Before we do this, promise us you're not going to cry, break expensive China, or throw your 98 Degrees records in the fireplace, OK? And just because the gun's already in your mouth, tempting you with sweet, hollow-point release from the pain you're about to feel, doesn't mean you have to pull the trigger.
Despite shocking new photographic evidence that suggests Phil Spector may have in the past threatened a woman with a firearm, prosecutors may be forced to drop the case and deport the defendant to Mars.
In threatening to protest the new, "scandalous" Carl's Jr. commercial featuring celebutante skanktron Paris Hilton (in which a scantily-clad Hilton seductively washes a car, inserts a garden hose into her vagina, then fellates a cheeseburger as water sprays out of her ears like a fireplug in an economically-depressed area on a hot summer day), the watchdog group Parents Television Council demonstrates an admirable grasp of advertising principles:
Could a man this well-coiffed possibly pull a gun on a woman? We think not.
Was Tom Cruise's appearance on Oprah yesterday really that strange? It was like any other hour spent with someone hell-bent on physically expressing their "love": there is sweating, uncontrollable yelping, wrestling, the liberal abuse of furniture, the twisting of bodies into extremely uncomfortable positions, more wrestling, and moments of seeming forced imprisonment. After it's all over, you can't look each other in the eye and there's an overwhelming urge to collapse in the bottom of a shower in the fetal position, gently rocking yourself into blissful catatonia as icy water washes the whole thing away. See? It's like any other Monday afternoon.
· Andy Towle of Towleroad continues his heroic work of chronicling the evolution of The Greatest Gay Cowboy Story Ever Told, Brokeback Mountain.
· Paris Hilton wins again.
· And we always thought that Gawker was written by a robot. Who knew? Actually, until we see her bleed, we're still not going to be convinced.
· "I'm happy with my life, and I love food." Thus spake Lindsay Lohan, whom we all should stop worrying about now.
Film is a visual medium, and Tom Cruise is perhaps the biggest film star in the world, so we're going to photoblog Cruise's Oprah appearance as fast as we can upload the images. Really, words would only get in the way.
The Sunday NYT's pornucopia of Hollywood handjobs spilled over into the Sunday magazine, where screenwriter/novelist/Brian Grazer bride Gigi Levangie Grazer received the long-form profile treatment. Throughout her guided tour of the Hollywood Wife Lifestyle (plastic surgery consultations, nannys, "girls' nights," etc etc), writer Alex Witchel can't quite figure out how much of Grazer's "knowing outsider who still might get a brow lift" dance is genuine and how much is spin, as she identifies some Death-Star-level defense mechanisms:
Such is the current state of Tom Cruise's relentless PR blitz that we're almost relieved that he's pausing from his non-stop, suspiciously effusive praise of partner Katie Holmes to prattle on about Scientology. On Access Hollywood this Thursday, Cruise will analyze, in highly scientific fashion, how the medical profession failed Brooke Shields during her post-partum depression:
Today's LAT finally figures out how überproducer Jerry Bruckheimer, whom after last week's upfronts eclipsed legends Aaron Spelling and Norman Lear by landing ten shows on primetime network schedules, has achieved such a staggering level of TV success in such a short amount of time: He gives amazing notes.
Finding a dearth of red carpets on which to grab his new ladylove by the neck and send his tongue drilling for uvula as photographers obligingly snap away, Tom Cruise is shifting the focus of his publicity campaign/relationship back to where it might gain more traction. He's now offering teaser-friendly soundbites celebrating the virtues of his new associate:
Yes, NBC, we miss the old version of Lindsay Lohan, too, but putting last year's picture on your website to promote this weekend's SNL finale isn't going to magically restore that lustrous, auburn hair, those thirty pounds, or the much-lamented cup sizes that seem to have disappeared into, ahem, thin air. You know that you signed up for Lohan 2.0, so don't get all cute on us now. There's still time to make it up to us, though. If you strap some falsies on Horatio Sanz and have him threaten to crush the Ghost of Lohan Present between his prodigious hooters during the monologue, all will be forgiven in the ensuing hilarity.
Your guesses are in! Let's wrap up this sham of a game and move on with our lives, shall we? Dip your balls* in One Disappearing Blind Vice one more time before moving on:
With a journalistic precision usually reserved for the unethical shenanigans of world leaders, the WashingtonPost.com has finally solved the mystery of how Paris Hilton's Sidekick was hacked, spilling the celebutante's softcore lesbian phonecam photography, private e-mails, and all-star address book all over the internets. Phone calls were made, T-Mobile employees were conned, and shortly after gaining access to Laurence Fishburne's Sidekick and taunting him with obvious Matrix jokes, the hackers moved on to a bigger, more vacuous target:
Wherein we invite our readers to pin on their five-point badge, strap on their six-shooters, and stroll out into the dusty Old West street where humpy E! gossip outlaw Ted Casablanca is waiting for his weekly blind item showdown. This week, Ted tosses aside gay sex in favor of some slice-and-dice. Spin your spurs with One Disappearing Blind Vice:
We hate to get all Bloodhound Gang on you, but we need to solve this mystery by the end of the second commercial break (we would've dropped the Encyclopedia Brown reference, but were afraid you'd accuse us of going too highbrow):
Will Katie Holmes' publicists stop at nothing to promote Batman Begins?
We feel something of an obligation to briefly remark on the premiere of Britney Spears and Kevin Federline's love-note to the complete destruction of romantic love, Chaotic. Yes, we were disappointed, but nothing short of UPN deciding to finally break the primetime ban on background dancers fully penetrating their pop-star meal tickets could have prevented some letdown. Some of this might not make sense if you didn't see the show, but if that's the case, you are a bad person and should dedicate the next three minutes of your life to the job you're neglecting as penance:
