The cheers you are hearing collectively around the nation are with the news that Lindsay Lohan has been sentenced to 90 days in jail, and 90 days of subsequent in-house rehab. It’s not that we love seeing celebrities go to jail, only the morons who flaunt the law repeatedly, then act appalled that they have to be subjected to court hearings and the like (OJ, Mr. Blake…are you listening?). The actress known for her role in Mean Girls, but perhaps better known for her maniacal pursuit via SUV of her former assistant down LA streets, put on her best acting job in years when she broke down while addressing the court. How do I figure it’s an act? A few reasons. 1. Because LA jails are so overcrowded, non-violent offenders only do approximate 25% of their sentences (remember Paris Hilton’s 23 day stint?), and LiLo will do about the same. Fuck! Anyone can do 23 days. You get out, go home, and your utilities haven’t even been shut off. 2. Like many people in their early 20′s, she hasn’t taken her probation seriously. She missed a court appearances by running off to Cannes and (supposedly) having her passport stolen, shown up late for court in a most disrespectful fashion, and removed her monitoring ankle bracelet. 3. But perhaps even more telling was the message painted on her middle finger during a court appearance yesterday. Lohan has already stated she thinks the judge “hates her”. So what better way to get that mean old judge back, than to paint “fuck you” on your fingertips (see inset). This was probably meant as an inside joke between Lohan and her hard-partying friends, and wasn’t intended to be caught by the cameras. Let’s just hope the pic gets back to the judge, so the next time LiLo breaks her probation (and believe me, she will), her honor will have the picture handy as a harsher sentence is imposed.

As much as I love Janine, she’s made a bit of a mess with her personal life, and this story is too damned funny to pass up. Porn starlet Janine, who was cheated on by hubby Jesse James before he cheated on newly ex-wife Sandra Bullock, has supposedly given up the porn life, and now has a degree from, drum roll please…CLOWN COLLEGE! Can’t help but wonder how that conversation with Mom went:

Janine: Hey Mom, it’s me.

Mom: Yes dear, I’m very busy. The senior bake sale is this afternoon.

Janine: Well, I know how you’ve hated my career in adult movies, so I wanted to be the first to tell you that I’ve officially given up porn.

Mom: That’s nice, dear, but prostitution isn’t much of a career change.

Janine: No, Momma, I’m completely done with all that. I went back to college and got my BJB degree.

Mom: Blow Job…

Janine: No, it’s a Bachelors in Jackass Behavior. I just graduated from Emmett Kelly University, magna cum!

Mom: Don’t you mean magna cum laude?

Janine: No, just magna cum. I had to persuade the instructor to pass me because I missed a few classes.

Mom: So what can you do with a clown degree, dear?

Janine: I have no idea. It’s kind of like my friend who majored in fine arts. But I feel so free now! I could join the rodeo, or be a mime. The world is my oyster! Aren’t you proud of me, Momma?

Mom: A rodeo clown? A fucking mime? All things being equal, I’d prefer you go back to porn. At least then I can go to the AVN’s in Vegas. I think I read somewhere the national mime convention is in Des Moines. Well, I think my pot brownies are done, dear. I better go. Call me when I can see my grandchild.

Editor’s Note: With all seriousness, I hope Janine can somehow, someway, get her life squared away. She’s definitely made some piss-poor choices, but if you know her personally, you’re rooting for her to turn it around.

My final thought of the day: Will someone PLEASE tell Dr. Oz that there are a number of effective laser treatments for hair removal? Either that, or he has to start wearing a long sleeved shirt. Every time I have to look at his Sasquatch arms, I can taste my own vomit, and feel the need to jump into a swimming pool full of Nair.

Ringo Starr turns 70 today? Just the thought will make some peoples’ bones ache. How could a Beatle be 70? Ringo always was the carefree Beatle, seemingly happy to just be along for the ride. And why not? He wasn’t the original choice. Way back when, there was a guy named Pete Best who provided the back beat for the earliest of the Lennon/McCartney tunes. Eventually, it was decided that Pete had to go. Apparently, the Best man didn’t win. Debate has raged on for almost fifty years as to why Best was cast aside for Ringo (playing with another band at the time). The official version is that Ringo was a more “professional” drummer, and necessary for the fledgling band to go forward. According to Best though, John Lennon was jealous of Best’s looks, and the fact that Best was drawing more attention from the ladies.

Either way, Best not only got the short end of the stick, but had it stuck firmly in his rectum (Rectum? It damn near KILLED him! …old joke, sorry). Best continued on with an unspectacular career, while The Beatles became the biggest selling act of all time. Reportedly, each of The Beatles makes in excess of $10 million per year in royalties, merchandising, and other fees. Meanwhile, the ultra successful show Love, a tribute to The Beatles, plays to sold-out crowds night after night at the Mirage. The tribute to Pete Best, titled The Beatles Can Fuck Themselves, plays to a handful of degenerates at the El Cortez.

It wasn’t all bad for Mr. Best. He tried to capitalize on his brief Beatles fame by recording/releasing songs on the defunct Prune label, eerily similar to Beatles standards. During his sexual years he recorded two songs: Help, My Nuts Are On Fire!, and Lucy In My Bed With Herpes (#898 on the British charts). Later, he had a failed cartoon effort with Yellow Snow. In 1972 he had a string of legal run-ins, and chronicled them with Hey Judge. His final shot at making it on his own was with The Ballad Of Woody And Soon-Yi, and the closest thing he ever had to a hit, Let It Simmer, which was a finalist for the theme to Rachel Ray’s show. It seems poor Pete just couldn’t catch a break. With that in mind, I think it’s only fair that somehow the remaining Beatles should kick down a little of that $10 mil per year. Not enough to make him rich, just enough to keep the heat turned on. After all, with just a hint of luck (or a pockmarked face), Best could have been the one on the Ed Sullivan Show, and smoking hashish with the Maharishi. Instead, he splits a bottle of ripple with a homeless bloke named Ollie. Nearly fifty years later, it’s time to show Pete Best some love.

Cracker is my pet Shiba Inu. If you had asked me five years ago what the fuck a Shiba Inu was, I’d have responded with a mesmorizing stare  and a glazed look in my eyes, but now I know, it’s a dog. I get tired of hearing dog owners talk about how smart dogs are. They’re really not. What they are, dog aficionados, is trainable, nothing more, nothing less. Their reasoning capabilities are practically nil. Example? I take Cracker for a walk. He goes fast, I let the leash out. He slows down, and invariably gets one paw ahead of the leash. Does he stop and merely step back over the leash, thereby untangling himself? Nope. He limps around pathetically like a wounded Civil War vet walking home from Vicksburg, all hobbling around. And the other thing dog owners brag about is how loyal their dogs are. They’re not loyal, they just have a pretty good grasp of where their meals come from. Someone attacks you, the dog isn’t thinking about your loss of income or potential hospital bills. They’re thinking, “Hey, this dude is fucking with my waiter. He better step the fuck off before I lunge at his nuts.” And Cracker isn’t even good at that. I’m not even convinced how much Cracker actually likes me. Oh sure, he’ll come up and lick my face for a bit (after he’s licked his balls and his own asshole of course), but for all the times I’ve picked up his shit around the yard, do you think he even once offered to return the favor? As I stand up from the toilet, he’s never walked up with a little tp around his paw and said, “Here Rich, you’ve had a long day. Let me get this one.” Is a little gratitude too much to ask? Nope…not even once. Not from my Cracker. And the people who say, “Well, we might all be better off if we behaved a little more like animals”. Really? How about we emulate how dogs go to the bathroom? You go to the bathroom in a restaurant. Do you really want to start a shit in one stall, then finish in the next? Then piss in a urinal and the sink (a nod to sink-pisser Adam Carolla here) on the way out?

And scientists always talk about this special sense animals have when it comes to earthquakes. How they can “feel” the earthquake, long before humans. Fuck me, the last earthquake, 8:30 at night, the house shakes. He didn’t even wake up, much less give me an advanced warning. That being said, if nothing else, I’m a realist. I don’t annoy my friends with tales of how smart Cracker is. In fact, my theory is that if Cracker spent a week with a sight dog for the blind, the following week the sight dog would be walking Ray Charles down the 405 freeway during rush hour. But, being a realist, I recognize the little peckerhead for what he is…an adorable animal who relies on my generous nature to survive; a good companion as long as I have a Puperoni nearby, and he’s a pretty good chick magnet, though unintentional I’m sure. Damn it all, I love that little turd.