be destroyed.

Even more disturbing are the pictures of the poor horse breaking her ankle right before her untimely death. Who in their right mind puts a horse in four-inch heels? Sparkly ones at that? Given the choice, your average equine would probably choose a nice satin flat for themselves, but nooo. The owner must have had something “sexier” in mind. I hope you’re happy, Larry Jones, you heartless bastard. You disgust me.

One more closeup of Eight Belle’s injury and bunions after the jump

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Fergie was photographed with what looks to be a definite baby bump outside a sushi restaurant in Santa Monica on Tuesday. Since everybody in Hollywood is getting knocked up these days, she probably is actually pregnant. I don’t really give two shits about that. What I care about is what she’ll be giving birth to. Thoughts? I’m guessing either a Yeti with or one of those fabled Mexican goat-suckers that eats chickens. Whatever it is, I think we can all agree it’s going to smell like pee. Passing through that birth canal would be like swimming through a damn toilet at a keg party.

Fergie opened for The Police yesterday in Wellington, New Zealand and spent the entire performance traipsing around stage with her zipper wide open. Not as embarrassing as, say, pissing your pants while performing, but still pretty damn embarrassing. On a positive note, at least her wiener didn’t work its way out and her wig didn’t fall off. Thus her true identity as Dr. Zaius from Planet of the Apes was safe for yet another day! From the Sacred Scrolls, 29th Scroll, 6th Verse: Beware the beast man, for he is the devil’s pawn. Shun him, drive him back into his jungle lair, for he is the harbinger of death!¹

¹ _{Also, he smells like pee.}

The Bland and Borings American Music Awards were last night, and I, like you, really don’t give a shit. People magazine regales us with

The American Idol vibe was alive and well at the 35th Annual American Music Awards. Idol alum Carrie Underwood picked up three more trophies… for favorite country album, favorite country female artist and an audience text-in award for favorite artist.

Chris Daughtry, the other nominated Idol, joined his eponymous band Daughtry at the podium three times as they won favorite pop-rock album for Daughtry, as well as breakthrough artist and adult contemporary artist. The night’s other big winners included Akon (soul/R&B male), Rihanna (soul/R&B female), and Justin Timberlake (pop/rock male and soul/R&B album).

Well, I distinctly remember Color Me Badd winning an American Music Award in ‘92. Same goes for Michael Bolton (’93), Kenny G (’94), and Ace of Base (’95). So instead of doling out an American Music Award, you could just hand Carrie Underwood a couple of dog turds laying in a pile of glitter and and call it a day. I’m sure it would mean just as much.

Carrie Underwood:

Kellie Pickler:

Rihanna:

Fergie:

Ashlee Simpson, the singer who couldn’t sing, meets Stacey ‘Fergie’ Ferguson, the woman who was made of butter.