In Memoriam of Michael Jackson

I remember back in the day when we had Michael Jackson on the show. He was young, black, and the only forewarning of his future freakishness was in his rider, which required we stock his dressing room with green Tic-Tacs and the members of Menudo. Back then my show didn't have the clout to kidnap Menudo and deliver them to Michael Jackson's dressing room, so I took a gamble and went out and grabbed 5 random Mexican kids off the street...although I think one of them may have been Puerto Rican. It worked. It turns out Michael couldn't tell the difference either, and he happily came out and debuted the moonwalk on my show (regardless of what you've heard, yes, the moonwalk debuted on MY show. The vast conspiracy to cover that up is the subject for another blog entry). 

As for the 5 Mexican kids, they grew up to become George Lopez. 

And as for Menudo, they're on the show next week! Against their will, yes, but what can I say. These days, The Shell Show DOES have the clout to kidnap Mexican boy bands. Well, the clout and the chloroform. Best. Bulk purchase. Ever. 

The Trouble With Blind Items

It's been brought to my attention that I've been showing up in a lot of "blind items" lately. Blind Items, for those of you who have lives, are nuggets of gossip found in the paper that due to the threat of lawsuits, don't name who they're talking about. Here's an example:

This washed-up actor was recently caught in an alley behind a Penn Station Peepshow doing three things simultaneously: A tranny hooker, lines of coke mixed with baking soda off the aforementioned tranny hooker's back, and speaking with his mom on bluetooth. Sources say it's the first two that make the third possible, and three is enough!

If you read between the lines, this blind item is obviously about 'Eight is Enough' star Adam Rich. I've caught him in that alley myself! Even joined in once or twelve times! The problem arises when blind items are written - obviously about a particular person - and for some reason people assume they're about you. Or me, in this case. 

I'd like to set the record straight on the recent slew of lies being passes around, and assure all of my loyal fans that the following blind items are IN NO WAY about me:

What host of a low-rated talk show specializing in Z-grade "celebrities" and assorted superheroes was overheard at a free clinic bragging about the number of times he's avoided prosecutution for statutory "offenses" at Jonas Brothers concerts by faking his death and stealing the identities of comatose war veterans? Sources say he's recieved so many ill-gotten Purple Hearts in the mail, that he's planning on melting them down and fashioning them into a statue in the likeness of Tony Orlando. 

Okay, this one is obviously about Maury Povich. I don't know where people get off thinking this was me - and the fact that I have a purple Tony Orlando statue outside of my office is a complete coincidence, I assure you. Those statues are outside every important person's office. If you've never seen one before, you must not have been in the company of anyone important. 

It's well known around town that this talkshow host with one name is a sleazebag, but even Child Protective Services (which investigated our subject when they were accused of trying to sell orphan meat to Indian restaurants) would be shocked at this latest accusation. Apparently our Tinseltown Talker likes to sneak into hospitals at night, steal newborns and take them to an abandoned parking garage downtown where they've set up a makeshift baby-fighting ring. They pit the tots against ferrets, chipmunks and the occasional otter, with the winner going back to the hospital. The recent rash of new mothers waking up to find their baby has turned into an otter is not due to contaminated water from the nuclear plant - as our host's show's press department would have you believe - but is in fact due to our one-named host's nocturnal activities. 

This one is clearly Oprah. And yes, that spy pic of me holding two bassinets running from a hospital in the middle of the night that was published in the New York Times last week may have seemed suspicious, but I was just doing some late night ham shopping. I like to carry my hams in bassinetts, so sue me. It keeps them fresher. And yes, I do my ham shopping at the hospital. Hospitals have special ham boutiques for celebrities, for your information.  Jack Nicholson gets all his hams at the hospital, and you don't see anyone making a federal case out of it. Mmm, hospital ham...

This crappy late-night talkshow host has been having a "Shell" of a time with some of his recent guests. Turns out our host-with-no-mouth has instructed his show's accounting department to stopy paying guests' appearance fees in money, and instead start using "Shell Bucks," which are nothing more than store-brand crackers with smiley faces scrawled in Cheez Whiz. Our host claims each "bill" is worth $1000 taking into consideration the time and creative energy it takes him to scrawl each cheesy smily face. This has led to somewhat of a guest revolt, with so many celebrities refusing to come on the show that recent episodes have been forced to feature the likes of Darva Conger and James Van DerBeek. It seems this "shell" of a talkshow host has been having money problems lately, due mostly to his betting on baby fights. There's also the Atlantic City stripper he supports, mostly in increments of $1. During his latest trip to his favorite strip club, he tried switching to his self-named currency, which left the club staff less than pleased and sticky with cheesy goodness. Our host was thrown out of the club and told never to return unless it was with non food-based money. Old "Shell"-head is now trying to raise money through the sale of orphans and orphan-based products to ethnic restaurants.

Uh, this one is obviously...Dr. Phil. No question. That guy's a tool. Don't trust him. 

And that, my friends, should absolve me of any vicious rumors currently swirling around me. And remember, next time you hear someone talking smack about me, tell them "Hey! That's Shell you're talking about! The man who loves orphans and woodland creatures and hates Hitler! That man doesn't have a mean bone in his body, so stop that silly  rumor nonsense! I mean really!!"

Then punch them in the throat and run away. 

Celebrity Gossip-o-rama!

People always say things to me like "Wow you're so lucky, getting to talk to big time celebrites all day!" and "It sure must be nice being able to get close to Hollywood starlets!" and "One step closer and you're in violation of your restraining order!"

Well I got news for you, folks. Most celebrities are jerks. Sure they're all smiles and handshakes when the camera's on them, but as soon as you yell cut they're back to their coke-snorting, orphan-molesting, album-pirating, terrorist-plotting, communist-sympathizing, baby-punching, kitten-drowning, SUV-driving, Jay Leno-watching ways. 

That's right, all those celebrities that you think are "nice" are actually evil for the most part, assuming they're even human. I've compiled a list for easy reference, sorted by the number of STDs I happen to know they have:

Tom Hanks: 

He's really an outer shell with the inside composed entirely of centipedes.

James Franco: 

He enjoys eating baby koala bears. I've seen it.

Daniel Baldwin: 

I once caught him backstage reading Tori Spelling's autobiography.

Sherman Helmsley: 

I witnessed the man kick a Make-a-Wish kid in the face. Twice.

Julianna Rancic: 

Is a time-traveler from the future who came back to warn us about an impending disaster. But she forgot what it was, so she's biding her time as an entertainment reporter which keeps her head clear to try and remember what it was she was supposed to do. Also she's a robot.

David Hyde Pierce: 

Him and Satan discuss American Idol over coffee and Fig Newtons every Monday.

Demi Lovato: 

Obscenely racist. Especially against the Dutch.

That Girl from the Welch's Grape Juice Commercials: 

Invented the Snuggie. All the proceeds go to funding Malaysian pirates.

Jerry Stiller: 

Once killed two people with his bare hands just to feel something. Anything.

Alex Winter: 

Refuses to brush his own teeth. Makes his neighbor's kids do it.

Elisabeth Hassleback: 

Her and David Hyde Pierce discuss American Idol over coffee and Fig Newtons every Monday.

Jon Heder: 

Don't believe that Mormon schtick. Don't. 

Charlie Sheen: 

Once lit an orphanage on fire. When they put it out, he went in and shot up the place. Then he made Hot Shots 2. 

Martin Sheen: 

Fathered Charlie Sheen.

The Ghost of Ricardo Montelbaum: 

Keeps trying to posess me and make me go have sex with his wife. She's less than understanding.

Sean Young: 

She soiled one of our dressing rooms with a stench so overpowering we had to do the show in the parking lot.

Apple Martin: 

Likes to send naked pictures of himself to my cell phone. I don't know how he learned to do that, how he got a phone or how he got my number, but the kid's got a future in social networking.

Callista Flockheart: 

Hates jugglers. Hates 'em. Has spent a surprising amount of money on having many of them killed.

Gabby Hoffman: 

Kicked me in the shin when I told her I didn't recognize her and had no idea who the hell she was. I still don't. 

Suri Cruise: Is actually a hologram.

Yahoo Serious: 

Once spent an entire week removing the axels from all the wheelchairs at the Special Olympics. Oh how we laughed. 

Melanie Griffith: 

Hates Jews. But she thinks Jews are the main ingredient in JuJu Bees, and that if they get rid of all the Jews, they'll only be left with Bees, which a psychic told her had zero calories, so she signed her kids up for  Hitler Youth, bought a beekeeper hat, and now has something to do on Thursday nights. 

Michael York: 

Once took some bad acid, flew to Dallas and shot Kennedy to stop the Moon from cheating on the Sun with Saturn. It worked. 

Tom Cruise: 

Once hijacked L. Ron Hubbard's yacht and crashed it into a Carnival cruise ship. 270 souls were lost. Paid Carnival to claim it was food poisoning from a bad batch of paella, and the gaping hole in the side of the ship was an optical illusion created by David Blaine. 

Katherine Harris: 

Is really an evil Cyborg from the future. That's not the secret though, as pretty much everybody already knows that. The secret is that she's the kind of Cyborg that runs on liberal tears and discarded ballot cards, not turbans and shredded Korans as her press office claimed. 

Why Does Everyone Think I Killed Bill?

Okay, those of you who frequent my blog have probably noticed that I've been away for a while. Sorry I didn't give you warning, as I know most of you are in federal prisons and don't appreciate wasting precious minutes of your computer-room time to visit a site that hasn't been updated in weeks. But I don't feel guilty, I was the one who posted a step by step how-to guide on how to smuggle in a cell phone through the ancient art of rectum stretches in my bi-monthly "Kiddie Krafts" feature, so you guys owe me. 

Moving on, where was I? Well if you fine folks had taken the time to stop shivving eachother and visited the common room TV, you would have realized that I was broadcasting the show from Thailand! Yes Thailand, where for $5 you can get a 5 course meal, a donkey, an underage hooker and an overage tranny and still have enough for an underage donkey and a ride on Gary Glitter's speedboat. Speaking of Gary Glitter, he was my sidekick for our week of Thai shows, and boy does that man know how to party! He can fit like 80 nachos in his mouth! That is absolutely the wildest thing I can ever imagine him or anyone else doing, and this is where I'll end this sentence...he's still serving his...

We had a lot of great guests during our Thai shows, including Michael Jackson, Bryan Singer, Paul Reubens and the guy from the Del Taco commercials, but the guest that got us the most attention had to be David Carradine. 

Now yes, it may be true that for the entire David Carradine interview I kept insisting that nobody loved him and his career was a pathetic DTV joke, but that was just gentle ribbing! And yes, it may be true that at one point during the interview I spiked his drink with barbituates and industrial-grade LSD, but that was just part of the green room welcome basket! And yes, it may be true that after the show I strapped him into a sensory deprivation chamber and piped in Bjork's greatest hits, but that's just how I assumed he wanted to unwind after the show! To imply that I had anything to do with his bizarre suicide is wholly inappropriate, even though it may be true that in his drugged stupor I convinced him to name me as sole beneficiary in his will.  I was also sole beneficiary in Vince Foster's will, and you don't see any conspiracy theories flying around about that, do you? 

I mean really, people. If you want to start digging around for crazy conspiracy theories, you could at least look into my connection with apple pie. You heard me, apple pie. Ever wonder why it's so delicious? I didn't think so. 

Now if you don't mind, I need to go buy an Alpaca with my "Kung Fu" residuals...