Poor Keith Urban.
Shortly after realizing he'd married not Nicole Kidman, but a plastic automaton womb-on-a-mission facsimile of the once oh-so-perky actress, he bolted off to rehab. Where he lay, shivering, his dreams invaded by that massive shiny forehead, those eyebrows that haven't moved since 1995 framing that demented rictus grin.
Oh the horror!
As Keith cowered in an underground bunker in a top secret location somewhere in the Arizona desert, what was left of Nicole paced the decks of her yacht screaming, "MUST. HAVE. SPERM! NEED SPERM! WHERE IS THE SPERM!"
A quick call to ex gay hubby Tom Cruise, and five minutes later, a crack team of gay scientologist commandos swooped on Keith's bunker and whisked him off to the the Yacht of Doom, where he was strapped to a chair and left to await his fate.
Moments later, as if from the depths of hell, the skeletal remains of Nicole Kidman rose jerkily from the deck and began to shambol demonically towards a terrified Keith. What did this evil wraith have in store for him? Eye-gouging? Neck-ripping? Full-blown decapitation?
No! It was worse! Much much worse!
Before his horrified eyes, the corpse that had once been that actress who wasn't all that bad in that film where she played the weather girl, began to......
....pole dance.
Her mouth agape spewing the green bile of Satan, her bony arms flailing with devilish abandon, The Kidman advanced. Slowly. Inexorably. Grasping a penis pump, menacingly.
Anyway, expect happy news any day now.
Nicole Kidman Pole Dances [Daily Mail]