Just a quick note about a technical-type situation that will be going down late tonight: Due to what's being referred to as a "server move" by the home office, parts of this site (comments, links, and what-have-you) may be inaccessible or not function properly until midday-ish tomorrow, with the possibility that the whole thing might intermittently disappear during the behind-the-scenes work. Such is the cost of what we're promised is "progress."

Did this morning's tale of the former assistant who was once driven to vomit by her boss's cruelty hit a little too close to home, dredging up painful, bile-flavored memories of your own? Then you need a new job! The Defamer Job Board is here just in time to save you from future esophageal erosion with this week's highlights:

It's a dilemma we've all faced: You hate your boss with the white-hot intensity of a thousand begrudgingly fetched caramel macchiatos, but murdering him could result in a lengthy, career-stalling jail sentence, and messily killing yourself inside his just-detailed Lexus would just give the cruel taskmaster the satisfaction that he successfully thwarted your Hollywood ambitions. You really need the Defamer Job Board right now, which features these exciting opportunities to escape the crushing bleakness of your current situation:

From time to time, we find it's helpful (we are here for no reason if not to serve) to remind both new readers and grizzled veterans of the comments box alike how one can gain access to the exciting and semiprivileged world of official Defamer commenters. Sound like the next few minutes of your life are going to be fun and informative? Good, because they totally are! So how does one sign up for one of those fancy commenting logins? Here's how:

Ahoy, job seekers! Remember when we introduced you to the brand-spanking-new Defamer Job Board, our attempt to speed along your slow march to eventual Hollywood domination? Of course you do. From time to time, we'll be spotlighting some of the listings. Just like this:

Because we realize that there are only so many staplers hurled from the hand of a displeased boss one's skull can successfully withstand before call-rolling motor functions are impaired, we're happy to introduce the Defamer Job Board, a service to help you trade in that old, abusive model for a newer, shinier, and somewhat less violence-prone superior. Listing open positions costs just $25 for 30 days, and employers are encouraged—nay, strongly encouraged—to e-mail jobshelp AT gawker DOT com to request coupon codes to help them get started on the process of hiring the person who will eventually murder replace them. So delete those useless old UTA joblists (we hear they cause cancer) and tell the contacts you're wasting time pretending to like over happy hour cocktails to go fuck themselves, for career salvation is a mere mouseclick away.

Hi there! While you choke down that subpar Cobb salad at your desk, hoping that the people you're eavesdropping on during your boss's lunchtime conference call can't hear your chewing, why not multitask by participating in a totally fun survey for a chance to win a $300 Jet Blue gift card? To enter, just send an email containing the last question asked in the questionnaire to surveys@gawker.com once you're through. Did we mention it's totally fun? It totally is!

Those of you who tuned into last night's edition of zeitgeisty, karaoke superstar contest American Idol know that our fearless leader Mark's tireless campaigning on behalf of long shot contestant Sanjaya Malakar was not done in vain, as another dark-skinned effeminate ended up being sacrificed in his place. Unfortunately, an energized Mark emerged from the taping ready to celebrate, and three hours, and six Disaronno Sours later, poor Mark found himself staring down the shaft of a West Hollywood Sheriff's Officer's Maglite, being asked pointedly, "Why were you speeding with your Bentley Continental's headlights off, sir?" The situation only escalated when Mark responded by clumsily lifting his fist into the air, Black Panthers-style, and slur-shouted, "SANJAYA NATION! Whoo!" Miraculously, the officer on duty was also a diehard fan (in fact the two had already become acquainted in a SanjayaFans.com chat room!), and so he was let go with a warning, and a pledge to swap whatever MP3s they could get their hands on.

Hello. This is your Defamer associate editor, just here to inform you that Mark is away today on "business," i.e. camped outside CBS Television City on Beverly Blvd. holding a large, glittery poster board reading "SANJAYA ROCKS MY WORLD!!!," eagerly anticipating attendance at tonight's American Idol elimination round. (Don't worry, Mark! Your boy's gotta be safe!) He'll be away tomorrow, as well, for an equally humiliating reason we'll hopefully come up with by then. In the meantime, I'll do everything in my power to make this as pleasant an experience as possible, short of sweet-talking you into joining me in the Air Defamer lavatory for some sky-high shenanigans. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.

Because the only way we know how to watch the Academy Awards is drunk to the point of blindness on cheap champagne while pounding a laptop keyboard with clenched fists and cursing a cruel and uncaring Creator for delivering undeserved victory into the hands of the artistically bankrupt, we will be liveblogging the Oscars telecast for a third straight year, generously sharing our semicoherent, real-time expressions of despair with those who, like us, are unlucky enough not to have anything better to do on Hollywood's Biggest Night. While we've previously promised the morbid spectacle of the first-ever liveblogging suicide, we fear that if last year's Crash win couldn't drive us to slit our own throats with the shards of a Brokeback Mountain screener, the far lesser cinematic evils of this year (really, who can get that whooped up about Little Miss Sunshine or Babel?) probably won't be enough to push us over that particular edge. Still, one never knows how one might react to news that Children of Men has lost to The Black Dahlia in the cinematography category while in André's volatile, bubbly clutches, so please do drop by on Sunday evening just in case.

We know how much you love to hear about our misadventures with internet access (why do we always believe Time Warner when they say they won't hit us again? We really need to take Courtney Love's New Year's resolutions to heart and stop being their doormat), so we thought we'd let you know that six eastside cafes later, we've finally found a place where we can get online and get some work done. Our normally scheduled stream of nonsense will commence shortly. As always, thanks for your love, support, and saintlike patience in these troubling times.

Greetings, friends! Your associate editor here just checking in to make sure your transition into 2007 is as pleasant as possible. Blanket? Cookie? Britney Spears' vagina? Don't hesitate to ask. Mark is still on vacation, possibly readying himself as we speak for the pilgrimage to the Apollo Theater to pay his last respects to James Brown. (But in all probability eating Snickerdoodles and watching Oprah.) In the meantime, we'll be with you today and a half-day tomorrow, after which, you're pretty much on your own. Remember to avoid the deadly path of block-long, speeding Hummersines overflowing with shit-faced revelers wearing those 2007 novelty sunglasses. (Whatever will become of that industry in 2010?) And now that we're on the subject—we're feeling a lack of New Year's Eve spirit. Like, where's the party? Let us know. We're committed to spreading the word.

Greetings, fellow Time Magazine People of the Year! While the rest of this year's honorees are out tobogganing on picturesque hillsides or sliding their toes between the white sands of an all-inclusive resort, we keepers of the cyber community flame hold steadfast at our posts, lest a single Paris Hilton assflap photograph or trailer mash-up risk slipping through the cracks. Mark is away on vacation, but I shall see you through the next few days—a time of year I have previously referred to as the "taint between Christmas and New Year's," but which I will now amend to include certain neighboring orifices, if you, like me, will spend the majority of it sitting at a computer. Of course, in these dead news days, your individual sightings and tip contributions are required more than ever, and will go directly to help feed and clothe a content-needy associate editor. God bless.

Hi, gang! As even the most of godless of Hollywood heathens is well aware, Monday is Christmas, the day when Christians celebrate the birth of the Messiah by giving each other things they bought on sale at Target, drinking enough rum-spiked glasses of eggnog to make spending time with their families seem bearable, and weeping uncontrollably at overrated Frank Capra movies. In recognition of this sacred occasion, we won't be updating on Monday, but posting will resume on Tuesday. In other schedule-related news, I'll be on vacation until January 2nd starting right about...now, but Seth will be sticking around to ensure that no Blackberried Lindsay Lohan manifesto about her plans to enlist Santa Claus in her ongoing image rehabilitation campaign goes uncovered.

Since we fear that you think we're taking the rest of the day off any time it takes more than five minutes for new content to appear, we'd like to let you know that we've been having some technical difficulties accessing the interwebs (we don't know whether to blame sunspots or Time Warner incredibly slow takeover of Adelphia's internet service) over the past hour or so. Now that we've found a more reliable connection, posting should resume immediately. As always, thanks for your continued support in these difficult times.

Periodically, it's necessary to take a moment to explain our seemingly complicated and maddeningly semi-exclusive commenting features to new readers unfamiliar with their arcane workings, and to help remind our longtime companions about how things work around here, recognizing that the part of their brains responsible for retaining such knowledge was probably smoothed during last night's Grey-Goose-and-strawberry-blow binge. So how does one become a Defamer commenter, you didn't ask, but we're pretending you did anyway?

After two full days of huddling with the finest minds from both the INS and the International Congress On Black Market Orphan Commerce for a summit addressing what to do about Defamer associate editor Seth Abramovitch's recent purchase of a toddler at a Parisian babymonger's stall, a difficult solution was reached: Early this morning, an orphans'-rights group stormed Seth's apartment and snatched little Henri (aka "Andy Roddick") from his makeshift bassinet (a repurposed Los Angeles County recycling bin fitted with a canopy constructed from the pages of a three-month old issue of Us Weekly), beginning the first leg of the child's long journey back to his lavishly appointed veal crate in the City of Light's finest orphan bazaar, where he will patiently await purchase by a childless French couple who will refrain from harming his emotional development by giving him the name of a professional tennis player they sexually desire. Seth, of course, is devastated, but I've assured him that the best way to deal with such a profound personal loss is to throw himself into his work, and I've promised to read as many wailing "HEEEENNNRRIIII!!! :-( :-( :-( " instant messages as it takes to get him through this difficult period.

As Mark mentioned last week, I took some time off to explore France's thriving black market baby trade, an impulsive idea that had lodged itself into my brain after having read an enticing Condé Nast Traveller piece entitled, "Paris: Good Food, Good Orphans." As it turns out, parentless Eurotykes are not quite as easy to come by as I had initially hoped—which isn't to say they were entirely unavailable: A few bills slipped into the palm of a surly, Babar-themed-carousel operator and I was eventually offered the pick of the litter. My new acquisition is a precious three-year-old who tells me his name is Henri, but whom, for socialization purposes, I've rechristened Andy Roddick. And while parenthood has gotten off to a somewhat rocky start for your associate editor, we think a homesickness-alleviating trip to the Paris-like environs of Santa Monica Blvd.'s French Market will be just what the doctor ordered to finally stop little A.R.'s incessant cries for someone he keeps referring to as "Maman!"

It's been a excellent three days guest-blogging for the absent Seth, peeking into the heretofore mysterious Defamerverse. The tone for the week was pretty much set by my first morning flogging with some of Mark's sharper and longer hair extensions; after that, it was a nonstop carnival of changing his WhiteStrips every 30 minutes, being choked out every time we disagreed on whether David Banda or Sean P. Federline would win in an arm-wrestling match, and having to bow to him thrice daily wearing what I was told is the legally mandated guest-blogger uniform: leggings, a potato sack, four belts, and Ugg boots. So it's with great regret that I leave this marvelous, life-affirming experience and return to the welt-free world of shredding celebrity style. Hopefully every once in a while, Jessica will give me a loving, nostalgic throttle. Thanks for the memories!

Very late on Saturday night, I received a frantic phone call from Seth, Defamer's tireless, semilegal alien associate editor (we're not sure what a "fuchsia card,' is, but he promises us he has one), in which he babbled something about receiving a "really hot tip" that Angelina Jolie, newly bored with exotic, Third World orphans, was headed to Paris to explore the possibility of purchasing a French baby, and how he felt compelled to hop on the next plane to Charles de Gaulle International Airport to see what he could personally turn up on the developing story. He promised to report his findings when he returns next Monday, then abruptly hung up. He may have been laughing, but I've written that off to the giddiness associated with undertaking such a crucial journalistic mission. God speed, Seth. Leave no black market baby stall unexplored.