(Jessica Simpson had a headache when she enterred. She didn’t realize that headache was a memory trying to surface, like an informer with concrete shoes. The memory of her parents warning her of exactly this.)

Leading cryptographers have been on 24 hour shifts, funneling pots of coffee through beer bongs and popping Adderall by the half dozen like Skittles, monitoring Twitter ever since Courtney Love got an account. Weeks can go by before a series of statements can be pasted together that doesn’t sound like an immigrant space alien trying to explain the physics of severe anal trauma in English. But this weekend, these brave men have partially decoded these transmissions from the criminally insane dimension, and assure us they actually say something:

“i saw HAWT AS HELL Jessica Simpson last night we chewed Nicorette and “BEST F**K IN THE WORLD” and “”Sexual Napam” BONDED!(sic)”… “your really hot and ive always thought you were a very hardworking pop singer who deserved success. thats primary(sic)”… “why the HE:LL do you chew Nicorette gum and are addicted to it yet have never smoked in yr life? Dude i do blonde things too.(sic)”

This is exactly what Jessica needs. She gets tired and confused opening a pickle jar, and she’s had to deal with weight issues, a breakup with a failed football star, and seeing Billy Corgan naked.

I have elected not to investigate this, but we have no idea how far that port wine stain goes. My guess? His ass is a sanguine map of Greenland.

The last few months for her must have been one extended metaphor for the minute of panic when a retarded kid forgets how to velcro his shoes. What she really needs is regular sessions with the only local junkie with serious public issues with two of her ex-boyfriends. You’ll remember Jessica Simpson has been romantically linked to both John Mayer and Billy Corgan. You’ll remember too that Courtney Love has a history of teaching Billy Corgan the real meaning of “prison movie” and has, in the wonderfully crudest crudest vernacular, expressed interest in doing the same to John Mayer. In the absence of a court order requiring 2 police officers, a social worker, and a suicide prevention specialist be present when a publicly recognized simpleton/vulnerably hot chick and a be-clowned vindictive human mess are in the same room, this sounds like the perfect match.

It can’t be all that hard to be a fly on that wall, considering Courtney’s bi-weekly lycanthropic episodes pretty much guarantee her walls are perpetually coated with a fresh layer of shit. That fly got an earful of dumb bimbo dialogue I would pay extraordinary amounts of money for the film rights to. Just the thoughts that were worthy of Tweets alone are fodder for a couple of acts. Courtney compares Jessica’s Nicorette addiction to getting hooked on just the methadone, and Jessica says she doesn’t like German industrial music. Courtney referencing Kurt’s 25 year old, well past expired claim that she’s an enjoyable lay, not to remind Jess that she eats men like beef jerky, but hoping they might rub snatches. You think that’s a wild speculation? Courtney calls Jess “hawt” twice whilst verbally tonguing her booty, and references a sleezy similarity they share. She’s already announced intentions to hate fuck John Mayer. Is it really a stretch that she’d want to screw the sex symbol Mayer’s been in, and by osmosis, have fucked him? I’d buy that tape, expecting to enjoy it in that morbid fascination reserved for girl on really old grandpa porn. There’d be some awkward conversation, with one party spouting filth like a sailor that stubbed his toe, the other crinkling her forehead in confusion that is literally painful. Confusion that says, “I’m pretty sure this is exactly what my dad was warning me about.” The leering, the badly constructed dialogue. Then out of nowhere, there’s the Courtney beast with a strapon, violently shoving 12 or 13 pieces of nicotine gum in Jessica’s mouth, and a lit cigarette up each nostril, ironically berating her for being an addict. Stupid people tend to polite, and by that standard, Jessica can only be expected to politely decline Courtney when she’s way past the point of no return, which reports suggest is when your field of vision is monopolized by saggy, track-marked tits with thirty years of cigarette burn scars, and collateral face paint. You should just lay back and start thinking pleasant thoughts at that point, wildly praying you don’t suffer any permanent damage.

(Nostalgic for the days when “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” was a matter of bitchin’ facial hair that, were he honest with himself he is incapable of growing, Pete Wentz arms hisself.)

I’m declaring the third week in March Celebrity Muzzle Week, and not arbitrarily. Famous people have been speaking when not spoken to, spouting some pretty inane verbal super-diarrhea this week, and I think maybe it’s just exhaustion. Like, maybe for one week out of the year, celebrities should put down the Twitters and the reporters (seriously, John Goodman, they get uncomfortable when you pick them up like that), and have the maid scour the house for the brain they left lying around the second swimming pool before it shrivels too much more in the sun. This here is only a smattering of the mind-spanking incredulity Hollywood has lain at my feet this week.

Pete Wentz from Overrated Teen Rock Band 2005 Fall Out Boy got my attention with the Contact Music headline Pete Wentz Wants a Bayonet.  “I really wish bayonets were primary weapons still. I feel like I’d be good at using one and it’s practical home defence. I mean you don’t bayonet somebody by accident and no one gets killed cleaning a bayonet.” Tell that to unfortunate Confederate Colonel Aaron “Swallows” Lancaster, who deepthroated a bayonet on a bet during a moonshine bender. Witnesses said they gave him an open casket because the “shot dead by an injun” look was too hysterical to pass up. Just to remind you, this is the fruit that wants a five foot knife to defend his 16 month old son Bronx Mowgli:

Remember when tatoos were badass, and not used in the same sentence as "guyliner"?

You’re lucky the human collective let you have a child with the apparent reading level of a fourth grader. I am giving you the benefit of the doubt that you didn’t just “see the film” and your second choice wasn’t, “Baloo – - but the cool one that flies planes in the spin off cartoon.” When will your little boy be allowed to wear mascara that looks like it was applied by the slow chick down the street with the lipstick all over her teeth? But yeah, here’s your  stabby stabby license.

“The 30-year-old musician [that suffers from bipolar disorder] previously confessed he is convinced he is going to be murdered and sometimes won’t open his front door because he is paranoid someone is there waiting to kill him.”

That’s your own fault for putting out shitty music, broham. Take it like a man with the stones to post his dick online (gross), not like an effeminate, Civil War reenacting weirdo. You answer your door wearing nothing but makeup that is clinically predestined to run with emo-tears and a pink hoodie, brandishing an unwieldy blade made for the front of 150 year old rifles, and I’ll shoot you on principle. How’s your bayonet working out for you now?  Ashley’s hot, but if I orphan young Mike (which will be his new, normal name) I’d be doing him a favor, getting him to a good home without matching his-and-her’s vanities and regular schoolyard ass-kickings.

After the jump: more of Celebrities Say The Dumbest Things

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(Like most women, way less fun than advertised upon closer inspection)

Welcome to March 2010, nuckas! March is a righteous month, in the parlance of the incomparable 1980s SFNT (Stoner Film and Ninja Turles, same thing really) movement that sought to wrest the term from churches and put in back in the Pizza Hut where it belongs. The obvious centerpiece to the month of awesome is St. Patrick’s Day, which celebrates the removal of snakes from Ireland by a dude with a flute or something by getting shitfaced, which is the only state of mind that the tradition makes any sense. The whole world can be Irish for a day, and the Irish get special dispensation to be uber-Irish, the privileges of which include indecent exposure, kisses for wearing instructional T-shirts, destroying sissy parade floats, and the unlicensed possession and deployment of potato cannons.  March also features the Steak and BJ Day holiday on the 14th, exactly a month after the headache that is Valentine’s Day for boyfriends. Steak and BJ Day could also be titled Man’s Turn or Sweet Justice Hootenanny, and is the perfect way for girlfriends and wives to show their appreciation for having chocolates, jewelery, and (apparently) cell phones thrown at them because a bunch of Christians got eaten by lions some 2,000-odd years ago. Ladies, if your man performed his Hallmark Day duty admirably, fire up the grill and get down on your knees. It’s only fair.

We are also declaring March Twatted Month, in recognition of all the support our fans have provided on the social networking phenomenon that is Twitter (follow SBS here).  This month will celebrate all that has been twatted in the past with occasional updates concerning Twitter, and highlight some of the daily cock-baggery the site seems to pitch like your local gay bar’s celebrity bear. We’ll start with the most disappointing Twitter-related headline I’ve seen all day:

Angie Jackson Live-Tweets Her Abortion (VIDEO) With video!? Talk about cutting edge entertainment! I would so buy the six-dollar Twizzlers with my ticket to that. I don’t know who this Angie Jackson is, but let’s give her the YouTube equivalent of an Emmy, right? That headline is a spoiler-free promise of action and suspense. Does she use the coat hanger or the vacuum? Will there be one of those prostate cameras involved, and will she have one of those spontaneous orgasms I hear so little about because of the unbelievably sexy shame that comes along with it? Is Angie a squirter? Will Bill Murray have a bitchin’ cameo?

Awww, bullshit. I haven’t been this let down since the first time I went to a nude beach with a backpack full of condoms and a baseball cap with a hidden camera in it. The only thing worse than someone who makes up their own self-defining term so their enemies can’t categorize them is someone who misses the point while doing so. Calling yourself an “Anti-theist” is like calling yourself an “anti-ployee”: if you’re so sure you’re not being controlled by your boss, why are you defining yourself with his terms? Because you’re just another useless reactionary that puts her eye shadow on with a putty knife, and is the proof that, indeed, if you keep making that self-satisfied, superior sneer, it will stick that way. I wonder if the medical condition that won’t let you be pregnant is the same one that won’t let you have those mutant, sentient polyps lanced… To be honest, I’m just ranting out of some sense of betrayal. Your cause, demystifying abortion so it’s not a terrifying experience for those in need of it, is a noble one, to be sure. I just feel like your taking RU486 robbed me, personally, of a cinematic extravaganza of sharp implements, battery acid, mutilated nethers, and projectile climaxes of mixed bloody placenta and cum. Next person to video/tweet their back-alley, equally illegal and dangerous hack job depregger gets a prize from me personally.

More Twitfoolery after the jump. Bring provisions, and a box of Magnums, unless you want to do outdo Angie while you’re there. I’ll help.

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(When Georgia O’Keefe met Courtney Love, the painter went into a horrified stupor. When she awoke, she found she had painted this. The artistic release failed to soothe her.)

The Widow Corbain has recovered from a two week bender and, for the second time in as many months, crawled out from under her rock to contribute her eloquence to a subject we’ve all already forgotten about. Seems Courtney Love  just got around to reading John Mayer’s playboy interview, in which he praises Jess Simpson’s “sexual napalm” and said his dick was a “white supremacist,” and she has… thoughts? An unreasonable facsimile, at least. From her Twitter:

“do you ever feel like spite hate fucking @johncmayer just to put hi in his place, hes a better guitarist than me but not better in bed !… but like say your fucking @johncmayer totally throwing him around the room in bits and then you just BAM punch him in the face? good times”

If you can’t shut your mouth when nobody is talking to you, I’m going to find something else for it to do. Like gnaw on a Milkbone. What? I’m not sticking my dick in there. Might as well tell the doctor to fire up the ole circumstraint and set it to 3 inches, and don’t skimp on the battery acid. If she could see less than three of everything, she might have thought to say, “I’ll show him sexual napalm!” and then squat, dripping steaming holes in the carpet.

First of all, we have to do away with the terminology “hate fuck,” given the circumstances. Just like crime. All violent crimes are hate crimes, and adding extras to the sentence falls squarely into the category of most asinine legal moves in this country’s history. Just so, any fuck from Courtney Love is a hate fuck, engineered to apply the greatest possible shame, pain, and self-loathing imaginable. Kurt’s shotgun was just one big dildo designed to bring about the ultimate masochist climax available. Contributions to the Batman & Robin soundtrack was Billy Corgan’s, but to be fair, he found Jesus or some shit. Hint: He hides in the dryer, because He has the mind of a child.  “Let the children come to me, and pick sides for dodge ball!”

“BAM punch him in the face”? Mayer would probably embrace a punch from Tyson if it would blur his vision of that toothy, hair-lipped hell-maw you call a chatch for a few blessed seconds. In the past, I too have expressed a brand of hatred for the musician, though never to the point of arousal. My problem with him before was that he wasn’t using his demigod blues guitar powers for good. It’s like when Hulk Hogan turned bad, and still kicked ass, except Mayer’s bad was channeling the spirit of Mississippi John Hurt to waste on shitty sentimentality, landing himself in thediscount bin in the Adult Contemporary section. If Hurt had written “Your Body Is A Wonderland,” the title would have been, “You’re Pussy Is Real Loose, But Oh Well.” I don’t even want to think what “Daughters” would have been about.

"... and fathers go down on your daaaaauughters too... no matter how thick they thighs."

But John Mayer’s cheeky antics this year have redeemed him eleven-fold. Publicly swearing off relationships so he can get in as much pussy that isn’t attached to Jennifer “I’m Surprised She Isn’t A Cutter” Aniston as possible; Announcing onstage his intentions to impregnate at least one fan that very evening; Releasing a sugar-coated single about pinchbeck pillow-talk and getting stoned; Hell, “my penis is a white supremacist” is merely a direct, if entirely impolitic way of saying he has a type. How does Courtney Love not get behind that shit?

“oh dudes Mayers a little bland for me and youngish ill do young, but hes neither Yale Harvard Oxford and hes not really rock, so not for me,” she wrote. And to a fan who asked her to clarify hate fucking, she wrote, “hate fucking is an art like ‘the pit’ meaning you rape each other and then beat the shit our of each other so u can feel shit.”

Should have asked her to clarify “rock.” Let us know if the second side of Pretty On The Inside qualifies, seriously, because if it does, I know a 3 year old banging on his mom’s pots and pans with his dented skull that needs a career. When you die (I’m like a Catholic kid on December 20th for that), donate your brain to science so we know where this comes from. Isn’t a qualification for a university to be Ivy League a standing restraining order against you personally? Also, in your “The Pit” style hate fucking (the only thing you remember from the ’80s is The Pit? Jesus), who plays the autistic kid? “They don’t eat chocolate bars. You know what they eat?” All the shit Courtney Love seems to want to beat out of John and then “feel.”

In case Love’s mangling of an innocent metaphor into a gross-fest not seen since Matthew Broderick and his elephantitis stricken mare last coupled didn’t tickle your gag reflex with a rusty saw, she also threw this in:

“my genealogist* and my gynocplogist know i do my Kegals like a snatch the cig off the table thai sex worker,”

For the love of Bacchus, why? To belatedly show your computer is capable of capitalization, despite the fact you have no concept of how to use it? At least the beast what lives between your legs can have a smoke break between scrapings.

*How do you not know that a genealogist doesn’t need access to your vagina to ply his trade? Or is this not a medical thing, and you’re just naming two of the several thousand men you’ve granted access to your twat?

(One of these things is not like the other… From the left: Melissa Auf Der Maur, Ke$ha, and Nick Nolte in drag.)

Persistence and diligence are what is rewarded here at Scumbag Style, and the Widow Corbain has been busy. Since nobody asked her, Courtney Love has decided to announce her intentions to “save” the new pop sensation with the annoying name to type, Ke$ha. Her Twitter the other day was a string of totally sober proclamations, which in paragraph form looks like this:

“Ke$ha is in dire need of a vibe that matches her. shes being moulded into something not her that will fail. I want to save her… fuck Ke$ha I need to school her… Ke$ha I will save you. sweetheart you make me go all maternal, I want to save you from the jaws of impermanence and soul death… When I watched the Youtube of  you I saw a lost little soul… the u tube had a lady from RCA /Jive/ Barry’s nightmare correcting her every time she spoke, they grabbed pushed and she’ll be gone.”

I trust that needs no translation. Love has done a great job of developing a personality that is entirely incompatible with pop stardom, exuding a lack of talent, aging sixty years in a matter of months, and hitting the no-no drugs (there aren’t a lot of those for rock stars) with a dedication rivaled only by fat comedians. In that respect, she’s the perfect role model for Kes$ha, who’s claims to fame already include not physically fitting the popstar mold perfectly. There’s no way Love will ever be thought of as “sanitized,” though I bet anyone in her immediate presence wants to take a whole canister of Lysol wipes to her person, like that one kid in high school with the acne that looked like a burn victim and you just wanted to hold him down and scrub his face with alcohol pads.

Love’s slurring swamp howls do hold a glimmer of insight. True artists would do better to avoid corporate homogenization, and rise above the mediocrity little girls are so vulnerable to. And the best way to make little girls ignore you is to make yourself a heroine pinata that looks like Marilyn Monroe if she lived to be a hundred. Also, if you want to be a respected artist, you have to throw artistic integrity out the door, and definitely alienate everyone with more talent that got you as far as you managed to get before your inevitable implosion. Like bassist Melissa Auf Der Maur, a former member of Love’s megalomania machine Hole, who was not invited on the reunion tour there was such a public outcry for. Auf Der Maur said:

“Honestly, I’m a little surprised by this turn of events. I am disappointed that they are going to jeopardise a real Hole reunion, which I think would be great for fans and fun for us, the band.”

It’s not so surprising when you consider Auf Der Maur is basically the female John Paul Jones, and Courtney Love throws a fit when anybody with talent wants credit for a project she was on. Remember, back in 1998 when Celebrity Skin was easily the only listenable thing Hole had ever accomplished? Everyone wondered how Courtney pulled that out of her ass until Billy Corgan sued the crap out of her for not crediting him for making the album for her while she sat in the shower out of her mind on smack. Then in 2002 the big acts of the time (which did not include Courtney Love until she took over Auf Der Maur’s band The Chelsea) started trading members like Pogs, and Corgan and Maynard Keenen (A Perfect Circle) played god with the careers of Paz Lenchantin, Auf Der Maur, and James Iha, until Melissa got tired of it and released her (pretty decent) solo record in ’04?

Does anybody else remember this? Or, at least follow? The point is, Love’s career started with and revolved around famous, pioneering people being in her immediate vicinity, whom she distanced herself from once they constructed rickety legs for her to stand on. Haven’t bothered anyone in a while? Appear on the Roast of Pam Anderson, messy as hell and ready to show off the shriveled roadie hotel you call a vagina. Or reform Hole without an integral member. Or take an attractive, young up and comer and teach her how to be more like you. Why work when you can convince everyone to do it for you, Ke$ha? That shit’s for uggos like Lady Gaga, and all it will lead to is grudging respect and admiration from the community you claim to belong to. You should marry someone like John Mayer, and then convince him to commit suicide. It’s easy street from there.

The finest leading men of 2009 weren’t necessarily film or music video stars. No, these were the kings of Human ignominy, trailblazers of Homo Sapien’s final mental frontier, which is to say, the evolution of new and exciting ways of being dicks to each other. Several of them have, in the short space of 12 months, become parodies of themselves, rolling around in their own filth like untrained mongrels and then showing us what’s swinging between their legs like a rancid kill that’s a gift for the Human family. The rest are just getting started, but it will all end the same.

John Mayer is one of the finest practicing guitar players, but you may never know that because he hides it behind sickly sweet, radio and pot friendly ballads that could never display his full talents. That’s why it was a blessing to Scumdom when his single “Who Says” hit the top 40s and television advertisements like a sentient Mack truck with no brakes and its rapin’ mudflaps on. The song starts out like his other crap, talking about girls and weed. The chorus goes, “I don’t remember you looking any better…” Awww, that’ll make the Jared commercials, eh? “But then again I don’t remember you.” What? Awesome. This song is about anonymous bangin’, and if more crooners that make the chicks swoon wrote tunes like this, we’d all be elbow deep in stanky ham wallet.

Kanye West is just ridiculous. His last album was an unscooped pile of dogshit on the otherwise pleasant park lane that has been the new hip-hop evolution. Then he gets drunk and runs his mouth a couple of times, and people are starting to wonder who told us to like him like a suicide pact (that is the actual accepted collective noun) of blind lemmings. Oh, and I believe we can thank him for the wild upset of success Taylor Swift is enjoying, showing up on SNL and something called the Billboard charts, despite her obvious membership in the super-niche category, so thanks for that, dick. Now we all have to hear it.

Kirk Cameron is his own breed of asshole. Apparently he was just as insufferable on the set of Growing Pains, but now that he’s finished ruining the psyche of Alan Thicke, he’s moved on to the rest of us, shoving his ignorance down the throats of everyone who just wanted to let him do his own thing. Were it not for Kirk, the only people who would know who Ray Comfort is are the people who never heard of the term “contextual evidence” and want to be told they were right all along, no matter how flimsy the evidence. Now there’s a pop-culture face on man’s refusal to get past geocentrism (its the same thing, and don’t tell me its not), and all the late 80s/ early 90s kids, who want to be nostalgic about their childhood television, have is Step By fucking Step. Dudesy.

Joe Jackson has always been a hard sonofabitch, turning his 88% untalented brood into stars with the help of his belt and some good old fashioned paternal emotional abuse. I think we always just assumed that when his children became adult enough to, for example, die, that he might have eased off and retired from Scumbaggery on the several million clams he made on the mostly brown backs of his confused offspring. Then came Michael’s funeral, which he turned into a carnival of tchotchkes and shame, and the subsequent reality show, which we’re all very sure will be the epitome of good taste and family love, despite the lack of the one person who might have made it interesting. Now that Michael is dead, can we quantify on paper just what percentage of blame we can place on Joe for the Thriller’s unbelievable fuck-upedness? Seriously, get some Asian college students on this. (In related news, the music video for “Thriller” was just entered into the Library of Congress as a national treasure. Dude, if I knew all I needed was zombie makeup and a voice over from Vincent Price, I would have submitted my homemade sex tapes a long time ago.)

Sean Hannity is one of my favorite people. What an example he has set for the younger generation of lazy Americans that need a real lesson in determination, and sticking to your guns in the face of a shitstorm of justified citicism. The man continues to enjoy stellar ratings, even after passing off blatant lies and doctored video as real actual news for the sake of pushing his network and party’s agenda. His gung-ho spirit and strongly opinionated personality is unmatched in political punditry, save perhaps by comedy writer Ann Coulter.

I’m sure you all wanted to vote for Tiger Woods, and the reason you can’t is the same reason I studiously avoided talking on this, your favorite site, about his scandals exciting ability to connect intimately with all kinds of unique people. He didn’t do anything that remarkable, considering he’s probably the most famous practicing professional athlete. Add to that, his wife was a gold-digging whore who had her own share of affairs, and I don’t think we can fault Tiger for being anything but stupid, and that for getting married at all when half of the civilized female world would (and did) gladly spread their legs for him. So yeah, let’s just say he gets the Dumbfuck award, and move to to voting for people who’s antics were actually newsworthy. Leave a comment, so we can announce the winners next week!