Take. The. Hat. Off.

I’m not embarrassed because of my alma mater. I’m embarrassed for my alma mater.

Oh, Lord, with the national-championship football game coming up . . . why, oh WHY couldn’t you have made Britney Spears’ daddy a gol-danged Tulane fan?

I’m just astin’, is what I’m doin’.

ANYWAY, since every damn Louisianian is embarrassed as bad as we can get already . . . here’s the latest episode of The Bud Light Empties Don’t Fall Far From the Double-Wide, as aired in London’s Evening Standard:

Britney Spears has been banned from seeing her sons after a dramatic breakdown in which she held the two boys hostage.

A judge suspended all her visiting rights and gave sole custody to their father, Kevin Federline.

Miss Spears was reported to be on suicide watch in hospital, where by law she can be held against her will for 72 hours.

The events mark a new low for the 26-year-old, who was once the best-selling female artist on the planet. The drama began after Miss Spears attended the latest court hearing in her custody battle with Federline, early on Thursday.

After staying just a few minutes, she returned home for an approved visit with their sons Sean Preston, two, and Jayden James, one.

Federline had temporary custody of the boys because Miss Spears has failed to comply with court orders.

Inside the house she began drinking vodka, sources report. And when it was time to hand the boys back in the evening, she refused.

When a court-appointed monitor and later Federline’s bodyguards were refused entry, the situation rapidly deteriorated and police were called.

Miss Spears then barricaded herself and the children inside the master bedroom’s ensuite bathroom, and refused to emerge.

Eventually, her cousin Alli Sims smashed the bathroom door open with a hammer, sources say. Shortly after 10pm, police and paramedics were allowed to enter the home.

By 10.50pm, when the singer emerged on a stretcher, there were five police cars, a fire crew and paramedics outside, with a police helicopter hovering overhead.

La musique d’Edith Piaf: Cher, c’est si bon, oui!

Just trying to add a little class to this joint is all. Enjoy.

Le Revolution 21 podcast n’existe plus

The Revolution 21 podcast is toast. Done dealin’. Finished. Gone. Gesphincto.

Adios, au revoir, auf wiederhesen . . . good night!

The reason there’s no new edition of the Big Show posted tonight is because there’s no Big Show no mo’. Sorry about that. But the show could not go on.

AFTER ALL, what do you think of when you hear about the “Revolution 21 podcast”? You picture some disheveled crank spewing revolutionary rhetoric into a microphone plugged into his computer in some odd corner of his house. Or, alternatively, getting suspicious looks from the other patrons at Starbucks.

Well . . . I’m here to tell you that it’s time for me to nip that pretty much spot-on conception you have of me and the podcast right in the bud. So I’m killing that sucker dead. Bang! (Thud.)

The Big Show needed to transcend podcastery. And it couldn’t. It couldn’t even draw a fraction of the audience of a podcast that consists of nothing but scratchy-ass old LPs . . . period. And in that case, why try harder?

Not for a friggin’ podcast, that’s for damn certain.

Goodbye.

WELL, THAT FELT REALLY GOOD . . . in a spiteful, embittered sort of way.

But you’re not rid of your Mighty Favog that flippin’ easily. He’s not that bright . . . or in touch with sheer practicality. Actually, he’s more in touch with his inner Don Quixote.

And that’s why, though the Revolution 21 podcast is deader than a doornail (or than the Geneva Conventions are to the Bush Administration), the Big Show is just morphing into something else pretty damned similar.

Something that doesn’t call itself a “podcast.” And is a little bit longer. And has a snappier name. And has a weekly companion program that’s just the right length for checking out during your morning commute or lunch break. Or whenever.

But they’re not podcasts. They’re the future of radio . . . at least a future where radio doesn’t suck. Kind of like public radio, but without the anthropology lecture by the professor wearing one black shoe and one brown shoe, and this annoying damn blob of two-hour-old oatmeal on his beard which, fortunately, you can’t see because it’s radio.

SO . . . NEXT WEEK, stay tuned for Revolution 21’s new long-form program, 3 Chords & the Truth, and its really brand-new, bite-sized Four Songs (which is exactly what the name tells you).

They’ll be right here, same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.