· We would never even think of exposing Paris Hilton's private e-mails to the public, even if they supposedly involve Lindsay Lohan outing Jessica Simpson's adventures in blow. Others, however, aren't nearly as ethical.
· Note to Paris: Pick a security question to which the answer is something other than"Tinkerbell." This probably precludes using "What's your nickname for your genitalia?", but such is the price of security.
· We cannot in any way endorse prank phone calls to those in Hilton's address book. Why not read our IMterview with one of the victims instead?
· Russell Crowe refused to show his prosthetic penis to the Queen. Paris could learn something from him.
· Man alive, does Paris talk to regular operators instead of diamond-encrusted ones when she flies? Perish the thought!

In the interest of stanching the flow of calls, e-mails, and Forget-Me-Not™ flower-grams expressing concern that we might have foolishly opened an attachment from an unsolicited e-mail purporting to be from the FBI and unleashing a virus throughout the computers at Defamer HQ, we assure you that we did no such thing. (For a detailed view of our security precautions in such situations, click here.) However, we think that we may have contracted gonorrhea of the eyeball from repeated viewing of the hacked photos from Paris Hilton's Sidekick. Please, we beg of you: If you need to stare at the pictures of a topless Hilton kissing the infamous Egplant Dike Ass (nsfw) for upwards of two hours per session, wear safety goggles. Take it from us, the pus-y discharge we're experiencing is no walk in the proverbial park.

Paris Hilton has finally broken her deafening media silence in the wake of her Sidekick hacking. Hilton, slathered in the cocoa butter of suffering and gently baking to death in the tropical hellfire of Aruba, threw up her hands and let loose a primal mumble to an uncaring God (by way of His preferred conduit, a writer for US Weekly):

Who says that Tom Cruise's wild devotion to Scientology is creepy? Certainly not us! (We hardly even notice the white van that's been parked across the street from Defamer HQ for six months anymore.) L. Ron's favorite kid is directing his incredible, strings-free generosity towards his War of the Worlds crew:

MSNBC's Jeanette Walls introduces us to the hottest new club in town, where even Kevin Smith is made to wait for service:

In our exhaustive effort to remember the real victims of Paris Hilton's Sidekick hacking, the people in her phone who suffered wave upon wave of prank phone call, we present this IMterview with Mike Sandwich, rock star, friend of Paris, and hacking survivor. Sandwich had the misfortune of being in Hilton's notebook under the not-nearly-cryptic enough entry "Mike sandwich met at esquire looking for bands 917 [redacted#]." We corralled Sandwich via Instant Messenger to record his thoughts on desperate voicemails, Paris' unslakeable thirst for publicity stunts, and hot, girl-on-skunk action:

A reader spotted Paris Hilton's other sidekick in the middle of yesterday's T-Mobile hacking hailstorm—in a Verizon store. Oh, the irony!

Even though we can operate nothing more complicated than a blender without detailed instructions, stories about the Secret Service investigating the Paris Hilton hacking had us a little paranoid—last night, we slept with TWO flashlights, spooned with a Louisville Slugger, and carefully tiptoed to the front door in our footy pajamas every time a floorboard creaked. Finally, this morning, the jig was up:

Do you think someone at Fox is trying to figure out how much it would cost to digitally remove her from The Fantastic Four?

With Paris Hilton's phonebook cracked open and sprinkled all over the internet like blow on a compact mirror, Hollywood will be feeling the shockwaves for days. We imagine that nearly everyone in the book has already had their number changed, and some of those abandoned numbers might have already been claimed by "fans." For example, this is what you'll hear if you call the number listed for Lindsay Lohan (we're not reprinting it, so don't ask): "[burp] I'm a whore...[burp]...I'm a whooooore...[burp]...I'm a fucking whore." Subtle! The pranksters at least could've forwarded the number to the NY Underage Drinking Hotline*. Maybe next time...

Before Paris Hilton's Sidekick was hacked, those trying to understand what exactly makes the Prada-clad hamster inside Hilton's head happily jog along its Swarovski-encrusted wheel were faced with an impossible task. But now that the secrets of the Sidekick have been spilled forth into the world, Fate has handed us a celebutante Rosetta Stone that may help us help us crack the code of What Makes Paris Run. When you stumble upon the Rosetta Stone, you don't tackle it all at once, you take it one line of cuneiform at a time. Some notes from this evolving study:

Ye fucking gods. Our first reaction when we sat down at the computer this morning and immediately discovered that Hunter S. Thompson killed himself last night was, "Holy shit." In fact, that was our second and third reaction as well. There's still some "holy shit" going around at Defamer HQ, but that will soon subside as sadness replaces it.

Ah, Paris, why does such misfortune seem to follow you around like a paparazzi who's been promised an exclusive flash of your cooch? After over a year of trying, Paris Hilton may finally be involved with something that lives up to her night-vision-doggystyling, amateur-porn debut into the annals of useless celebutante publicity-whoring. Someone's hacked her Sidekick, and her celeb-filled address book and some cam-phone pictures are being splashed all over the internets. By the end of the day, nearly anyone who's had the misfortune of handing over their digits to Hilton (including Fred Durst, Eminem, Christina Aguilera, Lindsay Lohan, Stephen King (!), Andy Roddick, Anna Kournikova, Vin Diesel, and the mysterious "Egplant Dike Ass"—the address book has been reproduced here) will almost certainly suffer payback for whatever they've done with her in the bathroom of the Spider Club in the form of incessant prank calls and e-mails. () How many times can one be asked if they've made a sex tape with Paris before they change their number? We're guessing about a dozen.

There's breaking celebrity lesbian-related gossip-tossing on the Productshop NYC blog, which, refreshingly, doesn't involve one of the Desperate Housewives:

A reader reports that Lindsay Lohan's wildly overstuffed racing suit (remember, this was the "pre-exhaustion" Lohan) might not be appropriate for a family flick:

From today's LAT:

These photos from her 24th birthday party at El Centro finally provide us with an explanation for the entire Paris Hilton phenomenon: Her vagina is mysteriously drawn towards any camera within a fifty-foot radius.

From the "more information about Michael Jackson's penis than we can be reasonably expected to handle without a therapist present" file:

· More Lindsay Lohan family dysfunction fun time: "One bystander was outraged. Michael Lohan 'has demonstrated that he's clearly more interested in milking his daughter's success for his own financial remuneration than in being a responsible father or husband.'" Funny how that "bystander" talks exactly like a restraining order!
· "Pinot" was the top word from show business that influenced the English language last year. Quick, someone tell Paul Giamatti before he sticks his head in the oven.
· George Michael quits "dead" pop music, pop music sighs with relief that Michael will no longer be jerking off in its bathroom.[via goldenfiddle]
· If Brandon Davis swallowed Mischa Barton whole: click here to see what would happen besides a 200-percent leap in The OC's quality.
· Break out the Jello-brand pudding pops! The Coz is getting off!

We hate keeping you in suspense, so it's time to present your responses to this week's game. Grab your parasol and go for one last afternoon stroll with One Alienated Blind Vice: