After a relatively calm period in Britney Spears-related nonsense, the embattled pop star is now dominating the tabloids like she did in her barefoot-in-the-public-bathroom, Cheeto-gobbling heyday. The latest: Spears and rapidly-obsolescing husband unit Kevin Federline reportedly occupied separate hotel rooms in Santa Monica while their house in Malibu is being renovated to include a new background-dancing studio, and had to call for an "emergency meeting" (we picture a red phone with a direct line to the lawyers that drafted the prenup) with their families to repair their failing relationship. Fair enough. But what about the publicist? How does this latest development affect her? Apparently, this harrowing news drove her completely insane, as the rep tells Page Six:

· Hey, free Botox! But you've got to bring a friend who's willing to pay full price. That's OK, getting paralyzing toxins injected into one's face is an inherently social activity.
· We've been assured by a reliable source that yes, this is indeed a photo of Salma Hayek mopping a floor while wearing a John Kerry mask, not some Dadaist Hollywood prank.
· Deep-thinking blog Malis in Wonderland brings up an excellent point.
· Is it juvenile to point out that an article on indecency jumps onto page 69? Probably, but go ask Cinemocracy just to make sure. (And while you're there, tell him to get that enormous banner under control.)
· Well, what else do you suggest they do with Hunter S. Thompson's ashes?

It seemed inevitable that Lindsay Lohan, ever on the vanguard of acting out behavior —the Fez-dating, the underage romps through New Orleans bars, the missed days of work due to "mystery flu"—would be an early adopter of the hottest new Hollywood trend in attention-getting: cutting. By the end of the week, everyone will be sporting band-aids. Hilary Duff's probably already at the Rite-Aid, picking up a jumbo box.

It's finally happened: After nearly a year of denying the public an officially sanctioned, televised document of their love, pop star Britney Spears and the man she's chosen to spend at least a portion of the immediate future with, spottily-employed, background-dancing bastard-factory Kevin Federline, are staging their own reality show on UPN. The still-untitled show (working title: Brit-Brit and K-Fed Are In Love For Now ) "will document the story of the Spears-Federline courtship, engagement and wedding," and, presumably, ear-splitting fights over skanks Federline consorts with on solo trips to Las Vegas which end with Spears' inevitable threats to "take back every motherchuckin' piece a' bling I gave you and send you back to delivering Papa John's, you ho-banging deadbeat!"

Jessica Alba continues to torture us through prudish headlines, but far more disturbing is the larger trend of actresses portraying exotic dancers while eschewing the nudity required for stripper-verisimilitude. Sure, we put up with Natalie Portman's coy refusal to show even a single nipple in Closer, but she's a "serious actress." Seemingly every other female in Sin City either paraded around topless or in revealing bondage gear, so why must she buck the system and lose the career points? This was her freebie, where she could've said "it made sense for the role" with a straight face.

It was only yesterday that we sat down to a hearty brunch at our favorite eatery when our mind wandered, and we found ourselves silently asking, "I wonder if the one of the Olsen twins is dining somewhere else in the greater Los Angeles area, and if they are, what could they possibly be eating?" Lo and behold, our unspoken wish for an update on an Olsen's food intake was granted by a reader:

Scientology's gotten a bum rap for being "homophobic." Would aggressively heterosexual, and often traditionally married, stars (who we refuse to name here) possibly endorse a religion that would discriminate against gays? Of course they wouldn't. Listen to this enthusiastic, incredibly tolerant explanation of the inclusive spiritual inspiration society's policy on homosexuality as recited by a publicist:

Maybe it's the Don-Johnson-at-his-swaggering-best stubble, maybe it's the fresh coat of Just for Men's "Natural Ash Brown," or maybe it's the fact that only one of the "weeping wounds" on his face is bandaged, thereby deflecting all suspicion that he's very recently had some elective age-correction surgery with some canny facial asymmetry, but that Michael Douglas is looking awfully spry these days. In fact, he's so darn youthful we feel we must issue an apology for referring to Catherine Zeta-Jones as a "mummy war bride"—at least until his face starts to slacken again.

A miraculous thing happened after we uploaded a cameraphone picture of our tasty Quizno's sub, which we intended to include in a lighthearted April Fool's Day feature commenting on the banality of our blogging existence: a ghostly image of waterbedridden producer-in-twilight Robert Evans appeared on the photo of the sandwich. Has anyone heard from Evans lately? Someone ought to check on him, or at the very least call his butler English and have him slip a finger underneath the boss's turtleneck to check for a pulse. We want to make sure this was some sort of internet-related technical hiccup and not the first miracle in Evans's resume for sainthood. It's not his time.

George Clooney, Hollywood's undisputed master of the practical joke (we think he once told Brad Pitt that his penis was inadequate through an impishly-placed bumper sticker or something), demonstrates his mastery of the art form by dismissing today's prank holiday as amateur hour:

Many of you have expressed disappointment that there was no Blind Item Guessing Game today. We apologize for today's blind-item-free buzzkill, but we were forced to skip it this week because of a server crash this morning and an e-mail crash early in the afternoon. (For those of you without the luxury of the "virtual office" we enjoy, a rough analogue would be your cubicle collapsing, leaving you buried alive under an avalanche of Beanie Babies for hours.) Instead, let's all take a moment from our busy days to meditate on this marvel of linguistic invention pulled from today's Ted Casablanca blind item:

Oh, how we love the crumpet-flavored dirt proffered by Popbitch!

If Mitch Hedberg's tragic death is indeed an April Fool's Day prank (as we've heard suggested several times on the internets), the jokesters have pretty thoroughly punked the media. Obits have finally started to appear online, like this one in the Pioneer Press from Hedberg's hometown of St.Paul, which realizes every comedian's worst posthumous fear: a newspaper reporter trying to explain their comedy.

This Page Six report about Paris Hilton and Kimberly Stewart's adventures at a local club allows us to revisit some of the rules of Hollywood bathroom etiquette:

Yes, unfortunately, at least one part of the rumor is true—comedian Mitch Hedberg died on Tuesday. We received confirmation from several sources since late last night, and Howard Stern talked about it on the radio this morning as well (there's some info on his website). The other part of the rumor, that Hedberg overdosed, is still unconfirmed.

· What's Paris Hilton's time potentially worth? $250,000 an hour, but this is according to a crazy pimp in Bellevue and it's only if she's on her back or assuming the doggystyle position. Fascinating. Who knew she could be such an earner?
· HBO enables a third season of Old West fuckin' and cocksuckerin' by picking up more Deadwood.
· Super Mario delivered a petition to honorary Hollywood mayor Johnny Grant to include video game characters on the Walk of Fame. After he handed over the petition, he joined the other people in cheap movie costumes in front of the Chinese Theater for a lively session of hitting the crackpipe.
· Reason number 24 why you should love that Burger King commercial with Hootie: "The Twin Black Cowboys. They are obviously exhausted from banging all the chicks at The Tender Crisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch, so now they just want to lay down and have a snack."

Apparently flush with hormones from her rumored pregnancy, Britney Spears once again has found the inspiration to post another Missive of Truth on her website. This time, she dabbles in media criticism, urging the celebrity journalism industry to indulge in the kind of introspection that has made her one of her generation's most influential thinkers, penning an open letter to "False Tabloids":

Two-time Oscar winner and international fruit-smuggling scofflaw Hilary Swank has finally been brought to justice. A New Zealand court denied her appeal of a $150 fine for failing to declare an apple and an orange that she illegally brought into the country during a recent visit.

Star magazine is up to its old tricks, using their advanced tabloid mainframe to project what the hellspawn of white-trashy pop star/part-time waitress Britney Spears and white-trash-aspirational background-dancing inseminator extraordinaire Kevin Federline might look like. Unfortunately for the potential male offspring, that do rag is not a fashion accessory, it's the top of the poor tyke's head; removing it would expose his already massively-disadvantaged brain to the elements.

Since updates on the mysterious, severed "Fox Leg" have been scarce both from the media and from within the walls of the lot, we decided to analyze the evidence at hand.