Kathy Griffin is Going to Hell and Doesn't Care

Even from the cheap seats you could see the venom spewing from Kathy Griffin’s lips last night as she spoke the name “Ryan Seacrest.”

“I can’t stand that bitch!” she screamed in her trademark pitch before an enraptured sold-out crowd at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood. “… wait, though, I shouldn’t say that about Ryan. She is a good host!”

And so it began; two hours of non-stop digs and jibes at showbiz’ most famous faces and notorious train-wrecks.

“I think in Paula Abdul,” she mused of the Lilliputian American Idol co-host and her a-l-l-e-g-e-d friendship with prescription meds, “we may have found our new Whitney.”

No-one was safe from Griffin’s hilariously witty banter. Not Star Jones whose husband Griffin declared “is so gay you can hear him snapping when he walks.”

Not Paris Hilton: “We kind of know each other, yeah,” bemused the auburn-haired comic, shifting from foot to foot, “and based on meeting her a few times, I am here to tell you she is RETARDED … a fuck-tard!”

Not William Shatner, her “favorite red-faced, bloated, boozer-boy, and favorite wife killer … allegedly.”

Not Oprah Winfrey: “No really,” she gushed, “I am supportive of Oprah and her boyfriend … Gayle.”

Not Dr. Phil: “He’s not even a real doctor, he’s a fucking botanist or some shit ... Dr. Phil with his diet books ... what a tool … lift up your shirt and show us your six pack!”

Does she care? No! “I am owning that I am going to Hell,” she giggles, “I got my hand basket decorated and everything.” -- Joanne Green

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Tovin Lapan