Urban Rehab-se

Dear Keith Urban,

A lone tear crept down my cheek when I read the news about your going into rehab. I don't really listen to your music and only know you as Nicole Kidman's husband, but the sympathy is there. I know what it feels like to kick an addiction. You see, three years ago, I gave up caffeine and cigarettes. Starting at fourteen, I drank four caffeinated beverages a day and puffed a pack of any butts I could find--Marlboros, Parliaments, yes, even Capri menthols. Then, twenty-*&* years later, I gave up both. Oh sure, smoking air cigarettes helped me through those first few months of withdrawal, as did accidentally emailing ex-boyfriends from ten years ago, but I've found no substitute for the morning shakes after high-powered mud-coffee.

There's so much pressure to drink coffee. If you say you want decaf, the eye-rolling is constant and you might as well ask Coffeeman for warm pee. Then, you don't want to be associated with those who don't drink coffee (the ones who claim not to like the taste or be allergic), but inevitably, that's what happens. I'll admit, I want to slip some mojo in my joe, but then I remember the monster headache come early afternoon. And if I were a character on Lost, I'd go through withdrawal symptoms. Unless I could get into the hatch.

Keith, we applaud your acting on your own behalf before slobbering racial slurrs on policepeople or strategically timing your rehab to coincide with a movie debut. Dish is with you.