[Ed. Note - For all of you "Twilight Saga" fans out there, we have an EXCLUSIVE. That's right, a downright thing no one else does. As many of you know, books go through many revisions before making it to the publisher. In this excerpt found on the floor after the "Twilight Panel" - Schad's own Christa found it, read it, and posted it here for you, dear Schadenfreude.net reader. It gets a little hot 'n heavy, so... get a cold drink before settling in.

Your welcome.]

After a passionate night of not lovemaking, Bella rolled over and pretended to sleep. Fully clothed. Her loins throbbed like a round Bud Light blinky button worn at a sports bar. Somehow she had landed the biggest prude at Forks High, and was so frustrated she didn’t even acknowledge Edward as he stole away to perform his nightly ritual: The Cure’s “Disintegration” on his iPod, and a very long, very intense full-body self-massage with Victoria’s Secret Limited Edition Body Twirl Shimmer Lotion.

Once she was sure he was fully immersed in “Pictures of You,” she crept out of the Cullens’ mansion and into the night, blue balled and alone. Bella knew she wanted to shed her clunky V-card. And she knew her soul mate was too busy bowing at the temple of Morrissey-style asexuality to give her the beans. But across town and through the woods in La Push, she sensed her bestie beastie Jacob could make her drool, pant, and eventually howl. It was a risk, certainly. Edward would be able to smell him on her when she returned, the Purina breath captured in her boyish tresses. She couldn’t worry about that now: She was hungry for the wolf.

Bella found Jacob in the garage, working on a dirt bike with an Abdominzer Belt cinched at his waist.

“Jake,” she sighed. A certain breathlessness she had learned from Neve Campbell after she rented Season 1 of “Party of Five” from Netflix.

“Quiet, Bella,” he said. Humor crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “I’m about 30 jiggles from unearthing another ab muscle. Then I’ll have a complete set.”

“There,” he said. “Now. What brings you to La Push? How did you shake the bloodsucker?”

Bella sighed theatrically. She shuffled her Converse low tops. She looked up at her friend with doe eyes.

“I need a favor,” she said, unzipping her navy blue hoodie.
“A big one,” she added, yanking down her Gap Boyfriend jeans.
“A hard one,” she said, finally pulling her University of Alaska Anchorage T-shirt over her head.
“A live one who won’t leave a trail of glitter on my cleavage,” she stammered, slipping out of her boxer shorts.

“Oh, Bella,” he growled, still a man. A man two years younger than her and 93 years younger than her beloved. He moved toward her. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

At the gesture, Jacob threw his head back. His skin rippled and bucked as he spontaneously grew a coat of brown fur. His hands and feet rounded into paws. His snout erupted from his face, his tail went erect. His ears twitched. It didn’t matter to Bella which form of Jacob took her, it only mattered that he took her. She could see her friend in the animals brown eyes, and in the glistening canines, wet with saliva.

He moved toward her on all fours. Walked a circle around her, then nuzzled at her begging to be pet. At her touch, he grew bolder. Jacob was about to feel something he’d previously only experienced with stuffed animals. And once he’d done some experimental sniffing with the pack’s leader Sam. He nudged Bella down, onto the floor. He straddled her shin, then lowered himself. He shook up and down, humping her leg victoriously. Finally, he yelped. Finally.

Bella let herself out of the garage as the sun came up. She’d kicked herself free of Jacob, who had fallen asleep at her feet. “I’m still a virgin,” she thought to herself. “But sometimes when you need a favor, it’s just as satisfying to do a favor for someone else.”

“Edward will always have my heart,” she said into the morning mist. “But Jacob will always have my right shin.”

*Actually, this is complete fanfic from Christa. Believe it or not, she went to Catholic High School. Do with that info what you will.

Ever wonder what ever happened to Teddy Duchamp, the luckless, one-eared wonder who, together with his three emaciated friends, set the precedent for modern-day bromances when they scoured the landscape for Ray Bower’s mutilated body in “Stand By Me”?

Turns out he became the sort of hipster-approved pop culture-ist who can write an entire essay that, like, compares Britney Spears to KFC’s Double Down.

More than a cautionary tale about the environment and racism, James Cameron’s “Avatar” is an exciting example of a woman in the thrust of a scientific anomaly: Sigourney Weaver isn’t getting older, she’s just morphing into Eric Stoltz.

Hey, Trendsetters. Looking for the new “it” thing? Look no further than that monthly Rorschach pattern in your panties. That’s right. This summer’s hot new trend is your little friend. Your Aunt Flo, your dot, your Red River, your visitor. Periods have never been bigger. Everyone is gushing about it.

Once a cause for shame, bed rest, catcalls (“What are you on your period?”) and great hilarity in movies marketed to teen-aged boys, menstruation has gotten a makeover. Kotex has introduced whimsical neon applicators and sassy day glo packaging, and a spokesperson with a Juno-esque dry wit who waxes ironically about dry weave.

This trend watcher predicts competing period-based reality programs: “American Midol,” “16 and Bleeding,” “The Real Pre-Menopausal Housewives of New York City,” and “The Hills (Are Swollen and Tender).”

Thirtysomething women have never been more en vogue with a sort of OG retro suave when it comes to the rag, boasting a dexterity with menstrual mobility that teens and college girls can’t fake.

“Psh. Periods?” they say. “I’ve had that for 22 years.”

After you have exposed your cuddly Mogwai to bright light, doused it in water and fed it leftover fried chicken after midnight, you will find yourself faced with a rapidly-multiplying, rat-faced, morally-broke creature with a high tolerance for alcohol.

Here is how you exterminate the bastards, as seen in the 1984 holiday classic/horror film/instructional manual by Steven Speilberg, “Gremlins.”

1. With your butcher knife at the ready, creep into the kitchen where you will find the Gremlin with a golden frosting mustache greedily gorging himself on gingerbreadmen. When he crawls face first into the bowl of the electric mixer, stealthily turn on the kitchen appliance. The Gremlin will spin as though he is on a sadistic carnval ride, his tiny legs aflutter, his head and torso will puree, shooting bits of flesh and squirts of greenish blood all over your panneled kitchen cupboards.
2. This will attract the attention of other Gremlins. They won’t necessarily be angry about the death of a brother, as they seemingly place little value on life. They are angry by nature. Deflect the plates that the Gremlin is UFOing at your head with a common TV tray. Using a stabbing technique popularized by Norman Bates, attack the creature. Three jabs to the Gremlin’s chest cavity should do the trick.
3. A steady mace-like mist of Pam Cooking Spray will disorient a Gremlin. Should this Gremlin be fortuitously standing in your microwave oven,  slam the door, and set the timer for about as long as you would for Orville Redenbacker’s Smart Pop Butter Mini Bags. It will only take about 3 seconds for the Gremlin to combust.
4. Your Christmas tree is a known hiding spot for Gremlins. And the tinsel-draped creature will use it as a weapon, tipping the conifer over on top of you. At this point, it is good to have a crime-fighting partner, who can charge the beast with a decorative sword he has yanked from the wall. The common Gremlin can be decapitated with one swing of the sword. Aim for the fences. With a little luck, the Gremlin’s severed head will land near the Yule log.
5. It is not unusual for Gremlins to turn on their own. A card game could get ugly; A Gremlin could shoot another Gremlin in the face.
6. Gremlins are notorious party animals. One lively creature is bound to want to swing from the ceiling fan, jubilant with the mix of tap beer, Marlboro Reds, and the opportunity to just let his hair down. Crank up the speed of the fan and send the Gremlin sailing through the front window of Dorry’s Tavern.  Then bolt.
7. When the Gremlins converge on the local movie theater for the late night showing of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” adjourn to the boiler room of said theater. Crank on an unspecified valve, emitting a steam of an unspecified gaseous substance. Ignite a few rags, and set them near the homemade bomb, allowing yourself enough time to evacuate the premises. You should be able to get a safe distance from the theater before it explodes, killing hundreds of Gremlins in one shot. This mass-murder will be your most successful extermination.
8. With a little luck, the one remaing goody-good Mogwai will rev up a Barbie car and come to your rescue.You’ve been shot in the arm with a crossbow and now the leader of the Gremlins has turned a firearm in your direction. The aforementioned Mogwai will be able to open a giant skylight, scorching the last of the Gremlins just seconds before he dove into a fountain, intent on, again, multiplying.

Celebrated 1970s-80s pop duo Daryl Hall and John Oates met with elementary school-aged children in Austin, Minn., on Friday with what appeared to be a desperate plea:

“You have the Internet here. Put us on it,” whispered Oates, his Tom Selleck-ian facial hair worming dangerously close to a the ear of a third-grade boy.

The rock and soul’ers, as famous for their frothy follicles as their so-gay-its-almost-Swedish looking album covers, are visiting playgrounds and computer camps in support of their recently released 74-track, 4 CD box set “Do What You Want, Be What You Are.”

It is a perceived slighting at the helm of this unconventional tour.

“We feel that we are the true victims of the rickrolling phenomenon,” Hall explained. “That joke should have been about us.  ‘Maneater’ gets to the heart of rickrolling in a way that ‘Never Going to Give You Up’ ever will. In fact, most of our discography is way more hilarious than anything that … that … Englishman ever wrote.”

“I mean, have you people ever heard the song ‘Private Eyes’?” Oates asked dramatically, wiping his hands on his spandex-covered thighs.

Rickrolling is a bit of Internet hilarity that surfaced in 2007 in which a seemingly innocuous Web link redirects surfers to a video for the 1987 pop hit by Rick Astley. The meme has made Astley wildly popular with children who were likely conceived while that song was playing.

The 300 students shifted uncomfortably. One looked to his teacher and whispered “If they offer me candy, I should say ‘no,’ right?” His teacher nodded and shushed the tot.

“Please right this wrong,” Oates appealed to the children. “When you get home from school, find a way to surreptitiously link to one of our songs on You Tube. … ‘Rich Girl’ or ‘You’re Kiss is on My Lips’ are good picks for this sort of thing.”

“And when someone asks you what you’re doing, say something like ‘Ha! You just got Hall’ed,” Hall said excitedly.

” Oates. Oates-rolled. Rolled Oates,” Oates corrected his longtime partner.

“It’s Hall’ed. But whatever. It’s going to be huge,” Hall said. “And we’re giving you the chance to start it.”

Season 6 of Nip/Tuck premiered on FX on Wednesday night, offering a not-so surprising plot direction for the character Matt McNamara, the Michael Jacksonest animal, mineral, or vegetable still on this planet, expelling breath. No kidding. John Carter Hensley, who plays Matt McNamara, looks more like MJ than both MJ and Diana Ross combined.

The son of both Dr. Sean McNamara and Dr. Christian Troy — a long story that would require a chalkboard and possibly a Kimber blow-up doll — announced to his two dads:

“I want to be a mime.”

Of course he wants to be a mime. That’s the natural progression for a character who:

1. Performed his own home circumcision;
2. Learned threesomes before learning twosomes;
3. Fell in love with his life coach, a beautiful post-op transsexual, whose secret was revealed when one of Matt’s fathers raped her. (What? She had a shallow cave. And if anyone knows anything about caves, it’s Dr. Christian Troy, resident … um … spelunker).
4. Joined a band of neo-Nazis after he was beaten and bathed in urine by a vicious crew of transsexuals who were retaliating against a hate crime Matt committed in the aftermath of realizing the woman he loved was a post-op transsexual.
5. Had a little brother who was born with hands shaped like lobster claws.
6. Fell in love with the porn star Kimber Henry, whom both of his dads have also fallen in love with — Dr. Christian Troy more seriously than Dr. Sean McNamara, who mostly  just tried to plant his seed in the extremely lifelike aforementioned Kimber Blow Up Doll.
7. Impregnated Kimber, got hooked on meth with Kimber, and eventually lost Kimber to one of the Duke brothers, the blond one, who plays a veteran porn star — a role for which he has to stretch about as much as his sausage casing-like Levi’s.
8. Graduated from high school.
9. Fell for a Southern Belle, who came to Los Angeles looking for her birth father. It wasn’t exactly incest until they found out that Dr. Christian Troy is her father, too. Right?!

So, mime school is the next obvious step in Matt McNamara’s highly-predictable life. He’s already been able to silently order a small coffee and knock over a mom and pop cafe, using a gun that shoots bouquets of flowers.

Has anyone else ever noticed that this is the best thing on TV?

**BREAKING**
The Supreme Court of New York has ruled in favor of a disheveled and geeky young actor wearing an ironic T under a hoodie, who claims “I was Michael Cera first.”

Jesse Eisenberg, 25, star of the film “Adventureland,” displayed his signature bad posture and said something witty without any inflection when the verdict was read. A handful of pregnant teen-aged girls sporting pony tails and Converse low tops rolled their eyes with delight in the back of the court room.

Eisenberg asked the court to recognize that in the 2005 film “Cursed,” he played a bumbling nerd with touseled tresses who, after being attacked by a werewolf, develops self-confidence, a wrestling prowess, and hair product. When the title curse is lifted, he goes back to being a lanky loser — but gets the girl.

“Then Michael Cera comes along, and is in a few slightly more successful movies playing basically me,” Eisenberg stammered for a small audience on the steps of the courthouse. “Michael Cera, Michael Cera … Everybody loves Michael Cera. Say the name Jesse Eisenberg and people are like, ‘Is he that weird guy in our chemistry class?’”

Eisenberg noted that he had long been a fan of the Smiths — and also some obscure indie bands “Michael Cera has never even heard of” — plays acoustic guitar, and regularly carries a backpack.

Cera did not respond to dozens of  calls made from a hamburger-shaped phone.

Just a scant nine years after Michael J. Fox starred “Teen Wolf,” Jack Nicholson made his own mark on the genre with “Wolf,” a film that probably would have been even more successful if it had been considered the third of the “Teen Wolf” trilogy.

Nicholson plays a mousy book editor who is fortuitously bitten by a werewolf the same week that he is demoted, his position filled by his weaselly metrosexual protege, played by James Spader, who is also sleeping with his wife. 

Now filled with the “passion of the wolf,” Nicholson’s senses are heightened: He can read without his glasses, he can smell the tequila his co-worker drank for breakfast, he can leap shrubs in a single bound, snap the neck of a deer, and drink from its neck like its severed artery is a spigot. He can insult Michelle Pfeiffer straight into bed.

And when James Spader dares to make idle chit-chat with him at the urinal, Nicholson turns his spray on his enemy’s suede shoes. “I’m marking my territory,” he tells the pretty-boy, before cruelling adding to the insult by identifying this batch of urine’s vineyard: “Asparagus.”

If “Teen Wolf” is the puberty allegory of this trilogy, “Wolf,” it seems, is the Viagra metaphor.

How you will know when this season of Bravo’s reality show “NYC Prep” is over:

When this:

Finally completes his transformation into this :

Like they say in the emo biz: It ain’t over until the kid in skinny jeans sings “Boys Don’t Cry.”