It turns out that under Khalid Shaikh Mohammed’s beard there’s a tattoo that says “Winona”

Well, NewsHounds, just when it looks like the International Communist Conspiracy (working in concert with Opus Dei) has been success in silencing newsman Tommy S., Tommy S. goes and turns the tables, leaving the bad guys with nothing but a bunch of fucking upsidedown tables!

The reasons for my latest absence from the blogosphere, dear readers, are even more harrowing than usual. Having decided that I was due for a little R & R & H(ookers), I sent a memo to my manager mentioning that I was interested in getting away, and trying my hand at Xtreme Snowboarding. However, due to a most nefarious typo, he thought I wanted to try my hand at "Xtreme Waterboarding". He promptly contacted the DOD and had me forcibly admitted to a secret CIA prison near the Afghan/Pakistani boarder.

It turns out that my secret CIA terrorist prison had a section especially reserved for celebrities (sort like a Gold Card Club for the disappeared). For example, they gave my fingernails a full manicure before ripping them out with a pair of pliers. Also, instead of waterboarding me by strapping me to a board with my feet slightly higher than my head, covering my face with cellophane, and pouring water on my head until I confessed, they, instead, waterboarded me by strapping me to board with my feet slightly higher than my head, covering my face with cellophane, pouring water over my head until I confessed, and then, totally for free, administered a "happy ending". However, the happy ending was administered by Lydie England, which wasn't bad, but I wish she'd have kept her thumb out of it.

Interestingly, there's something of a history of Sizemores being tortured with water. One of my distant relatives, Goody Rebecca Sizemore of 17th Century England, because of her tendancy to scold the menfolk, was given a ride in the dunking stool until she confessed to being a witch.

Then she was burned at the steak. I bet that dried her out! Still you've got to hand it to ol' Goody Sizemore, she died as she lived: being tortured to death.

Anyway, I was eventually released from the secret CIA prison, in response to recent pressure brought against the White House by noted stand-up comedian Matt Lauer.

So, fear not, SizeStylists, for I am once again sniffing down the happy trail of journalism, towards the musty bog of justice! (And around the corner, muck is raked!)

So, power-holders and little-people steppers-on beware! 'Cause this report's brain is damaged in all of the sexiest places! I don't know yet what malfeasance I'll be uncovering next, readers, but for now I'm watching this kid very closely.

Oooo, Baby, I wanna tap dat wire, and leak all over your identity...

Well, the year has only just begun, and the Tom Sizemore News Gathering Service is already is crisis lock-down mode. My fact checking team has been useless, ever since I had Internet Nanny block-out Google. It's going to affect our productivity, sure, but I had to punish them somehow for the poor ratings they were giving me on HotOrNot.com.

And that's just where this reporters trouble start, Gentle Reader. There is a new documentary out from Brian Flemming, which claims to prove that Jesus (nevermind if he was magic) never actually existed. Now, if God's nephew (fact checkers?) can be exposed to this kind of treatment, then America's Most Hooker-Friendly Newsman can't be far behind! Me and my team of functionally retarded fact-checkers have begun working around the clock to try and prevent Brian Flemming from coming after me next.

How exactly might this character assassination go down? Why, he could point out that my biography seems to borrow liberally from the biographies of Charlie Sheen, Gary Busey, and Leni Riefenstahl. He might point out that my appearance resembles a CGI composite of Michael Maddison and Randy Quad. --Randy Quad, as you may know, was our 43rd President. (Hello, fact checkers?).

However, don't think that I've forgotten about my Judith Miller/Valerie Plane Leak Investigation; I gave up on that case way before I had time to forget about it! (All my evidence was on a picture phone that I accidentally dropped in a spittoon. I'm talking a very popular spittoon.)

My new mission, beside protecting my historical veridity from smarmy documenarians, is to investigate the NSA Illegal Wire Tapping Scandle. After Nixon was impeached for, among other things, illegal wiretapping, the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) of 1978 was passed. (Well! Look whose fact-checking team fianlly decided to get a fucking library card!) According to FISA, the wire-tapping of a U.S. civilians for intellegence purposes requires a secret warrent from a secret court called the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court.

Now, why didn't Bush just get a warrent? What does he have against secret courts? I mean aren't secret warrents from secret courts exactly what this country was founded on! This man has made a mocerky of mockery! I don't know whether to throw up or watch a beer commercial! (What the hell does that mean?)

Anyway, Gentle Readers, tune in next time for this case's exciting half-hearted dismissal! And just what case will I fail to follow up on next time? Tune in and find out! I'm a better investigative journalist that the Zoom Kids and The Golden Girls put together!

Now, if you'll excuse me, my fact checkers are playing waterguns.

Sizemore's Better! And I'm Backer Than Ever!

Dear Readers,

Investigative Journalist Tom Sizemore reporting for duty!

I'd like to apologize for my absence from the bloggosphere, since March, but, when you're digging as deep into the Truth Vagina as Tom Sizemore does, well, you're bound to ruffle some feathers. And sometimes, dear reader, those feathers belong to the CIA.

But I've said too much already.

The truth is that my previously mentioned Investigative Report Into The State of Investigative Reporting In America had lead me, by June, to the remote backwoods of rural Montana. I heard that there was a Native America shaman there who had a really good Report Into the State Of Investigative Reporting In America, and my plan was to just crib off of him. I'd brought some primo ganja to bribe him with (you know how Shaman are). So there I was driving around the hills and prairies of Montana in a rusty pick-up, my only companions: a bunch of storm-tracking equipment and a manic version of Philip Seymour Hoffman (for some reason), when suddenly we ran over something hunchingly mammalian and blew out a tire. Phillip was, against my orders, busy smoking up all of our jazz tobacco, so I got out of the car alone to investigate. It was a spooky dusk. Suddenly, well.... I don't want to use the word "UFO" here... but something resembling a flaming upside-down trash can lid, the size of a billboard and speaking in backwards Arabic, appeared in the sky above us. The next thing I knew I was waking up, last week, in a rehab center in Fresno --and David Duchovny's handprint was on my left asscheek. Also, I found a diary, in somebody else's handwriting, which describes various high-profile meth-induced run-ins with the law, of which I have no memory.

Somehow I think that Robert Stack is behind it all. (He faked his death, you know.)

I don't know if it's alien related or not, but I've always been in the habit of "losing time". To be honest, I have very few memories. The first thing I remember: I was in a crib, and I couldn't speak. I must have been entering Freud’s Anal Stage, because I remember being very excited about discovering my butthole. Then my memory cuts off, and the next thing I know, I'm twenty-five, I'm doing shots of tequila, everyone is speaking Spanish, and the smell of gun powder and sex fills the bar. Again I discover my butthole. The next time my memory started, I was beating up Heidi Fleiss. Since then life's been a real roller coaster --a roller coaster made out of meth, lawyers, and, appropriately, a horrifying sensation of freefalling.

But this blog isn't about me. I've decided that if the aliens don't want me to investigate investigative journalism, then I just won't. Clearly those aliens aren't fucking around, and, furthermore, I have my suspicions that Philip Seymour Hoffman is pregnant.

Instead, I've decided to take on the Judith Miller CIA leak case. So far my leads have all proven fruitless. Like a good reporter, I like to meet my sources in dark parking garages. But, based on the giggling, I think that my sources are all pairs of elementary schoolkids, one on top of the the other's shoulders. I've noticed that at the end of the interview, they tend to bifurcate, and then ride off on silhouetted tricycles. At this report's deadline, the closest I've come to explaining the Judith Miller leak case, is a hooker in Amsterdam, that I paid to dress up as Judith Miller and pee on me.

Stay tuned, readers. This is one Hollywood bad-boy reporter that won't be denied! They're not dealing with some coked up Robert Downey Jr. here! There' dealing with a methed-up Tom Sizemore!

Stay tuned...

Ahhh, That New Blog Smell...

My investigative report on the state of investigative reporting in America is still in progress. Last night I had to go bail my fact checking staff out of the drunk bin. I realize now that my fact checking staff is actually a college fraternity. Also, what I thought was a fax machine is actually a paper shredder. I guess that explains why publishers haven't been responded to my novel.

Stay tuned, Sizemore fans! ...