Lionel Richie talks about Nicole’s weight

Richie says he has talked to his daughter about her weight.

“Of course, I mean, what are fathers for if you can’t point the finger every once in awhile,” he tells “Access Hollywood.”

I have to agree. That’s exactly what fathers are for. Pointing the finger. Preferably towards a cheeseburger and/or stomach tube.

Only one of these waifs is a multi-millionaire heiress. Can you guess which one?

Now that I’m a father myself, I’m looking forward to having that special father-daughter chat. You know the one. It goes like this:

“Hey, daughter. Got a minute?”

“Sure, Dad. But just a minute. Then I gotta shower and purge before I go out with Lindsay.”

“Okay, I’ll make it quick. Basically, it’s like this: I miss you being a sloppy, fat pig. Maybe it’s just me, but I think you looked better when I couldn’t see your common bile duct through your dress.”

“Oh, Dad. You’re such a square. Guys think it’s sexy when they can see my spine from the front.”

“And they’re not bothered by the fact that you look like a Death’s Head pez dispenser?”

“No! In fact, I’m more popular than ever.”

“Even with the vultures constantly circling overhead, waiting for you to collapse in the gutter outside Hyde so they can de-bone your carcass? And what’s that gurgling sound?”

“That’s the Ex Lax and flax seed smoothie kicking in. I better hit the john. Thanks for the talk, dad. And don’t worry about the vultures. The hyenas will totally drag me into an alley and eat me before the vultures even notice I’m down.”

Bush frees up flag displays

President Bush on Monday signed a bill that would bar condominium and homeowner associations from restricting how the American flag can be displayed.

It’s about fucking time. I am so sick of my condo’s Homeowner’s Association telling me how I can and can’t express my patriotism and love for this great country.

I say, if I want to paint my scrotum red, white, and blue, and dangle it over my second floor balcony railing, that’s my prerogative.

I shouldn’t be beholden to complaints from my downstairs neighbor that my balls are blocking the view out her picture window. Tough titties, you Islamocommufascist hippie. Nowhere in the Constitution do I see anything granting you the right to a testicle-free view of the park.

I, however, do have a God-given and Congress-approved right to spackle my danglies with Old Glory glitter paint and hoist them over the railing for the world to see. And now there’s nothing the Torino Villas HOA can do about it.

Wait’ll they see what I use for a flag pole.

Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in the daily travails of work, family, and school, I lose sight of what’s really important in this world.

In a search for an escape from the daily grind, I abandoned hours previously dedicated to a high-minded quest for truth in favor of something less taxing on the brain, like non-stop 24-hour Project Runway marathons on Bravo.

Every time a unicorn blows a load, an angel gets its wings.

In the interim, nearly a month went by without a single update to hategun.

Like you, I barely noticed.

So … what stirred me from my Heidi Klum-induced stupor? What primal scream bellowing from the blackened, twisted soul of the American pop culture psyche called me back to the blogosphere?

It was something powerful. Something awe-inspiring. Something true. Something that caused my soul to take flight like a snow-white dove soaring heavenward on an angel’s jetwash.

It was … Guys In Unitards Singing About Unicorns.