From an old lady who doesn't know where her pants are, the Post's Cindy Adams. On teen soap Gossip Girl's potentially gay-for-each-other duo of dreamy Chace Crawford and steamy Ed Westwick: "It's who they're playing with off the show that's causing the juices to flow. Is all I'm saying."

Just who the hell is Olivia Palermo? We know she might be featured in a new reality series, but foreal, who the eff is she? No, seriously, we're asking. Or, at least gossip's ancient second fiddle, Cindy Adams, is. She writes today in her cute little dirty that the Post is kind enough to print: "Someone named Olivia Palermo was reported somewhere saying some thing about somebody someplace. Also this Olivia Palermo, while pirouetting at the drop of a red-carpet camera, was quoted saying she loves vintage clothes. I want to know who the hell is this person who does nothing for a living yet gets considered a something?" Oh! Good question! It's like the time Barbara Walters demanded an explanation of Kim Kardashian. From Kim Kardashian. We'll try to elucidate for Adams after the jump.

As if its listicle of the "50 Most Powerful Women In NYC" were not journalistically dubious enough, the Post also had to use the list for shameless self promotion, putting two of its own columnists on the list. Granted, some of the non-Post choices were also highly questionable, like the editor-in-chief of Cookie magazine, socialite Ivanka Trump and former hooker Ashley Dupre. But how can you even begin to take the selection of, say, Post columnist Cindy Adams seriously when the first qualification listed for her is "she's got a sandwich named after her?" The Post's self-serving choices are after the jump.

What in God's name is Cindy Adams doing in Kazakhstan?

No one combats Indy 4 fatigue like our batty, beloved gossip aunt Cindy Adams, who today grilled one of the blockbuster's key consultants in an attempt to discover the sexy mystique of — wait for it — the bullwhip. Not just any bullwhip, of course, but Harrison Ford's $1,000 bullwhip — all 13 feet and two-and-a-half pounds of it, said whipmaster Anthony De Longis:

In her latest gesture of a humane tradition that includes everything from A-list fetus guarding to Yorkie rescue/fetishization, Cindy Adams today saves readers the $11 they would have shelled out to see Oliver Stone's W when it opens this October. While we'd obviously read a few mildly tantalizing reviews in the last month (which is evidently news to Adams, who appears to think she's the only one who's nabbed a copy of the script) it takes a certain rare, Cindyesque fortitude and genius to condense the entirety of Stanley Weiser's 125-page screenplay to a single gossip column in the New York Post:

Publicists tend to be one of two things: boring, lips-sealed mouthpieces armed with "no comment" at every twist and turn or loud-mouthed toughies whose sole duty on this planet is to defend their Amazonian clients. Nicole Kidman, for better or worse, is repped by the latter: one Catherine Olim, who sent out a nasty rebuttal regarding NY Post columnist Cindy Adams' claims that knocked up Nic threw a few back at the Oscars. And despite our affection for long-time gossip Adams and her kookily nonsensical musings, we're officially on Team Olim after hearing this statement:

"David Mamet always sprays the word 'phucque' (the Gaelic spelling) throughout his dialogue. In this production, it's 27 times within the first three minutes. If Mamet ever wrote a religious play, nuns would probably be saying it, too. At the wave of laughter following the line, 'What the f - - - am I going to do with a time share in Aspen? I want to be president,' I toured the whole theater." Cindy Adams—still increasingly mad, still apparently wholly unedited—is under the odd impression that if David Mamet were to write a "religious" play (what is his Faustus adaptation, a sex farce?), it would be about nuns. Cindy! Everyone knows Mamet can't write women! [NYP]

"During [the American Society of Magazine Editors Awards], I sat between two of my all-time favorite people - one was Tina Brown's husband, Harry Evans; the other was the young writer Christopher Buckley," writes 85-year-old NY Post gossip columnist Liz Smith. "Young" Christopher Buckley, author of Thank You For Smoking, is a fresh-faced 55 years old. (The Post's other gossip columnist, Cindy Adams, is just 82 77). [NYP]

Gossip empress Cindy Adams has been grinding out her column for the Post since 1981, although she hasn't published anything resembling real gossip in approximately as long.

Today's Cindy Adams column is about some trashy Heather Mills tell-all book. Probably. It's sort of hard to tell. Translator? "The narrative then osmoses into her realizing the key to power and, thus, selling that horrifying story of losing her leg for the highest newspaper bid. It included this woman Doing It in her hospital bed. It was about losing a leg but the sex being as incredible as ever. Resolved to use this newfound power, she said, 'And I'll flirt with anyone.'" [Cindy]

Dear Cindy Adams, OMG, we just adooore your column! We just want you to know it's such a relief that not everyone is taking this whole PC craze so seriously. Like, in your column today? In the Post? Where you're talking about some Hamptons shindig? You know? It's just so refreshing to know you're still using the word "Oriental" to describe people, not just antiques or hotels. It reminds us of the last time you stood against the tide of progress and cultural evolution? When you described Chinese-American actress Anna May Wong as an "Oriental beauty"? I mean, we totally didn't care that you spelled her name "Mae," either. Now don't you go changing, Cin. Love, Your Fans.

Like those hard candies for diabetics on your grandmother's coffee table, you know you really shouldn't go near Cindy Adam's Post columns. They're confusing and a little sad and a little dusty. In today's paper, Dowager Adams gives herself over to the charms of taxicabs. "New York runs on a little dash of chutzpah and a large fleet of yellow cabs. Our loudest language is unspoken—passengers raising their hands at cabbies; cabbies raising their middle fingers at passengers... Check N.Y.C.'s symbols. The Statue of Liberty and the yellow cab. And why's Miss Liberty's hand raised? She's hailing a taxi." Now give Grandma Cindy a kiss on the cheek, bubele. Do it! [NYP]

As the recollections of late hotelier Leona Helmsley start pouring in, the New York Post does its best to illustrate the impenetrable nature of her character in the form of an unintentional point-counterpoint between columnists Andrea Peyser and Cindy Adams. The issue in question? How Leona felt about the gays.

So Laura Albert, who spent years pretending that her books were written by an abused AIDsy teen, feels that it is unfair that she's been successfully sued for fraud. Today, she tells Cindy Adams that her life, while perhaps not as difficult as the life of the truck-stop hooker child she invented, is still pretty rough. "My mother's just out of ICU. She can't bring even a cup of water to her mouth. My mom taught English in a New York City school. My assistant principal in Bushwick father and mother aren't together. Remarried, he lives in Stuyvesant Town. My sister's a speech pathologist. It's not a family with money. My ex is my son Trevor's father so I'll say nothing bad about him. He's a musician. He's 40. He wanted to be a rock star. And he wiped me out. From the stress my functioning has become limited. I'm under heavy medication with hypertension, diarrhea and bone infection." Jeez, did this lady never hear this in a creative writing class: "Never explain, never complain?" Apparently not, because boy does she go on.

"My today's Paris Hilton item. Supposedly she was seen at the Beverly Hills Hotel newsstand checking the latest publications. Seeing if she's in them. If she was, she bought it. If not, not. I can't believe she didn't buy everything. She's in everything. So I almost doubt my own item. So I almost think I should punish myself. But who can have a column without something about Paris Hilton, right? I mean, even if it's only semi partially right, right?" Is... everything okay over there, Cindy? [Cindy Adams]

Paramount—the brightest light in Viacom's recent earnings report— saw profits rise on ticket and DVD sales by 20 percent. So Cindy Adams is pretty sure Chairman Sumner Redstone is gonna sell the whole thing off. It's one of those weird cases where it's hard to decide if Cindy's just crazy, or she's that special kind of crazy that can understand and anticipate Redstone's crazy. Meanwhile, the mogul and his recently deposed daughter Shari had dinner together at Il Postino on Wednesday. The staff called Redstone "extremely cheap." [NYP]

"WHY are slutty, sleazy, boozy cocaine- fueled tarts still in possession of careers to blow while Don Imus is home? Why's jailbird Paris Hilton, maybe jailbird Nicole Richie, could-be jailbird Lindsay Lohan, should-be jailbird Britney Spears on front pages showing their crotches and their cracks while philanthropic Don Imus, who has raised so much money for so many causes, and was doing precisely the shtick he was contracted to do, is being penalized? Is this sane? Like the Don Imus style or don't like the Don Imus style, that mouth was signed to do just what he was doing and, yeah, he insulted a basketball team - but underwearless role models for our young people who are vomiting and passing out and making sex tapes and getting extra chances and more and more TV time are an affront to everyone." If you guessed "a crazy lady sitting on the stoop in a housedress ranting at passers-by," you are correct. We would also have accepted "Cindy Adams." [NYP]

Post gossip dowager Cindy Adams claws her way out of the casket this morning to float the following rumor about Kevin Federline and Britney Spears. Apparently, Britney wants Kevin back! But there's more!

"You saw that news photo on Page Six of a chunky fatty Jack Nicholson inhaling a foot-long sandwich as thick as his own midsection? Well, Cuba has one special hotel in a redone mansion in Old Havana. It has the equivalent of a presidential suite. In it you are told—if not actually shown the specific spot—that: 'This is where Jack Nicholson threw up.'" Some days we just want to give Cindy Adams a great big old hug.