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Wednesday night, I get my wristband and walk into the Wicked Pictures party at the House of Blues on Sunset Blvd.

Then I’m stopped and told Wicked Pictures does not want me at their party. I’m told I didn’t RSVP.

So I retreat to the sidewalk but that’s not enough for the party organizers. They huddle, stare at me, and then send out the burly bouncer to rip the band off my wrist.

Don’t tase me, bro!

Let publicist Hethalein Mares (heth@wickedpictures.com aim:hethmares 818-349-3593 ext 132/818-349-6620 fax) know how much you appreciate being kept out of the party.

I don’t go to these stupid events for my own pleasure. It’s the last thing I want to do. I do it to serve humanity and to hasten the ultimate redemption.

My readers should boycott Wicked until they stop banning me from their events. They’ve been doing this to me since the summer of 1999 when I made some gentle fun of Steve Orenstein. Other than that, I’ve treated the company with respect because in the sewer of pornography, Wicked is good folks.

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