We need a better class of celebrity scandal. I mean, really, have you seen it out there lately? It’s bleak. Michael Phelps photographed puffing on a bong? He’s not even the first Olympic gold medalist to be caught smoking weed. If a Canadian athlete can beat you to the punch, you know your scandal is a real snoozer. Jessica Simpson packing on a few pounds and wearing mom-jeans? Right, because she’s such a bastion of good taste and Americans are all known for their trim waistlines. Christian Bale wigging out at a crew member? Uh-huh. Because people yelling at each other on a film set never happens. Never ever. Really, not even once, I swear.

Now that they’ve put O.J. away forever and Robert Blake is lying low, it’s like we can’t even get a really good famous-person killing or kidnapping to happen anymore. In all earnestness, I firmly believe the two Coreys owe us a gay-lover murder/suicide pact, complete with tearful videotaped confession, misspelled handwritten press release, a Twittered blow-by-blow account of the proceedings throughout the SWAT team standoff, and a live Youtube broadcast of the coup-de-grace delivered by either Mr. Feldman or Mr. Haim (as decided by a Super Bowl-style coin toss) with a sawed-off shotgun, a can of kerosene, and a novelty Zippo lighter (to be auctioned off at a later date on eBay, all proceeds to go to a suicide hotline of your choice).

That should be good for at least two days of hyperbolic media deconstruction, and three solid weeks of Larry King interviews. C’mon Corey and Corey, you know it’s the smart career move and we all desperately need you to make it happen. We’re counting on the both of you to do the right thing in this time of global crisis.

For my sins, I am once again a finalist in the Writers Guild of Canada Screenwriter Awards. You know what they say, third time’s the charm. Unfortunately, this is only my second time as a finalist, which means I’ll likely lose. Nevertheless, I’ll be popping out to Toronto for the April 20 ceremony and trying to recoup the price of my train ticket with as many free drinks and hors d’oeuvres as I can cram down my throat. On the off chance I win, I think it would be best to make my acceptance speech bloated and drunk. There’s no band at the WGC awards to play off a long-winded winner, so if I lose track of time and need to make an abrupt exit, I figure I can always announce the end of my speech, mid-sentence if need be, by projectile vomiting down the length of the podium.

Needless to say, my script is in the animation category — cartoons are my bread and butter these days. It’s one of my episodes of Ricky Sprocket, Showbiz Boy titled “The Perfect Family.” My competitors should be announced in the coming days. Once that happens, I’ll be better able to gauge how many bribes and kickbacks will be needed to grease the wheels and make sure my trip to Toronto pays off in the end. Okay, I admit it. I’m after more than just comp booze and little fishy things on little cracker things. Those trophies are pretty cool looking and I want one.