Ian O'Doherty: Well, she should know
There are many things in this world which I find utterly incomprehensible.
Among this list would be . . . let's see. Okay, women are obviously a mystery but then I'm hardly the first bloke to make that shocking confession.
The appeal of Ed Sheeran is something which will forever totally baffle me -- after all, how can someone who looks like an X Factor reject be mistaken for a serious and, y'know, like totally profound artist?
And don't even get me started on supporting Liverpool. Or Shamrock Rovers.
And then there is the strange and terribly hideous world of child beauty pageants.
God knows, I'm no prude, but there's something deeply disturbing about seeing six-year-old girls made up to look like hookers on the Hollywood strip parading around the place.
And the most infamous of all these kids is Alana Thompson, better known as 'Honey Boo Boo'.
She became famous when her mother was filmed giving her 'Go Go Juice', a mixture of Red Bull and Mountain Dew.
And, just so we don't forget, Honey Boo Boo is six years old.
She now has her own TV show and it's proving to be pretty controversial in America, where people are lining up to criticise the family.
Interestingly, one of the fiercest critics has been Kris Jenner, mother and manager of the Kardashian brood and all round Chief Reptile of that loathsome family.
She has come out and slammed the family saying they are "classless and are exploiting their children".
Fair point -- but rather lessened by the fact that Kris Jenner's claim to fame is that she became famous on the back of her daughter having a sex tape and she allowed another daughter to give birth on camera for their show Keeping Up With The Kardashians.
Kinda hard to take the moral high ground with that track record, don't ya think?
Sure, it could happen to the best of us . . .
Look, it's Wednesday, the weather is pants and we're facing into a winter of true discontent (closely followed by panic, fear and dread).
But you know what?
There's always someone out there who is worse off than you.
That old argument has never really held much traction with me because I am pathologically selfish and therefore other people's travails are of little interest to me.
But I must admit I did wince when I read the story of a New Zealand man who presented himself to the emergency room in a hospital in Auckland.
And the manner of his complaint?
Well, to use some complicated medical jargon that you lot probably won't understand -- he had an eel stuck up his arse.
The attending team say it's the weirdest case they have ever had to deal with and they added that while the man refused to say anything more than it being an 'accident', they have their suspicions.
I bet they do.
Well, I suppose it certainly brings a new meaning to the phrase 'sleeping with the fishes'.
Well, that'll learn him
While I am all for total equality when it comes to gay marriage (why are straight people the only ones allowed to get married and be miserable for the rest of their lives?), I completely accept that institutions such as the Catholic Church are dead set against it.
After all, they are a club and every club has its rules -- if you don't like the rules, you don't join. Simple.
But the issue has become rather more complicated and Pope Benedict's anti-marriage stance is now under serious threat.
From Lady Gaga.
In what will undoubtedly have sent shock waves of panic throughout the Vatican, the monumentally irksome singer blasted the Pope, saying: "What the Pope thinks of being gay does not matter to the world. It matters to the people who like the Pope and follow the Pope. It is not a reflection of all religious people."
She then went on to talk about the importance of allowing people to marry, regardless of sexual orientation, which is fair enough. She then went on, with tedious predictability, to slate opponents of gay marriage which, again, is fair enough.
But surely I'm not the only person who thinks her views might have carried a bit more weight if she hadn't been wearing a big ass feckin' teapot on her head at the time?
And so the net tightens . . .
One of the great things about talking to Sinn Féin supporters is watching them squirm as they try to deny that Gerry Adams was a grand fromage in the IRA.
They know he was a member, he knows he was a member and we have witnessed this bizarre situation where the elephant in the corner is his terrorist past. And now the chickens are coming home to roost with Dolours Price's claims that he gave the order to murder Jean McConville, the mother of 10 who was killed in one of the vilest incidents in that squalid little war.
So maybe the police should be having a word in his shell, like?
Some chance, I fear.
Separated at birth?
Every time I see James Reilly on the telly, I feel a wide range of emotions, mostly involving rage.
But one thing has been bugging me -- who does he remind me of?
And then it hit me -- he's the spit of Rob Reiner in a classic South Park episode, Butt Out.
One is an overweight busybody who likes to lecture other people on what they can and cannot do and the other is . . . oh, you know what I mean.