The "L" Word Personified --

Michael Moore: the supersized man of ego, girth, babble-bash and speculative docu-dramas now wears his own "L" sign for his Loser, Lackluster image and nil contributions to the entertainment world. Moore heads entertainment's Frigid 50 list. Not surprising.

Self-promoted as the poster boy of the Democratic party (and cited as but one reason sKerry lost), he's become a legend in his own you-just-don't-get-it mind.

May his announced fahrenhype sequel be filmed in the deserts of Iraq.

May it take longer than the projected 3 years. Much longer. Decades longer.

May he be caught by huns -- without his Capital One card.

May he lose cell phone service so we can't hear him.

May he be rescued by an Iraqi Girl Scout troop.

May his camera lenses be scratched by grit and rendered inoperable.

May his film crew be kidnapped by a marauding band of Hollywood insurgents.

May he step in doo-doo in Qua Qua.

May he discover a cache of WMDs while scuffing his berks in the sand.

May he experience dysentery. Without toilet paper.

May he have to eat Beanie Weenie K-rations from a can. With his left hand.

May the fleas of a thousand camels nestle in his facial fur.

May his clip-on Foster Grant's melt in the sun.

May his genitals retract in the chill of the night to a position on top of his shoulders, to prove -- once and for all -- that he really is a dick head.

May sand gall his thighs and permeate all crevices of his body folds.

May he learn to speak jackal without a lisp. Brawwwwwwww harrrrrrwwwwwwww.

May he fantasize about Condi Rice.

May his only protection from the sun be a bright red baseball cap, emblazoned with "W 2004" in reflective letters .... (Now that's a bit too cruel. Forgive me. The lettering should be neon pink.)