Tucker Max, Chad-in-Chief of the Beer Division of the Pussyhound Brigade (Duke Chapter), is back with an astounding and incredible offer for all you losers out there who would do just about anything to achieve your life goal of licking Tucker Max's sneakers clean as he Googled "misogynist slurs" and then read off every single entry, at you. You could be Tucker Max's new research assistant. Doesn't that sound great? A great job? Bitch?

As we speak, Lindsay Lohan's preliminary evidentiary hearing for the felony theft of a necklace has adjourned for lunch. LiLo arrived at court with her hair in a sloppy bun and wide blue sailor pants billowing above a pair of patent leather peep-toe pumps. Long-suffering assistant Elinore tagged along, Louis Vuitton tote (laptop case?) in hand.

Today we gave you some helpful tips on how to treat your assistant like a slave. Naturally this prompted lots of terrible assistant stories, including one that was extra insane. So insane that our allegiances shifted midway through the story.

This week, Star magazine investigates the perilous lives of celebrity assistants. But what's the point of having power if you can't abuse it? A guide to which underling abuses are reasonable, and which will just get you sent to jail.

In his new book The Zeroes: My Misadventures in the Decade Wall Street Went Insane, former magazine editor Randall Lane describes how Travolta's assistants freely admitted their employer's hair was fake when they demanded Lane's magazine redo a cover shoot.

So you wanna be a hotshot agent like Ari on that horrible Entourage show? Well, you'll probably have to start out as an assistant, which means you'd better have a trust fund or an insatiable fondness for ramen noodles.

The management at Conde Nast is well aware that lowly assistants—who are paid poverty wages in order to take order from high-strung self-important media assholes in $8,000 outfits all day—could snap at any time. Solution: divide, conquer.

Toiling as an assistant within the smoldering bowels of newly-formed superagency William Morris Endeavor should, apparently, be its own reward. Because the $9.50 an hour the gig pays won't buy any other kind of reward.

Two of the largest, most storied baby-eating factories talent agencies in the world are merging. But sometimes, in order to birth a monster, the assistants must suffer. We have a few firsthand accounts.

We'd like to present the mad skillz of hip-hop supergroup Back of the Class:

Just as we try shattering everyone's hopes about landing that editorial dream job, mythical Vogue editor Anna Wintour goes looking for some new assistants! This is the launching pad to success, right? Ha.

For many just starting out in Hollywood, the journey begins somewhat inauspiciously at the UTA job list: It's a precious catalog of the latest assistant openings, hand-lettered on babyskin parchment scrolls, sealed in scarlet wax pressed in the agency's pregnancy-test-reminiscent logo, and handed off at twilight between cloaked agency footmen on foggy stretches of Pico Blvd. But you're in luck, because now it's also a blog! Let's see what the assistant-needy are looking for today:

Let the Stapler Chucking Begin: With our lone remaining claim to Summer Olympics lore threatened by Beijing's far-worse smog, LA must find new glories to restore its place among the globe's competitive elite. One such brainstorm is underway at The Hollywood Temp Diaries, whose tireless proprietor Temp X today proposed the Hollywood Assistant Olympic Games — as good a shield as you're likely to have from the two-week hype hurricane promised by NBC. We should use "shield" loosely, though; from cutthroat events like the Stapler Dodge to the iPhone Purchase to the deadly "Moshitta" call-rolling match, the participants face brutal world-class nemeses from both sides of the desk. Meanwhile, up in the Hills, the Belt Buy and 100-Meter Liquidarian Dash will be tried out as exhibition sports for the first time. Defamer salutes all this year's participants — make your city proud. [Hollywood Temp Diaries]

Blogging used to be fun, and now it's just work. Remember when the Times wrote about hiring your own virtual personal assistant from India to do crap on the 'net for you? Or when Timothy Ferris wrote The Four-Hour Workweek, suggesting we outsource everything we don't want to do? (This caused tech-people like Jakob Lodwick to blog, "Help me understand: 'China.' Can you explain the political situation in China in three sentences?") Last week, random-fun website Zoomdoggle completed "our first whole week of outsourcing my blogging to India." Indian blogger Yogesh's English is not totally coherent, but he is cute, so readers are forgiving of posts like this:

Sure, the Today Show isn't the cash cow it once was, but has it really gotten to this? Weekend anchor Amy Robach signed up for a personal assistant service online as part of a recent story. For $1 a day, she had an employee in India do all her dirty work, which, in her case, involved scheduling appointments with doctors and buying her grandma a birthday present. But this may just be a sign of things to come! Just wait until Brian Williams has to explain to "Ray"—who actually happens to be named Rajiv and a resident of Hyderabad—that he doesn't like mayonnaise on his tunafish sandwiches. The clip after the jump.

As if life wasn't hard enough for the Stormtrooping underclass aboard the CAA Death Star—one moment, they're required to spend an afternoon with their foot wedged beneath their boss's wobbly Aeron chair, the next, they're returning a baby coldcuts platter to Jerry's for not having "enough girl meat"—Deadline Hollywood Daily reports the agency's assistants are now subjected to this:

Give your notice! Get your resumes polished! A caps-lock challenged "A-list CELEBRITY MUSICIAN/ACTOR" is making the HR rounds this week, in search of a personal assistant
who stands to gain lucratively ($1,000/week! Net!) for doing everything but tucking our anonymous prima donna into lavender-scented slumber every night — though we presume that's not far behind. Follow the jump for some of the criteria you need to make this thankless gig your own.

We turn now to the toiling assistant underclass, thanklessly shoveling call-rolling coal into the giant furnaces of the majestic agenting ships that dominate the Hollywood seas. (Forgive us. We're tired and all we can manage are Titanic-inspired metaphors right now.) Sadly, it's news of yet another dehumanizing blow to their ranks, as UTA higher-ups circulated a memo today informing assistants they would no longer have e-mail addresses using their own names. Instead, their new e-mail addresses would reflect their parasitic dependency on their desk-lamp-launching host-agents. The memo:

As we all await the dread-inducing tolling of the bell atop WGA headquarters that will indicate the union has received strike authorization from its membership, it seems like a good time consider the effect that the looming work stoppage is already having on the call-rolling underclass that allows the town to function. Over at Fishbowl LA, a disgruntled employee laments that Fox has decided to cut back on assistant overtime to help lessen the financial burden of a strike while leaving their bosses' expense accounts untouched:

From the mailbag: Apparently a gal "from Columbia class of 2007 has landed the coveted position of Sarah Jessica Parker's personal assistant. I guess that's what an Ivy League sheepskin gets you these days. But that's not the ridiculous part. The girl makes 200 fucking thousand dollars a year. To go buy iced coffee. What is wrong with this country." We can understand SJP's badass nanny getting paid that much, but some newbie? Hmm. On second thought, yes, we would ask for that much. Why not?