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http://www.eonline.com/gossip/awful/index.jsp?uuid=678d8ff3-7f54-414b-8f1a-f867561534d2

Suddenly, The O'Reilly Factor was on my cell and (not fond) memories of being groped by Anna were on my brain. The last time I saw her was when I was interviewing the Texas-born sexpot for her reality gig, The Anna Nicole Show, on E! We had lunch at Le Dome. At one bosomy point, I asked A.N.S. if she got tired of men wanting to touch her enormous ta-tas.
"Yeah," she half-purred-slurred through whatever cocktail of chemicals and alcohol she was guzzling at the time. "Ah...dew."
"Don't you just want to grab some guy's crotch as revenge sometimes?" I asked, half serious, half what-the-hell.
"Yay—uh...," Anna cooed, eyes suddenly more alert than they'd been the entire luncheon. "Can I grab yours?"
I thought, I started it, I have to finish it (as it were). I consented. And then Anna Nicole Smith spent a good five minutes or so groping, searching, grabbing, prodding and rubbing the outside of my jeans, fruitlessly searching for this fruit's privates, which, for the first time in their existence, post-puberty, had actually retreated as far inside as they possibly could.
(Ask any man for the physiological dynamics of what I'm talkin' about after a cold shower, should you not understand me.)
All said, Ms. Es was a sweet gal surrounded by some folks and hangers-on who did not want the best for her. (Let's stay veddy closely tuned to Anna's moolah, post-autopsy, eh?)

Of course, Anna's detractors would say the same about Smith's intentions for her second husband, right? So, perhaps karma's just a bitch, like it always is.