Farewell, Mike Douglas. Way to go, Kinkajou!

I'm not stupid. I'm not airheaded. Honest. I just enjoy taking refuge in lowest common denominator entertainment. Like Court TV. And The Insider. I love that my job has summer hours, so I can leave early on Friday and catch up on all the celebrity news with sleazy Pat O'Brien and plastic Lara Spencer. I positively devour every second of it.

Today I was sad to learn from Pat and Lara that Mike Douglas died at age 81. His show was on every day after school and I watched it because … well, we didn't have cable back then and you didn't expect me to go outdoors or do homework, did you? Mike Douglas seemed like such a nice man. I thought it would be neat if he was my dad (instead of the one who came home angry and argumentative every night at 5:30). And it was through Mike Douglas that I saw all those Vegas-y acts like Steve & Eydie and Charo and Wayne Newton. I still love all that schmaltzy crap. I'm a sucker for a crooner in a tux who snaps his fingers when he sings, or an over-ripe gal in bugle beads.

And Paris Hilton was bitten by her pet kinkajou! This wise little rascal chomped down so hard that Paris had to go to the emergency room. She was told by the authorities that it's illegal to own an exotic animal in Los Angeles, so I hope that someone responsible takes custody of kinkajou and gives him a more suitable life than he gets riding around in that dumb slut's purse. He deserves it. Kinkajou didn't do anything that the rest of us wouldn't have done if we were condemned to long-term exposure to Paris Hilton.