A daily coke habit gets expensive. Below, La Lohan makes her ProActiv debut, with only the slightest hint of disgust and resentment in her voice. Seriously, why is she doing this ad? Does she really need the money and/or exposure?

Also notable:

1) She pronounces her last name “Lowen,” and the voice-over does the same.
2) I think they’ve sampled Tupac’s “Changes” for the background music. Tell me I’m wrong.

In related news: Paris Hilton is still a raging bitch. She’s also totally banging Brandon Davis, fresh out of rehab. This girl is class all the way.

And in ProActiv alumna news: Jessica Simpson has a camel toe. Her skin don’t look that great either…

You could be Christie Brinkley.

The second one from the left on my right foot. Unbelievable. I walk with a limp now. 50 Cent shakes his head, mutters something inaudible, walks off…

But this one’s out of the ballpark. I love this girl. Since blogs began to replace mainstream news media for most of the sub-30 set, we’ve lost touch, I think, with the blogs of old — the sordid life stories teenagers swapped on DearDiary.net, before we even called them “blogs.” It’s refreshing to see someone write a blog as a diary again; I commend her for putting herself out there for our voyeuristic pleasure.

Although I am fairly convinced the seemingly genuine excitement surrounding all things Snakes on a Plane is just the whole country teaming up to play a trick on me. At first I thought maybe people were into it in a so-bad-it’s-good kind of way, but then I realized they were serious. People are totally psyched for this movie. I don’t get it. I so do not have my finger on the pulse of this country.

Update: Okay I lied. This is genius.

This 19-year-old self-described “Bridge Troll” was arrested last week after demanding a $1 fee from joggers and bikers wanting to cross his bridge. It later came out that he was high on LSD, but it doesn’t make this any less funny. His friend claims he was having a “bad trip” — and granted my understanding of LSD highs is limited at best — but I thought a “bad trip” was one where you, like, are absolutely fucking certain that the hula-hooping alligator laid an egg in your stomach when you talked to her and you have to cut yourself open right fucking now before the baby alligator hatches and eats you from the inside out. Thinking you are a bridge troll just sounds like a regular trip. Or is it just necessarily a bad trip when it culminates in your arrest?

Also, Justin Timberlake is tired of you thinking he’s such a fucking square. He can get high with the best of them. He just doesn’t, you know, film it and sell it to UPN.

When I hear about this sort of thing, I tend to tune it out. I live on LA’s Westside, hang out in South Bay and venture occasionally into Hollywood if someone else is driving. These obese people storming the nation feel mythical to me, all horned and bearded, unkempt, charging forward into our great nation carrying some manner of pole arm and a chicken wing. I never see anyone beyond a size 6 around here.

I know we hear about the fat people incessantly these days, but MSN had the courtesy and the summer interns to track the stampede graphically, and it’s actually kind of sad.

Sadder still is that, while watching this multichromatic masterpiece of investigative journalism, I realized that I don’t know my states. On an unlabeled map of the continental US, I can pick out Cali, Arizona, Florida and Texas, and after that I am truly stumped. Befuddled. Not even New York. How did this happen? I feel the system has failed me.

It’s true. I swear. I always said that if we continued to talk about how fat they were while they were in the room, they would eventually develop a complex; they did, and it manifested itself in the form of feline bulimia. It’s very much the new silent killer.

Nothing substantive has changed; I feed them the same food, in the same amounts, at the same times, like I have for years. The difference recently is that they purge within minutes. It’s become a part of my morning routine: get up, feed cats, watch cats eat, hear cats puke, clean up cat puke and look disparagingly at offending cat. I feel so helpless. Nothing I do or say seems to matter. Sigh. This is totally my ex’s fault.