And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

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FREE. Yes, it's totally free. Listen to all the music you want, though occasionally we'll break in with a commercial. Like when you're listening to La Boheme, we might interrupt Mimi's death scene with highlights from Blake Shelton's latest disk. We're just trying to expand your horizons: it's not like we're trying to force you to upgrade to

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ZERO CONTACT. Due to unprecedented customer demand we've recently introduced a new Spotify membership option more commonly called FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP HARASSING ME! For just $79.99 a month, we won't email me. At all!

As you may know, Spotify has massive technological power that allows us to do thousands of calculations every millisecond you're listening. Cued up a song with the word "drink" in it? We can find forty thousand similar tracks, from Blake Shelton's "Drink On It" to Blake Shelton's "I Drink" to Blake Shelton's "The More I Drink," and we can send you emails telling you about every one. We're pretty sure nobody solely bases their listening on the inclusion of the word "drink" in the lyrics, but with our computational power we don't have to take that chance.

For just $79.99 a month, though, we'll stop firing up the CPU every time you listen to a song. When you listen to James Blake, Elijah Blake or Norman Blake, we will no longer text you that we've got a whole bunch of Blake Shelton too.

We'll also stop snooping through your online accounts and updating you whenever somebody you've emailed or friended fires up Spotify. Don't care that your optometrist is playing "Inna Gadda Davida"? Couldn't give a damn that your mom added an Al Martino song to her "When Men Didn't Sound Like Queers" playlist? This is the membership option for you.

Additionally, you'll be freed from the eternal torment of unsubscribing. Yes, we know you unsubscribed from our notifications. We just added a new email category called "announcements," though, and we signed everybody up for it, just in case. If you think this is an annoying one-shot event, in the coming weeks we'll be adding new categories for customer communications including dispatches, advisories, revelations, missives, epistles and communiques.

Sure, we've had a few licensing problems. Like, we've only got one Pink Floyd record, and it's live. We don't have anything by Isaac Hayes that's more than ten minutes long, which means everything by Isaac Hayes. Since we heard some of you like a band called Led Zeppelin, though, we recently added an audio track where people talk about them. Regardless, we've got millions and millions of songs so there's always something to listen to, whether it's live tracks that sound like they were recorded in a field by a guy near the taco truck, or your favorite country hits.

Look on the bright side. If anybody can stop a dude from being gay, it's Dr. Phil.

Sigh. Everybody at Jezebel is freaking out today about "slut shaming," where women are criticized for being sexual in a way that gets men high-fived. Today they're totally up in arms about a photo that clearly shows how societal constraints manifest themselves in women's skirts:

Look! That's what your skirt length says about you. According to our prudish, patriarchal society, there are maybe two acceptable lengths for skirts and everything else marks you as either a dowdy spinster or a whore.

Naturally, everyone is outraged. "This crap has got to stop!" Jezebel fumes. It doesn't dampen the outrage when someone points out that this photo is a political artwork created by a feminist artist rather than an actual fashion dictate from some backwoods Dear Abby. It's just so true! Isn't it awful? Oh, poor women!!! I don't think there's anybody sadder.

Oh, except for dudes.

Me, I don't give a crap. Count me in with the short-short fans! I don't think Harvey Levin's ever looked so good.

I don't think I've ever seen anything like this. Okay, State Farm, I'll totally ignore all the horrible things that everybody's posting about you on the internet. I didn't even realize your reputation was that bad! If it's that important to you, I'll pretend that everybody criticizing you online is a liar, and I'll pretend that you've made the requisite technological leaps to nearly catch up to the 21st Century. Mission accomplished!

Approach The Bench

THE FIRST CASE: Junior Seau was an NFL football player with a multi-million-dollar contract. Then he retired, and then he killed himself. His family is suing the NFL because they say it was the brain injuries he suffered playing football that made him retire and kill himself. They claim the NFL hid the dangers, so they're responsible.

THE DECISION: I sympathize with the Seau family, but here's the catch. They're saying he should never have played football. And now they apparently want the money he would have made if he hadn't stopped.

The family has to take a stand one way or the other. They can't make up middle-ground like, "Well, we wanted him to play safe football." There is a safe version of football: it's called "freeze tag." If they wanted Seau to play professional football, they have to accept the dangers. If they didn't want him to play professional football, and they can prove his death was a direct result of the NFL's negligence, then they should get the money he would have made as an uneducated, non-athletic Samoan man.

THE VERDICT: Judgment for the plaintiff for $42.

THE SECOND CASE: Lori Stodghill was seven months pregnant with twins when she went to Colorado's St. Thomas More hospital. She died during delivery, and her husband is suing for negligence. The Catholic hospital is fighting back by saying that fetuses aren't people, so they aren't covered by the state's Wrongful Death Act.

THE DECISION: This case differs from the previous one because the Catholic Church isn't the plaintiff, so they don't need to specify whether fetuses are people or not. They don't even need to be consistent: they can say that some are and some aren't, which is pretty much my experience in Brooklyn. In fact, the hospital could spin a wheel at the admissions desk and decide whether expectant mothers have a fetus, an amorphous blob, or a duck-billed platypus inside them, and base their policies on that.

THE VERDICT: I spun my wheel and came up platypus. The hospital has violated the endangered species laws. Judgment for the plaintiff for $1.4 million.

THE THIRD CASE: Manti Te'o is a Mormon and a professional football player whose long-time girlfriend, it was discovered, doesn't exist. When Katie Couric asked him if he's gay, he said he's "faaar from it."

THE DECISION: I like to believe people, but this looks suspicious. I know that after a few years heterosexual men generally want to have sex with their long-time girlfriends, particularly if they only work three months a year and have thirty million dollars for plane fare. Plus, it's odd that with his "faaar" comment he's making up this vast distance between himself and something that doesn't have degrees. You either are or you aren't gay. I'm not the converse of Jewish. I'm not the flip-side of a computer programmer. I'm not the antithesis of a raccoon.

THE VERDICT: Shakespeare said "The girl doth protest too much," though probably not to Te'o's face. Court's adjourned!

Back when I lived in L. A. I used to get these trashy contest postcards in the mail. "CONGRATULATIONS!" they'd blare. "YOU'RE A GRAND PRIZE WINNER! You've definitely won one of the following prizes:

• A Mercedes Benz S-class
• $40,000
• 4 days and 3 nights at a Florida motel for just $99"

It didn't take Einstein to get wise to the concept: you had to call a 900 number to find out which prize you won, and everybody got the third, useless prize. Evidently it fooled some people, though. It's the same stupidity we see on reality shows and sporting events: some people assume that if there are several choices, they must have equal odds.

Jeff Probst espouses this constantly on Survivor. If there are two contestants left, he'll say their odds of winning are fifty-fifty.

Um, news flash. If an amputee nun faced Ryan Lochte in a swimming pool, nobody would say it's a tossup.

Anyway, somebody's taken that model and actually fashioned it into a TV show. Baggage is a dating program hosted by Jerry Springer where a contestant gets to select from three potential dates, each of whom has three pieces of luggage with a secret hidden inside. The potential dates reveal their secrets, and the contestant picks the one that scares him the least. He then reveals his secret, leaving the person he's chosen the final decision about whether or not they'll go out.

Of course, you'll immediately notice the fatal flaw of this program, which it shares with the unwatchable Howie Mandel dating show Take Me Out: Contestants are actually given a choice whether to accept a night on the town with a perfect stranger or just go home by themselves.

I don't know about you, but there's no chance I'm humiliating myself on national TV just to go home to microwave popcorn and a stack of shirtless Lee Majors photos. I'm going on this date, and I don't care if that means I'm spending the evening with a self-flagellating Satanist or a step-dancing Etsy salesman. I don't care if I'll be spending four hours yelling, "SHUT UP, ASSHOLE!" while jamming caviar in my mouth with both hands. I'm. Going. Out.

From the opening of the show, though, deceit is dangled in front of us. Did the contestant:

• pose as a cable repairman so he could steal underwear from someone's clothesline?
• Rub peanut butter all over his body and then break into a petting zoo?

or did he

• call Argo "vastly overrated" on Facebook?

I watch the show from the edge of the couch, and actually get aroused by the possibilities. These disclosures aren't "baggage," I think: they're . . . hot.

I've always loved perverts, mostly because I admire their determination. You know a man who has a flamingo and a bullwhip in his bedroom isn't going to quibble about turning off the lights. You won't spend the first eighty minutes of your encounter repeating, "Okay, so what do you want to do?" Currently I'm crushing on that Monsignor Meth guy, who wore women's lingerie and had sex in the rectory. Call me crazy, but there's nothing hotter than a man who gives up his right to heaven just to see you in a crinoline smock.

As each piece of luggage opens, though, reality sets in. It's nothing like you imagined. All that potential, and instead you have a guy who's never tasted a turnip going out with a chick who's never changed the batteries in her smoke alarm.

Still, the show turns out to be educational. This isn't about brains: it's about hope. I don't get irrational over a Mercedes, or $40,000. My heart doesn't overrule my head when it comes to amputee nuns. But if that postcard had gotten me a shot at a guy who cut a gloryhole in a doghouse, I'd be calling that phone number as we speak.

Cottage Available in Brooklyn -- $3250/Month

The cottage has been completely gutted and rebuilt with all green materials - recycled jeans insulation, bamboo floors, and high efficiency appliances. The kitchen features a hidden Miele Dishwasher, Bertalozzi Oven, Viking Microwave, and Electrolux fridge.

Tell you what: if we pull out some of that "recycled jeans insulation," can you figure out a way to open the closet doors?

Rick Harrison, star of the History Channel's hit reality show Pawn Stars, will wed his fiancee Deanna Burditt on July 21 in Laguna Beach.

The most special part? The ring bearer will be Chumlee, Harrison's ne'er-do-well employee who frequently upstages everyone else on "Pawn Stars."

According to someone who's seen the script, after the priest asks, "Do you take this woman to be your lawfully-wedded wife for as long as you both shall live?" Rick replies, "I'll give you two years, and I'm probably going to regret it."

A Brooklyn gay man has accused the NYPD of shouting anti-gay epithets while beating him during an arrest following their attempt to shut down an allegedly loud party at his home.

The man, Jabbar Campbell, 32, held a news conference on Thursday at which he showed videotaped images captured by security cameras that he had installed inside his apartment and in front of his building as a deterrent to thieves. The videos did not show any beating. But one camera, aimed at the building’s front stoop, showed a police sergeant reaching up and turning it around, toward a wall.

Charges of police brutality are down 23% so far this year, perhaps due to changes in NYPD policy. Now they beat up the cameraman first.

Don't tell me, let me guess. He lives in a pink taco under the sea?

Really, is this the world has come to these days, begging somebody online to sleep with you?

Sigh. Call me old-fashioned, but I remember when you had to beg them in person.

An editorial by Fox News today speculates that Manti Te'o suffers from something they call "The Delusion Disease."

They say we're suffering from an "erosion of reality," with "false people and false stories" spreading around the entire world in mere seconds. Social media, reality TV and technology, they claim, have "infected and intoxicated" Americans to the extent that we no longer understand actual facts.

It sounds kind of sad to me, but the editorial just ends with the word, "YES!"

A couple weeks ago I went to visit my nephew in upstate New York. He's a fun hetero who's as carefree and aimless as the rest of his generation. Between current pop culture and the avoidance of work we have a lot in common.

He's bored and thinking of getting a companion. "If you could have anything at all for a pet," he asks me, "what would you get?"

I don't even have to think. "A duck," I say. I've wanted a duck forever.

He laughs, and he definitely veers from "laughing with me" territory to "laughing at me." "A duck?" he repeats. "Why the hell would you want a duck?"

His scorn runs like water off my back. I don't care: I'm totally secure in my duck-wanting orientation. "Are you kidding?" I ask. "They're adorable. They waddle. They quack. You don't have to walk them: you can just toss them in the bathtub and they'll exercise themselves." He's speechless. "Oh, and they can walk, swim, and fly. Toss a dog in the air and see how far it gets."

He shakes his head. "That's ridiculous," he says.

For the rest of the visit I feel blanketed with humiliation, and then a week later I see a photo on his Facebook wall.

My mouth drops open and my heart stops as I read his post. He just "decided" to get a duck, he says. Just on a whim he went to a nearby farm, bought a fertilized duck egg, and HATCHED IT HIMSELF, he says. And now he's in love. He can't believe he ever lived without a duck.

I literally can't believe my eyes. That's my duck, I think. MY DUCK. In a fiery fit of anger I dash off a furious email where I tell him exactly what I think. I call him every name in the book, for laughing at my idea and then stealing it, and for knowing how much I'm dying for a duck and then rubbing his new pet in my face.

His reply is just a photograph. Though I admire his skill with a crochet needle, I'm pretty sure we'll never speak again.

I'm wandering the East Village with nothing to do so I stop by the bar owned by Anderson Cooper's boyfriend. My mind isn't even on meeting hunky dudes, since I've given them up for the new year. I just want stupid, noisy fun. The music is good, the gin is cold, and they're playing videos geared to nonexistent attention spans.

I'm not halfway through my first cocktail when a guy pulls up next to me and introduces himself as Van. He's a cute, thin hipster with tousled brown hair. "You know what I'm in the mood for?" he says, just out of the blue. "One of those fried Mexican dough things that's covered in powdered sugar. I forget what they're called."

"Those are pretty good, aren't they?" I reply. "It's on the tip of my tongue. I'll have it in a minute."

"Crispitos," he says. "Crunchitas. No, I've got it: Chancres."

He smiles proudly and I offer a fake one in return. Those few, idiotic words have totally wiped my memory clean. It's like I'm a human Etch-a-Sketch, and he's just turned me over and shaken me.

"'Chancres,'" I repeat. "You know, I'm pretty sure even Taco Bell wouldn't put powdered sugar on an open sore."

I try to forget the word I can't remember and eventually our conversation gets back on track. We really do have a lot in common, I discover, as we find a shared interest in the Flintstones. We ponder the wisdom of having a brontosaurus wash one's silverware before we get to the inevitable jump-the-shark talk. I'm thinking it was when Fred hit the top of the music charts, but Van disagrees.

"It was definitely when that alien showed up," he says. "The one with the stupid name."

"That's easy," I say, and I stop to concentrate. "It's like a sneeze. Wait, it's coming to me."

Before I can answer, he throws out his guesses. "Fatso. Carmine. No, I've got it: Mr. Greenblatt!"

I smile while shaking my head. "No," I say, "it isn't." I add another frustrated memory lapse to my mental annoyance list, and start picturing a little green man flying around Fred Flintstone's head while holding a bag full of lox and cream cheese.

I decide that if Van and I are going to get anywhere, I'll have to explain something. "Look," I say, "You clearly have a lousy memory. I, on the other hand, have a terrific memory. My head is completely stuffed full of random trivia, and though it might take me a second or two to access it, I will eventually access it. When you throw out all these weird guesses, though, it distracts me. It confuses me. It totally erases my brain."

"Oh," Van says, looking equally embarrassed and apologetic.

It takes a minute or two for our conversation to restart, but once again it gets catches. Like me, he loves bad monster movies, and he lists his favorites: Godzilla. Mothra. Reptillicus. "What's the name of that giant turtle from the 50s?" he asks.

And he stops for a second.

I smile. He's learned his lesson! I've finally got a chance! I fire up my brain and load the memory tapes.

"That's easy," I say. "Kid stuff. It's -- it's -- "

But I'm too late. A spark fires up in his eyes as his brain spews out another fart. "Godiva? Caracas? Kimora? KIMORA!" He nearly high-fives himself as he basks in the glow of pride. "I finally got one!" he says. "It's Kimora."

I fix my gaze in his direction while my heart pounds like a Vanagon headed uphill. "No," I say, slightly squeaking the word, "it isn't Kimora. Kimora is a fashion designer, the ex-wife of Russell Simmons. She didn't fly over Japan while shooting sparks out of her ass."

Van watches while I turn a shade of purple not usually seen in human complexions. "Sorry," he says. "I forgot. Well, we can still go out some time, right?"

"Absolutely," I say. "Totally." I get up from my bar stool and put my jacket on. "Give me a call some time. 212-432-7827."

He grabs his phone and starts to punch in the digits. And I yell, "THREE! FIVE! NINE! SIXTEEN! EIGHTY-FOUR!" while I'm walking away.

Ed. note: Churros. The Great Gazoo. Gamera. You're welcome.

Idaho survivalists have announced plans to create an armed fortress city surrounded by a "defensible perimeter" complete with gun towers.

The Citadel will house between 3,500 and 7,000 patriotic American families who agree that being prepared for the emergencies of life and being proficient with the American icon of Liberty -- the Rifle -- are prudent measures.

Google is nuts to say the Liberty Bell is the real icon of Liberty. If you could kill somebody with giant bells there'd be corpses around my windchimes.

The Citadel is Liberty-driven: specifically Thomas Jefferson's Rightful Liberty. Marxists, Socialists, Liberals and Establishment Republicans will likely find that life in our community is incompatible with their existing ideology and preferred lifestyles.

My preferred lifestyle? NOT TOO CLOSE TO SURVIVALISTS IN GUN TOWERS.

[T]he Citadel intends to purchase between 2,000 and 3,000 acres. Of that, 640-1,280 acres are to be walled-in (minimum one square mile).

Enjoy freedom! Enjoy liberty! Enjoy knowing you won't have to walk a half-mile across town if you enroll your kids in the boarding school.

Your home can be finished with several facades, from a log cabin to vinyl siding . . . or more. Your house, your choice! . . . All homes will be built of poured concrete for exceptional strength and durability.

Hey, the Founding Fathers never said I couldn't put a log cabin facade on a concrete house, so you can go fuck yourself.

You are responsible for completing the interior of your home as you wish. . . . [E]very single detail, from paint to tiles to counters, is your choice.

Okay, sign me up! I'm sick and tired of Nazi decorators forcing me to use that goddamned Navajo Sand.

There will be no recycling police....

Because Thomas Jefferson would have shot himself in the head before putting the foil tray from his TV dinner into a separate bag.

There will be no HOA.

Well, that should make things interesting, but I probably won't drop by right away. I'm pretty sure the first few hundred inhabitants are going to die of scurvy after their giant American flags blot out the sun.

At the moment the Citadel Project is accepting only Application Fees ($208). All Application Fees will ultimately be deposited into a Citadel business bank account, after clearing PayPal and other servicers.

Yes, they're fighting tyrannical government intervention but giving a dimwitted eBay subsidiary 2.9% of all their income.

The model will be similar in many ways to that of Disneyland. It is walled, gated, private property with controlled access. People pay to enter and agree to the rules because they see value in doing so. . . . Millions of people visit Disneyland and interact peacefully. It's exceptionally rare to hear of any serious problems.

Disneyland? Yeah, this'll be just like Disneyland. Folks will definitely wait two hours in line to ride Cletus T. Jones, Jr.

Still, there's one benefit the Citadel will have: you won't have to wander around half an hour trying to find Goofy.

(via Joe.My.God)

Even better? Miss Nebraska hula-hooping to Fuck Tha Police.

Two gay men in Plano, Texas claim they were asked to leave a bowling alley because they are gay.

Boyfriends Alberto Lesmes and Chad Hemp were bowling at Main Event Entertainment when they realized their lane was broken. They were moved elsewhere, but when a kid nearby kept bowling in their lane they raised another fuss.

According to Main Event CEO Charlie Keegan, the guys didn't ask for somebody to keep an eye on the idiot kid. They didn't ask somebody to smack the kid's parents in the head. No, they asked for a lane with "privacy."

Management refused, and the guys left. Now they're mad.

Call me crazy, but I'm siding with management. I mean, we gays don't go to a bowling alley for privacy: we go to Celine Dion concerts for that. Then again, there's nothing like a seven-year-old girl throwing a twenty-pound ball around that'll make you want to be alone.

On the other hand, maybe the CEO was insinuating that these guys wanted to do lewd acts, like we homosexuals do in places where there's alcohol and scorecards. In that case, I'm on the gay men's side. I don't see anything wrong with asking the owner if he has a lane or two downstairs, or around the corner, or maybe hidden behind a potted plant where my partner and I can take advantage of all the slick surfaces and chalk. Is that so wrong? I mean, sometimes you just want to fuck, and air hockey tables are so small.

Yes, I realize Broadway Backwards is an annual benefit performance where theater stars sing songs written for the opposite sex. Yes, I know it's supposed to be great fun, and all the proceeds go to charity. But honestly, when ticket prices go down from $25,000, I start to think that despite the inclusiveness of our community, it seems like all these fabulous homo events are just for the 1% gays. I don't know; it's probably just my imagination.

The Passive-Aggressive Roadshow

When I saw you holding this in line I thought, "Wow, if that's the most valuable thing at her house she must not have shoes or frozen food."

You say you found this at a thrift shop. Well, I have great news: you've almost gotten rid of that poor-people smell.

You mentioned that your husband got mad at you for buying this. Well, it's good to know there's somebody at your house who can change the lightbulbs and close the fridge.

Your mother said it's valuable? Well, my mother said my nose would shrink to fit my face.

I've never seen anything like this in my entire life, and I let the UPS man use my bathroom.

You think it's Tiffany. Well, I think Chuck Norris is attractive, and I'd have an easier time finding an expert who agrees with me.

If this were in my store, I'd put something attractive in front of it.

At a well-publicized auction, I think people would say, "Why is this at a well-publicized auction?"

If two bidders really liked this, it could go for a lot of money. And if Liz Taylor came back from the dead and thought this was a giant Twinkie, it could go for even more.

If I were you, I would insure this for $10,000. And then I'd burn down my house.

I guess we can't really blame you. You tried it once before and it worked. You liked calling your enemies "gay," and just because you were told it was offensive didn't mean you'd stop doing it. You thought and thought and thought, and finally you came up with a stratagem: you changed what you said the word meant. You allegedly severed that awkward connection to homosexuality, so no longer would it be a homophobic slur. No, now it just meant that somebody was absolutely pitiful or unspeakably lame.

Got it? Now all the offense is gone!

You kept using the word, and nobody hit you. Nobody called you an idiot with Cheetos for brains. In fact, you were probably surprised by how well your little stunt worked. Now you can taunt and bully with the "gay" word and nobody can complain.

It worked so well you went after "faggot" next.

That was a tough one. It'd been around for thousands of years, so it had a history of horrifying. You tried and you tried but you just couldn't drop it, so you figured you'd change with it meant too.

And now, you say, the word "faggot" doesn't have anything to do with homosexuality. Now it means a dude who acts like a lady. You know, a whiny effeminate type of lady who minces and prances and shops too much and says stuff like, "Hey, girlfriend!" and "Oh no you di'int!"

It's got nothing at all to do with being gay.

Instantly every hetero in the world leapt atop the trend. The gay community futilely tried fighting back, but it was like sticking a cork in a broken dam. They got apologies from Tank Carder, Amar’e Stoudemire, Justin Fontaine, Azealia Banks, and Charlie Sheen, but the word never showed any sign of going away.

Finally, in desperation, the gay community decided: if we can't beat them, we're joining them.

Sure, it'd be terrific if we could take the high road, but sometimes you've just got to act like a pro athlete. I know we'd all love to stay smart, but sometimes you've just got to be a rapper. It'd be great if we could keep our dignity and stay classy, but sometimes you've just got to put your balls to the wall and say, "Fuck it. I'm acting like a total NASCAR fan."

An Oregon woman has claimed she is the mother of Simon Cowell's love child.

The unnamed woman has contacted Entertainment Weekly and Us Magazine to sell the exclusive story, so more details should be revealed soon. If Cowell is found to be the father, she could be in for a financial windfall. We have contacted his representatives but so far have received no reply.

We've always taken these claims with a grain of salt, but as you can see from the photo below the resemblance is striking.

Uh, yeah, 'cuz kids these days don't know what stupid look like.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

Magazines dying off? No way! Here at Magazine Metropolis we've got more exciting titles than ever. We offer an extensive selection to suit everyone, whether they're young or old, rich or poor.

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What? Your kid is looking in the wrong column? Better check out this week's special on Psychology Today.

Caught this sign at the local Chase bank. Drop off $100 and when you come back thirteen months later they'll give it back to you plus a quarter.

Well, maybe if you ask nicely they'll give you a shiny one.

Looking for new ways to save money in the new year? Turn to Bankrate, the best consumer financial services company that buys space on Earthlink's logout page. They've collected some of the best tips your favorite Hollywood stars have for saving money in 10 True Tales of Celebrity Frugality, which we've edited and summarized. As Bankrate says, "Following their frugal habits could help your bottom line in the new year."

• Rob Lowe: Spend money to create memories, not just buy things. For instance, if your child expresses an interest in tennis, take them to Wimbledon.


• Joel McHale: You might be tempted to go crazy with your money, but there are perfectly nice cars you can buy for under two hundred grand.


• Nicholas Sparks: Sell all your extra homes, because then you won't feel obligated to go visit them.


• Patrick Warburton: In Las Vegas, walk away from the poker table when you're down three grand.


• Jill Hennessey: Instead of buying expensive designer clothes, find cheap ripoffs. Check the labels in clothes to make sure they're made in China.


• Roger Daltrey: Don't go around buying expensive homes: castles have much better resale value. Also, save money on grocery bills by buying a farm. The fruits and vegetables your migrant workers collect will cost a fraction of what you'd pay in an organic store.


• Carson Kressley: Take the subway instead of a cab, then occasionally reward yourself with an expensive pair of shoes or a stable of a dozen racehorses.


• Kris Jenner: Work hard and save your money. Grind that booty even when you're exhausted, because the day will come when your sex tapes just don't sell.