Summertime, oh summertime, when on Sundays, pointless galleries seem to make some sense. So, voila! Now go do a cannonball.

Edvard Munch's latest muse endeavored into quite an extravaganza Friday — his words, not mine — which hit one of its most surreal moments when Starbury himself jumped into a pool. That was around the middle of the afternoon. When I tuned in later that night, he was back to blabbering, and it was like nothing had changed, even after eight hours. Maybe he should consider politricks.

Speaking of pools, these bad boys will be banned starting in 2010. Not the swimmers or the gold-medal-winning Vitruvian man, but the LZR Racers. Grab them while you can.

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Hey, look, it's a photo of my old friend Natalie Gulbis that the golfer Twitpiced (?) from the Evian Masters. The background looks as nice as that PowerPoint said it would. I wonder if there's a pool.

It's really hot here, and I'm baking like a toasted cheeser. Call me a can't-hack-it panty waste, but you can't play baseball.

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So what are we gonna do, Squints? Perv a dish?

Oh, Wendy Peffercorn, my darling lover girl. I can't take it no more!