Calling all my enemies: Guess what, buttholes? I DON’T HAVE HEP C! That’s right, bird brains: I just got back from the doctor and—boo-hoo for you—I don’t have a single Hep C virus in my body. Ohhhh… are you disappointed? YEAH, I JUST BET YOU ARE. I see right through your bull hockey. You and all the rest of my haters just couldn’t wait for something—anything!—to knock me off my perch as one of the highest paid and most popular entertainers in America. And you actually thought Hep C was gonna do it? HAHAHAHAAAAAA! WRONG! No Hep C test has a chance against Ryan Seacrest!
And while there are far too many of you to mention here, I’ve got a few words for the Hollywood garbage piles who thought I was finished.
TO DAME JUDI DENCH: You know what? You’re cute. You’re absolutely cute to think that using a filthy tattoo needle to draw a crouching jaguar on my thigh while at Elton John’s Summer Solstice party would give me Hep C. Look in my eyes, Judi! I’m fucking Ryan Seacrest! And I put my foot up Hep C’s ass!