I’m in shock. I need the police ASAP. Please come to the SoHo Metropolitan Hotel now. Please. Now don’t be alarmed, this is not a real emergency. It is real funny though, both funny/odd and funny/funny: a media queen hurling the f-bomb (the other one, fucker) during Pride Week? C’mon now; I need a challenge. But if offensive slurs are cool this season, I’m reclaiming puns for the dirty-minded. Now let’s get to the bottom of this fluff.

I was assaulted by Will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas and his security guards. I am bleeding. Please, I need to file a police report. No joke. Seriously, it’s not funny. Stop laughing. In case you live under a Rock Hudson, following Sunday’s MMVAs while sneaking out the back door of Cobra, a non-sexual altercation went down between celebrity blogger Perez Hilton and one of the black dudes who isn’t Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. Just confused yet? Here’s the barebackstory: the night before, the duchess herself asked Hilton about her less-than-flattering review on his website (“Where is the love?”), denied his allegations (“I ain’t promiscuous/All that shit is fictitious”), and asked him to stop (“No, no, no, no, don’t phunk with my heart”). Hilton refused, and by award night, a booze-fuelled band (“Let’s get retarded in here”) accosted Hilton for whatever’s left of Fergie’s honour (“My humps, they got you”).

Still waiting for the police. The bleeding has stopped. I need to document this. Please, can the police come to the SoHo Met Hotel. Yeah, sucker, document it! Both joy boys head to my most hated un-understandable, Twitter, to twit each other like they really mean it. Records are conflicting: Team Black-Eyed-Peas says a random fan black-eyed the bone queen when he called Will.i.am a “fucking faggot” (that’s not a pun). Hilton, playing on the other team, immediately posted his crybaby account of the crime against nature and definitively proved he’s a screamer: “Violence is never the answer! Never! [points at camera]… Another person should never be hit [tear rolls]. That’s why people die!”

I spoke to my lawyer. I really need to talk to the authorities. Please come to the SoHo Met Hotel. Have called the police. Need them here. Deeming the situation about as valid as a three-dollar bill, Toronto police instead concerned themselves with the looming garbage strike and ignored Hilton’s deviations for a while. Luckily, he was eventually rescued by the persistent phone calls of a rainbow of twitterers from the East.

The Toronto police are here now. Thank you. Please stop calling them. He means you, Asians. Poof! It’s over.

Thank u all from the bottom of my heart for ur concern. The police are investigating the assault now. I did the right thing by reporting it. Or did he? As pics and clips emerge, Hilton’s version of events aren’t all daisies and daffodils: his awkward non-pun is clearly captured, his words slurred from sucking cocktails, the fisting clearly not even from Will.i.am, but his manager. GLAAD demands an apology for the “vulgar, anti-gay slur” and 74% of internet voters, whether straight or canned fruit, support Will.i.am. Hilton, now living an ironic backwards bender of the gossip he usually perpetrates, is suffering a hard and satisfying case of he-had-it-coming. But hey, at least no one’s drawing sperm on his face.