Wherein we invite our readers to throw the tortured prose of humpy E! gossip donor Ted Casablanca into a centerfuge and spin out the identity of his weekly blind item. This week's tale of an aging actress who no longer gets free clothes doesn't offer the same "wow" factor as last week's salad-tossing extravaganza, so close your eyes and imagine that Sarah Moxie and the rude salesgirl finished their encounter by retiring to a fitting room for some blow and little making out. Throw One Alienated Blind Vice on the bed and roll around on it:

News services (and the pop star's internet propaganda arm, MJJ Source) report that Michael Jackson has escaped from the hospital following a curiously brief stay for "mystery flu" treatment. It seems that yesterday Jackson delivered a coded message to the army of devoted fans that had gathered outside his window. After hours of painstaking study, we think we've cracked the code: "Peace, my beautiful friends. I am well now. The faithful can join me at Neverland Ranch in 24 hours. We'll party before I burn the Ranch down and escape to the moon. Bring a Boy Scout. No, five Boy Scouts. Jacko out!"

On Monday, a Sirius satellite radio crew will chase away the straggling hookers, sweep the pill bottles off the comforter, and prop legendary producer/Brett Ratner BFF Robert Evans up in his California king for his show, "In Bed With Robert Evans." Well, maybe they shouldn't get rid of all the pills if they want the superannuated turtle-neck model to keep squeezing out quotes like this:

It's always entertaining when a couple of A-listers puff up their chests, unzip their flies, and whip 'em our for an old-fashioned dick-measuring contest. Russell Crowe and George Clooney lay down their inches across the pages of GQ and US Weekly (we hope they don't leave any curlies on an Armani ad or a Brad Pitt photospread—we hate to see that kind of needless collateral damage):

Good news! Michael Jackson is apparently well enough to walk to the window and wave to the assembled masses like a bleached, freakishly reconstructed pope. Of course, that could be some other honky's hand executing a clever ruse to distract the public while Jackson is filling his rocket to the moon with prepubescent concubines colonists.

In the future, every background-dancing, dual-bastard-siring, pop-star-marrying goldbricker will be famous for 15 minutes. Stereogum transcribes some of the chihuahua-clutching action:

April Florio, the Maxim girl who was photographed with Brad Pitt in Greece, is clearly confused about the standard Hollywood "obscure model has sex with A-list movie star in exchange for fleeting notoriety" transaction:

· Breaking! Nic Cage knocks up mysterious sushi-waitress bride!
· We knew this would happen eventually: a secret lab is finally breeding actresses without nipples, ensuring that embarrassing nip-slips are a thing of the past.
· Hey, Serena Williams isn't looking so hot these days. Must be the regular Ratner injections she's been getting.
· From today’s Hollywood Reporter, courtesy of Cinemocracy: “The FCC received complaints again this year about the Super Bowl halftime show, among them two viewers who said Paul McCartney bored them.”
· You make the call: Is the writer of something like Hitch capable of cleverly referencing Esquire's hoax It-Girl with the name of one of his characters, or is the similarity merely a coincidence? We're leaning towards the latter.
· Last week's "Marcia Cross is coming out" rumor throws a harsh light on unmarried women over 30, who are all obviously lesbians or otherwise damaged in some way.

The New Orleans Times-Picayune reports that Lindsay Lohan, the teen-queen hurricane currently shooting a movie in their fine city, is impressing her co-workers with her professionalism and incredible commitment to her craft:

We flipped on the cable news (who knew we get channels besides VH1 and E!?) to get an update on Michael Jackson's condition, and it was reported that a "severe flu" will knock Jackson out of action for a week, with potential jurors sent home until more is known about Jackson's condition. This should give Jackson plenty of time to fake his death, gather the seeds of a new, utopian Neverland society from the talent roster at Nickolodeon, and escape to the secret colony he's prepared on the dark side of the moon. You heard it here first!

Even working at internet speed, we can hardly keep up with the breakneck pace of developments in the Michael Jackson Trial of the Century. We were in the process of writing about the all-star celebrity roster of potential Jackson defense witnesses (Elizabeth Taylor, Quincy Jones, Jay Leno, Kobe Bryant, the ghost of Liberace, et al) when we saw this screaming from the Drudge Report (yes, him again):

We hate to take you for a ride in the Paris Hilton Gossip Wayback Machine, but buried at the bottom (Paris dirt is painfully '04) of Fox News gossip columnist Roger Friedman's Grammy piece is the answer to one of the greatest Hilton-related "mysteries" of the past year:

· Now that her babies are two-and-a-half months old, it's finally safe for Julia Roberts to begin selling tiny pieces of their souls to the celebrity glosses.
· Headline of the week, by a mile: Actor Tom Sizemore Fails Drug Test with Fake Penis
· Paris Hilton "resents" that Playboy put her on their cover when she doesn't appear naked inside. Oh, the moral outrage!
· Suddenly, our lives make sense: "In a study titled "Monkeys Pay Per View," neuroscientists at Duke University discovered that rhesus monkeys will give up a portion of hard-earned perks for a peek at pictures of the dominant leaders and nubile females in their troop. But they won't pony up to look at faces of subordinate simians." [via Wonkette]

A reader submits this account of Cameron Diaz's high-speed chase with paparazzi yesterday, which ended in the parking lot at MTV's offices:

Hey, when did Britney Spears get married? We have only the vaguest recollection of background dancing, illegitimate children, and buckets of the Colonel's finest. Her wedding photos have finally hit the internet, but the set is woefully incomplete. Nowhere do we see the army of prenup-wielding lawyers trailing Kevin Federline with a pen, or the altar where the orphaned Chinese baby girls were sacrificed to put Satan's infernal stamp on their union. Look for those missing pictures to appear sometime next week.

In the interest of returning our inbox to a manageable flow of e-mail, let's put this week's guessing game to bed, shall we? Take one more filthy trip through One Bottom-Line Blind Vice:

Now that Corey Feldman's been subpoened to testify in the Michael Jackson Trial of the Century, the big cockteases over at ABC News have finally given up some of the goods from the former child actor/Neverland survivor's interview airing on 20/20. We can all skip it; as we feared, among the shocking revelations from Feldman's televised chat is the deflating assurance that Jackson kept his Moonwalker inside his sequined pants:

The British Sun isn't playing fair. Just because Drew Barrymore might be favoring a more "European" look during Fashion Week in NY, that's no reason to splash photos of her pit hair all over their tabloid. What's next, a full-page analysis of a shoddily-waxed taint? For shame!

Wherein we invite our readers to pull on a loose thread of verbiage and unravel the prose-sweater knitted by humpy E! gossip tailor Ted Casablanca and guess the identity of his weekly blind item. This week, Ted uncorks a filthy tale of high-wattage infidelity, served with a side of salad-tossing. Sail into the uncharted waters of One Bottom-Line Blind Vice:

Lindsay Lohan is piling up the gossip items down in New Orleans as fast as the tabloids can print them. This morning's Lohan round-up: