Blind Vices with Lindsay Lohan

Lindsay Lohan deciding to drive her car into a curb and take a trip to rehab mysteriously directly correlates to my level of boredom. In the spirit of this enigma, I decided to entertain myself by digging up some old blind vices about Morgan Mayhem aka Lindsay Lohan. Really, after Linday's current events, these stories are more like 20/20 vision vices. Enjoy:

We all know bod goons are paid to protect the overly watched frames of the celebs who employ them. Most times, these bossy gorillas are très busy trying to keep pesky paps away or simply shooing starstruck autograph seekers. Occasionally, these walking barricades even help carry celebs' purses or pups. Too cute! Not this, though: The security staff utilized by one Morgan Mayhem (a repeat offender in the naughty narrative known as the Blind Vice archive) is far more, uh, hands-on. See, Morg's men protect way more than her bitchin' bod. They also keep more than a hawklike eye on her damn drug stash. Picture it: a swanky Hollywood hotel, known for its crazy parties and late-night flings. A very nearly has-been actor is escorting two lovely ladies to a friend's room upstairs. Said gray-haired type accidentally happens into the wrong suite at a very inopportune time. Morgan is alone in the room, 'cept for her coke stash and bodyguards. And one particularly helpful guard is choppin' up lines for Miz M. Now, that's stellar service! And even though M2 was gettin' blown all alone, she ain't happy about the company. Has-been actor offers a hello. "Who are they?" demands M., who's known to hate pretty gals who dare get anywhere near her sleep-deprived vicinity. "This is my room, and my coke!" bitches Morgan. "Get out." Geez, Morg. Didn't anyone teach you to share? And heaven knows it wouldn't hurt you (or your nose) to cut back.

Once upon a time, there was a talented young lass by the name of Morgan Mayhem. Oh, could she act! She was such a good performer that bitchy rivals simmered with green-eyed jealousy. But one day, a big bad she-wolf in Kitson duds named Coco Cocaine came along. She seduced Morgan with her overly vibrant, come-hither eyes--prettier than Wentworth Miller's, even--and then, suddenly, the big fat studio pigs were very, very sad. Okay, hold on. This is Hell-Ay; the pigs aren't heartbroken exactly. They're just plain disgusted and scared for their precious beaucoup-bucks accounts. Darlings, Ms. Mayhem has become the hottest li'l liability in Tinseltown. "Studios were all but in love with her," blabs one über-connected Armani clad producer. "But she's so unstable that everyone's becoming afraid to hire her. Her behavior on the set of Jump, Jive and High Five! is still talked about. She was beyond "distracted," for myriad reasons. At this point, Armani wearer makes air quotes with his hands and rolls his eyes, sucking back the rest of an overpriced designer something or other. "And we all know what that means." Oy, oy, boy. I wish there were something I could do to help ol' Morgan out. The problem is that she's about as solid and reliable as a sponge. Stick her with serious, stable, Oscar-hoarding types, and she'll transform into a Jodie Foster. But plop this babe in a Bel-Air frat-house crowd and, well, she'll be first in line for body shots. The solution is obvious. Ya stick the sponge in the desert and let it dry out. 'Course, first, you'd have to convince her to go. Not an easy task.

Morgan Mayhem, consider yourself warned! Gal-friend, those unpredictable ways have gotten you into trouble in myriad areas of your life, but now it seems your social-butterfly status is in serious jeopardy, too. Hid-eee-us, I know. See, there's this über-exclusive boîte of fabulousness here in Tinseltown that certain celebs consider their personal playground. The door at said joint is tighter than Nicole Kidman's forehead and has turned away highly celebrated, professional partiers without batting a stoic eye. But not Morg, of course. She's nevah had a problem getting into exclusive places. Also, there's always packs of paps following Morg who are bound to snap her leaving such swanky locales. So, owners are usually happy to have M2 hangin' out. But the owner of the former spot ain't so thrilled anymore. First off, he's already received wrist slaps and warnings from police for allowing other questionable antics to go down, as it were, at his establishment (which really should look a bit more fab considering the loot this guy poured into it). And secondly, Morg's not just hittin' the snowy slopes anymore. She's got a newer, dirtier drug of choice. And it's becoming painfully obvious. "She's behaving like a monster," says one of my super-inside (and relatively sober) sources. Not only does M.M. pick fights with other patrons, sashay out of stalls with her sniffer covered in powder and even pass out in them, now she's takin' to doin' the girl-on-girl thang not so discreetly in these dark hangs! Love the last sin, which, natch, ain't, but I'll just go along with my republican detractors for a sec and pretend like is it, 'kay? Oh, girl, for gawd's sake, get it together! Your career, sex appeal and hetero status (big whoop!) are going down the toilet as we type.