· Earlier, when we said Jake Gyllenhaal was out walking his dog and unavailable to hold forth on Israeli-Palestinian relations, we were kidding. Of course we knew he's up in Alaska Canada with Salma Hayek and talking global warming with the Inuits!
· Steven Spielberg does his best to invalidate his work on this year's summer blockbuster: " "I have to certainly believe what my heart tells me. That the first time there is a meeting of the minds between extraterrestrials and human beings, it's going to be friendly."
· Just this one time, copycat lawsuits sound like a really, really good idea, at least if they'll prevent a second season.
· "Eight years of blow." Chris Kattan's career, explained! [fifth item]
· Can't anyone on Craigslist try to get laid without turning it into an acting audition?

Now that Pat O'Brien, America's modern master of the seductive voicemail message, has finally exited rehab, he's going to do what all disgraced celebrities with access to the sweeps airwaves do: begin a televised redemption tour to convince the viewing public that's he's free of the demons that landed him there. According to that pesky squirrel with the unicorn horn that keeps CrazyTalking in our ear, O'Brien's prime-time confessional ratings-extravaganza with Dr. Phil will air next Wednesday on CBS (gotta keep it in the Viacom family, yo), the two will hug and yell some more on Dr. Phil's daytime show Thursday, and O'Brien will return to his celeb-diddling Insider fiefdom that night. The fucking-going-crazy, drugs, and hookers, we assume, will follow shortly thereafter. But not the booze, as the Devil's party-juice is a no-no for Promises alumni trying to get back on TV.

Unfortunately, dreamy-eyed brother Jake was unavailable to offer his thoughts on America's role in Israeli-Palestinian relations, as he was busy walking his dog in Runyon Canyon.

There is little in this world more precious than two megalomaniac billionaires engaging in a public dick-measuring contest through the media. On last week's episode of The Apprentice, The Donald bragged that he "killed' fellow professional money-collectors Mark Cuban and Richard Branson when they launched competing reality shows. Cuban, of course, wasn't going to let this primetime volley pass without some retaliatory bitchslappery of his own:

Imagine the other hilarious. orifice-related near-misses that might occur once a gentleman caller escorts Tara Reid home after Happy Hour!

In a bout of the kind of movie star largesse that so frequently goes overlooked in the gossip-obsessed press, generous starlet Lindsay Lohan gifted trucker hats bearing the message "Love, Lindsay" to the crew of Just My Luck. Apparently, Lohan chose to commemorate her turbulent time shooting the movie in such quaint fashion because a more accurate remembrance of their time together, which would likely involve kicking a grip in the balls and vomiting a Hurricane onto the first assistant director's shoes, would violate a host of union rules. Thanks to the efforts of a scrappy internet entrepreneur, you can now own a replica of Lohan's token show of gratitude (estimated JML paycheck: $7.5 million), and pretend you were a part of the troubled production; don your trucker hat and play the deliciously simple Just My Luck Home Game, in which you simply stand around waiting to see if the actress is going to show up at your "set" or take another "exhaustion" day.

[Ed.note—We're bumping this post up and dragging it into today's news, for we truly hate it when CrazyTalk is lost during the afternoon commute. Also, has the NY Post heard some CrazyTalk as well?]

A reader over at the LA.comfidential blog overhears that Andy Dick, patron saint of drug-addled VIP room antics, might not be allowed to grace this weekend's big music orgy in the desert with his presence:

In a shocking turn of events that nobody possibly could have seen coming, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were photographed together while on a Shocking! Sex-tryst! In! Africa! (So alarmingly carnal was their sexual safari that Maddox Jolie was along to chaperone.) Photos of the couple's bumpy Jeep ride through the sweat-drenched jungles of passion appeared in the British Sun and are headed to US Weekly (rumored pricetag: five kajillion dollars and a dozen poached elephant tusks), but are already streaming through the internets. Don't stare too long on the bronzed bodies of the two sand-encrusted lovers, lest your retinas be seared by their smoldering genitals.

Normally, we'd refrain from challenging you both mentally and spiritually so early on a Monday morning, but we pause from somewhat newsier content to deliver an existential donkey-punch to our readers' collective pineal gland. To that end, we present this sampling of tidbits from the Random Vin Diesel Fact Generator:

·Sure, this (see above) is a story about a lawsuit, but that would be the best reality TV show of all fucking time.
· This RosieBlog obsession of ours isn't at all healthy, but: "you are not a friend of the letterman show - rosie."
· Star: Always seeking the public's assistance in naming celebrity babies. [scroll to bottom]
· Come on, now you're just making shit up.
· [Insert Name of Any Actress, Ever] Thinks She's a Lot Like Her Extremely Popular, Relatable Television Character

Just yesterday, we thought we were on the verge of an astonishing turnaround in the publicity profession, as we exuberantly hoped that a Risorgimento Pubblicità was dawning. Alas, we spoke too soon, as a pair of publicists are forced to issue unarftul denials to Page Six involving the whereabouts of Johnny Knoxville's penis:

The THR reports that Endeavor has been delivered a little bundle of tabloid-swaddled joy, as Paris Hilton has signed with the the agency to handle all aspects of her...what exactly does she "do," outside of, you know, the night-vision doggystyling and the VIP room vagina-flashing? Perhaps that's why she needs the agency—to focus and assist the more efficient monetizing her assets. In any case, a word of advice to her new shop: When you're fucking Paris, you're fucking every agent she's ever been with. Be safe.

Daredevil...Gigli...Paycheck...Jersey Girl...Surviving Christmas... it all seems to make sense now.

· How are you supposed to tell the difference between David Cronenberg's Crash and Paul Haggis' forthcoming movie with the same title? For one, only one features hot, James Spader scar-fucking action. The Feh blog has the other key differences.
· Things blogging.la has learned by hanging out with the Star Wars nerd-line in front of the Chinese: "5. The cops think it's funny to drive by and make Darth Vader breathing noises on their loud speakers. 6. The Nerds, not so much."
· It was only a matter of time before the just-deceased Pope started making his case for sainthood by appearing on dormitory cafeteria poultry.
· Craiglist: an inexhaustible font of inappropriate sex-for-housing ads.
·Pantheon Zeus is so inspired by Rosie O'Donnell's turn as a retarded bus rider that he's moved to pen a tribute poem in Rosie's inimitable blogging style.

A reader just forwarded us this breaking! news! e-mail detailing Faye Dunaway's fender-bender, a Mercedes-dinging tragedy that happened virtually moments ago:

Your guesses arrived in a timely fashion, were immediately forwarded to an independent blind-item accounting firm in Bangalore for tabulation, and are now ready for your reading pleasure. Before moving on, sit on One Cheap-Ass Blind Vice until it pops like a balloon in a fetish video:

Wherein we invite our readers to solve for n (where n=the identity of a naughty celebrity) the weekly blind item calculus equation scrawled on the dirty office window of gossip-mathematician Ted Casablanca. In this week's tale of tacky Hollywood penny-pinching, sex is the appetizer, not the main course. Bury your face in the hot blueberry pie of One Cheap-Ass Blind Vice:

[File under: "Stories We'd Hoped Would Go Away If We Ignored Them, But Still Wind Up In the Inbox A Dozen Or More Times"]

Nicole Kidman is proving herself to be quite the spiritual wanderer. Raised Catholic (why has there been no official statement about the new Pope?) and nominally a Scientologist during her marriage to Tom Cruise (it seemed like a better idea at the time than being locked in a trunk and drowned at the Celebrity Centre's pool—she wouldn't make that same mistake again), Kidman has apparently exhausted all other theological options and gone back to the Old Book: