from PageSix:
WHICH hip-hop legend is going to go broke paying child support? Besides his known baby mamas, seven months ago, a member of his entourage gave birth to another child of his, which was the last straw for his girlfriend.
Sean Combs. For those of you who don't know, P. Diddy's babies' momma Kim Porter just left him after twin girls in Dec and 10 years of off-and-on relationship matters. He seriously pays out like tens of thousands of dollars per month per kid.
all via Gatecrasher:
Which still-young household-name star lost her virginity at 17 to another household-name star after he started dating that other household-name star whom he later married? But you won't see this hookup mentioned in anyone's "A&E Biography": In California, that's statutory rape.
My guess: Initially I thought maybe an Olsen, John Stamos and Rebecca Romijn. Upon further critical reading, it appears as if the underage hookup came before the wedding. John and Rebecca married in 1998 so the timing isn’t right. I’m still take Olsen as the virginity-losing star for 1000.
My guess: Fergie and Josh Duhamel? She’s said she’s super sexual and interested in girls during interviews.
My guess: Al Reynolds.
Toothy Tile, natch. You were expecting Gussy 'n' Fussy, perhaps? Like, who cares about those ersatz het jokers anymore? (Not too many folks, I assure ya.) Nah, it’s all about Toothy Tile—and when the hell this gorgeous scaredy-puss is gonna disclose his sexual pref, already—and Bulbous knows this fagola factoid. So much so, he’s been mouthing off at chic Hell-Ay events about just how Toothy isn’t foolin’ anybody. Well, I beg to differ. Had I been at this one par-tick fancy-schmancy soiree, I would have gladly explained to B.S. that half of Bush’s “Mare-kuh” thinks T.T. is as heterosexual as our current prez. Wait, Bush is straight, isn’t he? Don’t answer that, actually, do not want to go there…
Back to B.S., who’s clearly dying for Toothy’s sexuality to come to the surface so the media will ease off his dubious dame-doin' existence. Uh, word to the unwise wower: Boyfriend, you just keep on gettin’ higher 'n' higher at those swell dos you go to. You’ll be outing Toothy long before anybody like moi would ever dream of doing so. It ain't: Sean Penn, Colin Ferrell or Will Smith.
Um...Matthew McConneenaheay. I obviously don't know how to spell his last name. :) Owen Wilson. Luke Wilson. Oh, and Toothy Tile is Jake Gylleehaaaaal. God, these last names. Why can't every famous person have a name like Will Smith so I don't have to be google searching all the time?
Houses in Hell-Ay, just as domiciles round the world sometimes can be, are often used as backgrounds for movie and TV film projects as well as photo shoots. In fact, there are companies that specifically farm out T-town’s more posh houses for whatever media project comes a-callin’—and I’m not talkin’ porno shoots (that’s a diff number ya call, trust). These housing minders like to think they’re discreet (usually they are) finaglers of design and commerce, sort of architectural matchmakers, if you will. Very snitty and highbrow, exclusive, that sorta thang.
Which is why Butt-Burning Bruce, media and film legend of sorts, called one particular firm like the ones mentioned above. B3 hasn’t exactly been working that much as of late (so, no, all you hard-working detectives, it ain’t Monsieur Willis, I’ll say that much right now). Mr. Bee, uh, needed some loot—fast. What better way to score some major quickie moolah than to rent out his supercool lovelorn pad perched so magnificently in the City of Fallen Heartthrobs, right? So, he did. And now he regrets doing so.
See, when the film company that subsequently came in to take advantage of B.B.B.’s hipper-than-slick streamlined job, what just about everybody involved on the project got instead was what B. left in the oversize master b-room. And, no, I don’t mean he simply forgot to flush. Butt-Burning failed to remove a fancy jewelry box from a polished bathroom counter. Not that fabulous gems and baubles could have been stolen, not at all. Carats of far greater value (i.e., kinkiness) were inside: sex toys, to be exact. Guess they’d been placed on the counter for washing, one supposes. And sure as you can smell a whole lotta strawberry-flavored lube right about now, B3 had an entire assortment of dildos, whips and ticklers in the wooden container. Used. All of it. Gross me out with an industrial-size bottle of 409, already! Hey, Bruce, don’t you know you’re supposed to put that crap in the dishwasher, boyfriend? Gosh, straight guys never know how to get really debauched efficiently, do they? (By the by, B-boy, those playthings for your partner—or you?) It aint:
Harrison Ford, Hoff, Cuba Gooding or Bruce Willis. It could be: Tom Cruise but I doubt he needs the money. Um...it has to be someone who was once hunky but now kinda a nobody - like Mickey Rourke...but then again why would we care?
Some people love Fake-à-la Ferocity...the rest live to hate her. This do-it-all diva, known to dabble in everything from fab sex to fabber shoes, has her hand in purty much everything these days. Endorsements. Charitable endeavors. Entertainment projects. You name it. And all the wowin' while, Fake-à-la manages to look super-duper delish in the process. Well, she used to, at least.
Lately, F2's once enviable bod has changed for the worse. And her hunky man isn't the only person concerned about the once divinely gifted babe. Nope, now a very few inside Industry types are also concerned 'bout our gal Fakey. See, F.F. has enjoyed a fairly good reputation in the media and rags...until recently. She's known for being accessible, candid and honest. How very friggin' heretical here in lip-cemented T-town! Apparently, Ms. Ef's hiding one helluva secret. And I'm the bitch to fill ya in on what, exactly, it is that has those select few Hollywood movers 'n' shakers so shaking in their Prada wear, regarding Fakey. She's got what's known as...a heroin habit.
Well, she's hardly the first dame in this drug-infested enclave to fall down that slippery alley, right? It's just, uh, so damn rich to find this out, knowing how utterly benevolent our do-goodin' broad happens to be as of late. Gosh, wonder how long before everyone finds out what's really behind Fake-à-la's rapidly withering figure? It'll be "Paris who?" should that happen, trust. It ain't: Jessica Biel, Kelly Ripa or Kiera Knightley 
It probably is: Angelina Jolie? She used to do heroin in her younger years. She's super skinny. It would be a huge scandal. She used to be sexy. She's into charitable endeavors and entertainment projects. She has a hunky man. Her mother just passed away which is a huge stressor. ...if the needle fits.
Now, I’ve heard of studios having it in their stars’ contracts (or, at least, agreed to under the proverbial slutty table) for them to hook up off camera, just to drive the rag-addicted ones into a ticket-buying frenzy, but did you ever think such plotting poop-heads would ask their leads to...bust up? Nope, nor did I. I’m such a romantic fool, ya might say, never thought that one would go down. But go dirty-down, it did. Well, at least it’s supposed to, when Virginal Vexed finally goes public with the fact that she’s broken up with her gorgeous and multitalented guy, Bi Cepps. Oh, how damn twisted is this town, already? Don’t answer that. Instead, read on:
Prom Night Naughtiness is expected to pack 'em in, certainly in the teeny-pimply crowd, that’s fer sure. The soon-to-be released flick is—how shall I put this?—a groundbreaking hotbed of entertaining yet importantly cheesy effects and moods. Typical kinda pic that’ll make audiences scream yet feel like they’ve left actually learning something, ya know? Like Courteney Cox taught us in Scream 3 that all us journos are evil, right?
Regardless, Ms. Vee thinks her man is pretty demonic, has for some time now. Could that be why everybody she’s worked with on her past films wants to boil the potty-mouthed witch in oil, with Joan Rivers' excised body parts for proper seasoning? But that’s not the point, which is simply that, conveniently for Virgy, Prom’s distributor requested that V. and her man, Bi, break up shortly after the film’s release, just to ensure that much more mindless lapping from the more gossipy movie fans. This is not a joke. It ain't:
Jessica Alba/Cash Warren; Vanessa Minillo/Nick Lachey; Naiomi Watts/Liev Schriber. HMMM...Who's virginial these days, seriously? I don't think Hilary Duff has a boyfriend.
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.
This one's too stupid for words—which means, of course, darlings, we have to blab 'bout it. So, put on your push-up bras, babes, and snap to! Board-Like Boring isn't really such a bad babe. She's sweet enough. Barely good-looking enough. She reads her lines with, oh, a fair amount of aplomb, I s'pose. But girlfriends, I daresay B.L.B.'s bosses at the big network gig where she does the 9-to-5 thang do not agree that Ms. B. has what it takes.
That's why her job was recently on the line—B.-doll came thisclose to being canned, and she heard about it. And the small-screen heavens above being what they are, Board-Like realized there was only so much she could do to improve her ho-hum prime-time performance—i.e., very little. Therefore, Ms. Boring did what many not exactly talented femmes do when they ultimately realize no amount of acting classes and TelePrompTer training will help: She got a boob job. And guess what?
It worked! The sex-on-their-noggins boss folk at the network changed their minds about Ms. B. (one of them just told me so directly), deciding that all the attention on B.L.B.'s impressive new cleavage would now be diverting viewers from Boring's otherwise nondescript delivery. Ah, Hollywood, predictable to the end. It ain't:
It must be: someone news-y.
Where do we start? When are folks gonna realize that blowin' out your brain cells with booze, dope and doofus doings ain't exactly the best way to go? Prolly never. But what the hell, that's not gonna stop me from tellin' on Whore-tense Past-tense, the country's latest glossy victim in chemically enhanced career descent.
Whore-hon—such the doll. Well, I never thought she was, but lotsa other folks sure did. Always found W.T. to be a bit o' a fake onscreen, not to mention in real life. I mean, who else would date a gay man for years just to get herself more in the tabloids? I know, I know, half of Hollywood's female population, but you get my point. Also, forgive moi, but I never really found Ms. P., with all of her kooky outfits, to be all that attractive—and I think that's largely because, deep down inside, Whorey was projecting nothing but a desperation to find the next heroin fix. Which she always has found—much to the chagrin of Whore-baby's current group o' hangers-on. And, trust, when a bunch of nobody poseurs who leech on to a star's fading wattage just to get attention start worrying for their so-called friend's welfare, that amiga's gotta be in pretty pitiful shape. And Past-tense sure is.
So much so, in W.'s increasingly notorious state of euphoric Hell-Ay horniness, she's screwing busboys here, waiters there, car parkers, too—and she never stops to think that these (almost always skinny) dudes just might talk. 'Course, they haven't (yet), but W.T.'s buds sure as ef have. And the only other thing that's got these ultra-classy hangers-on—not to mention W.T. watchers—gabbing as much would be Ms. Pee's skeletal frame. For your next meal, hon, you might try a noodle, not a needle. It ain't:
It could be: Nicole Richie...Lindsay Lohan...blah blah blah
Here I go again: another damn Vice ‘bout yet another limp-wristed Hollywood hubby. And I use the antigay terminology only because it’s deserved in this sitch. Fey Ray had it all. Beautiful woman. Gorgeous friends, hangers-on and so forth—all the accompanying high-life accoutrements that strangely just seem to come to heterosexual couples playing house, so rarely the gay ones, save Ellen ‘n’ Portia.
Fey-stud also had such nice teeth (I know, I have a thing with sparkling molars and incisors, so please forgive me). But he also had a penchant for little boys—nothing underage, mind you—something his gal was actually okay with! Still. It wasn’t enough. A once-in-a-while little fagola fling (even with his baby’s blessings) just wasn’t enough for F.R., so he just had to go and bust things up with his gorgeous honey, so stupid-ola. I say dumbo time ‘cause Fey actually is one of those rare creatures who is bisexual. So many folks say they are just to get more headlines (or cash). Why does Anne Heche come to mind right about now? Never mind, back to Fey.
So, Mr. R. had a regular dude on the side. F.R.’s gal knew all along—and she still tried to keep the relationship going okay between her and her man (what some women will put up with!). Didn’t work. Fey needed his tumescent nooky time too much. But get this: As soon as Fey busted up with his gal, he also busted up with his guy. Didn’t want people thinking he was gay, or anything. Oy vey. I think my straight girlfriends are correct: Men—and not just the hetero ones—are dumber than Tom Cruise in love. It ain't:
Could it be: Brad Pitt?
Thelma Turnip is looking rather like, well, a turnip these days. Hardly the secret, really, as T2's puss-ravaging lifestyle has left her cover-ready looks a little worse for the wear these past few years. Not even my Aunt Martha in Texas is surprised to see T.T. looking like a slightly younger version of Barbara Bush at myriad H-town events. But Thelma-doll's looks ain't exactly the point of this item—it's her career, which everyone from the fruit sprayer at Gelson's to CAA honchos is debating whether or not is salvageable. My guess? No way.
Why? Because the top spinmeisters in town (ya know, the crowd that's known for darling little campaigns such as convincing the American public that Eddie Murphy is a "Good Samaritan" because he gave a peeyem ride to a transvestite) are turning down T.T. right 'n' leery left. Jeez, that says somethin', I'm tellin' ya. "She's not ready," one of T-town's premier Machiavellian types told me after she had been asked to raise Ms. Turnip's chances for a professional resurgence. When pressed, the wizard at reinventing fallen entertainment idols told me Ms. Turnip is still—you guessed it—not exactly cleaned up, as everyone currently thinks. Hey, I used to be addicted to that crap, I know how tough it is—good luck, Thelma! We're prayin' for ya, you gonzo g-friend! It ain't:
It could be: Pam Anderson and Britney Spears are my first guesses. Jenna Jameson and Whitney Houston are round two. Ooooor Lindsay Lohan.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave when (repeatedly) we homos deceive. Guess what? I’ve got a same-sex Blind Vice comin’ atcha in...seconds! Such the surprise from moi, I know. There’s a very, very famous fruit in town. But, oh bro, is he evuh talented at making his myriad fans think he prefers the femmes. This Vice ain’t ‘bout the boy, though, it’s about the poor woman this guy utilized for his nefarious, i.e., press-release, purposes.
Virginal Vamp is a doll—and I mean that in the least plastic way possible. V2’s the best at conjuring up sexy little do-me thoughts while wearing the cutest little proper lacy things in her flicks, which, for the most part, are always on the classy side. She’s the het man’s dream fantasy: somebody he can take home to mama but boff in the broom closet while the hors d’oeuvres are being fetched. Therefore, it was hardly a surprise when folks working for an infamous fruit who has often appeared in this very missive rang up V.V. for the most exciting role of her lifetime: to play said fagola’s real-life girlfriend! Done deal if she wanted, V. was told. Just call us back to seal the whispered doings, she was told eagerly. Virginal was so excited, she actually thought about it for...22 seconds.
But, alas, Miz Vee was leaning against it and, just as she was about to ring back and probably decline to those who had parlayed the pooftah plan, word spread in electronic and old-fashioned scandal sheets alike. Seems another actress besides Virginal had decided to take the job (for her own desultory reasons). Count your blessings, Virg! ‘Cause the only thing worse than going out with a guy who does ya and then ignores ya is going out with a guy who doesn’t do ya and ignores ya!
It aint:
Here's something interesting to chew on - when I checked the blind vice last night, it said It ain't: Jennifer Garner, Jessice Biel and Scarlett Johansson. This morning, it's clearly Anne Hathaway, Jessica Biel and Scarlett Johansson. I believe this BV is about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. My first guess was Scarlett Johansson and she's been eliminated from the competition. Jennifer Garner would fit the bill except that by the time she TomKat started, she was already rather involved with Ben Affleck. I think we're looking for someone sweet and sexy like Jessica Alba-ish.
Trust, doll-pusses, just because Star Jones-Reynolds left network TV doesn't mean the once impeccably peopled, more polished outlets are without chest-stabbing, chutzpah-powered pricks who need to trim their nose hairs. I mean, these places have gotten downright pedestrian, cable-esque 'n' catty!
Take Teri-Fairy Terrible, for ince. T.F.T., of majorly questionable sexuality, has been around. In so many ways. And, at first, Teri-sweetie was, indeed, working for a cable outfit. That was before the only medium good-looking (at best) personality figured out how to sleep with powerful playahs to get ahead—despite having a long-suffering spouse at home. And isn't it interesting that as the higher Teri-Fairy's media star seemed to rise, so, too, did Terrible's really terrible state of affairs at home?
Teri's social graces, too, seem to have gone the way of the teleprompter-reader's once happy picket-fence scene. "You're so talented," Teri most insincerely oozed to a fellow (and also successful) boob-tube performer at a recent gathering of Terrible's media colleagues. The coworker knew some sort of dig was coming, and, sure enough, it predictably did, just as he was excusing himself from the Fairy-schmuck's vicinity."It's a shame to see your competition eating you for lunch," T.F.T. got in, just in the knick of socially unacceptable time. Ah, any wonder why Teri has no friends—not to mention, any fam—left? Will that cushy gig be next? Karma's a bitch! It ain't: 
It could be: I'm not really up-to-date with my newscaster scandals but I do know that Paula Zahn was just busted for cheating on her hubby (of 20 years). I don't think she's of questionable sexuality though. We could always go with Anderson Cooper but his mom is a Vanderbilt so I don't really think he has to sleep his way to the top and there's no spouse at home (that we know of). I just like to take every possible opportunity I can to mention my silver haired lust man. Maybe it's Hasselbush. Someone want to help me out here? We're looking for a maybe-gay, mediocre-looking media personality with a cushy job, a slutty disposition, a failing marriage and a decrease in popularity.
Anyone remember Waiting to Exhale author, Terry McMillan?
McMillan married Jonathan Plummer (a fag), in 1998. At the time of their marriage, McMillan was in her mid 40's, Plummer, his early 20's; he was the inspiration for the love interest of the main character in the book How Stella Got Her Groove Back. Her life did not follow the movie when in December of 2005, Plummer told Terry that he is gay; in January 2006, she filed for divorce. The divorce was settled for an undisclosed amount.
In March 2007, McMillan sued Plummer and his lawyer for $40 million citing an intentional strategy to embarrass and humiliate her during the divorce proceedings. She says that folks should see where she's coming from, and know why she uses certain derogatory language (she says the word "fag" a lot). Plummer has claimed that McMillan referred to him as "little fag, common fucking criminal, and a common extortionist."
McMillan: "I'm really getting tired of the fact that people get upset that I use the F-word to refer to Jonathan. It was the only weapon that I have. It offends me that gay men think they are above criticism. If you criticize them, you're automatically a homophobe; I'm starting to think they're heterophobes. I still see betrayal as betrayal. I don't care how long he's been in the closet; I didn't put him in there."
Yeah, well, Slurpa Pop-Off's hair extensions were just falling out the other night at a fancy-ass party—I'm so riveted by that one, aren't you all, my jaded nelly-jellies? Really, I am. Nevertheless, I'm going to go with a new member of the Blind Vice family—though, I must say, what earns her a mention in these asshole annals of abhorrent Hell-Ay behavior among the rich and stupid, is, well, utterly stupidola (and nothing new)! Read on:
Apple Marvini has it all (and I mean all). She's loaded as s--t. She's fairly well dressed, still got a decent bod. She gives regularly to charity, she's not without talent and she's newly searching for a legalized mattress mate—such fun when money's no object, n'est-ce pas? But perhaps that's just the prob. The only guys A.M. seems to attract (including her most promising current prospect for a union) are those who are also into the majorly moneyed habits, not so much activities involving multiple climaxes and cleaning up the sheets afterward.
Yes, like many a less well-off gal throughout the nation, Ms. Em has found herself hankering for a dude who cares more about having his undies starched than dirtying up hers. Why do women do this, time after time? Granted, making the help cry can be sickly fascinating (A. and her "man" do this equally adeptly), but isn't holding the one you love—and lust for—till the sun comes up worth anything? Not to A.M., apparently. As she has, after all, made it quite clear she's not overly fond of what that cuddling (and accompanying commotion) produced with her last man. It Ain't: 
It could be: I barely understand this one. She has a man who is boring in the sack? That's it? That's the scandal? Join the rest of the women in America.
Deartha Death has always been one of my fave H-town fixtures. She's so nasty. She's so raunchy. She's so...watchable! And she knows it, too. That's why D2 has staged yet another "comeback," of sorts. Thing is, I've never really understood quite what it is D.D. went away from. Her talent has always been so, uh, hard to define. I mean, really, her best achievement, as far as I'm concerned, has been Deartha-dear's ability to keep us wondering just what the eff she's gonna pull next. Which is what this item is about. As she's done so many times before, D.D.'s gone to great lengths to set up a series of publicity interviews and photo sessions round her latest dubious creative endeavor. And, per usual, sundry journalistic entities bit.
Including Totally Inside publication, which had set up an expensive shoot around said project. But, quelle surprise, Ms. D. called up and canceled, saying she had a tummy ache or some lame excuse, all last minute, 'course. Death was simply expecting the mag to call back and reskedge, as Deartha's forced upon many an outlet before (and will no doubt do again). However, Totally's editor had heard through the proverbial e-grapevine that Deartha was, once again, too high to function—the real reason why she had called off the shoot. So, the media honcho called up Death directly. "Look," the editor fumed across the receiver, "I'm not a 12-stepper. I have no problem with you getting high. But you better get something straight," the exec type practically blazed before she went in for the chicly suited kill:
"You cancel on me again like that, we're pulling this shoot so fast, you won't know what hit you—faster than those stupid animals of yours pee everywhere." Oh, did I forget to tell you D.D. is a big four-footed fan? And Deartha is now cooperating with all press requests. Fully (if not a tad wobbly). It ain't: 
It might be: Paris or Nicole? Britney? I think Lindsay just bought some post-rehab dogs. Nicole and Lindsay definitely do the "I'm too sick" bit. Could it be someone older?
Which celebrity mom joins her daughter in snorting lines of cocaine?
If we're talking about the mom being a celebrity, maybe like Demi Moore and Rumerface...or Courtney Love and Francis. If we're talking about the mom of a celebrity, it's totally the duo of Dina and Lindsay Lohan.
Which soulful singer is bulimic? Friends are concerned the stress of having a new album is causing her to throw up her meals.
Joss Stone. Although I think she might just be throwing up because that hair makes her look like Joss Wildenstein.
Which socialite was conspicuously absent from the front row during Fashion Week because she was in rehab? The bride-to-be went to a "special spa" to conquer her cocaine habit before the wedding. 
I know the answer to this. Lauren Davis. Why is she a socialite again? I don't even really know her deal, I just know the post loves to bash her for partying and she's marrying a veeeeeeeeeeeery rich guy sometime in the near future. NY Post recently said: Guests at the New York Botanical Garden's Winter Wonderland Ball on Friday were aghast when one of the junior chairs, Lauren Davis, didn't bother to show up or even call. The other junior chairs all came, as did the chairs, but Davis apparently had some partying to do instead. The blonde, who sometimes freelances for Vogue, went out with pals at the Gramercy Park Hotel and Bungalow 8. "She was texting and calling people at like 4 in the morning," said a spy. "She totally disregarded her responsibilities. So rude." Reached by e-mail, Davis would only say, "I was at a lot of places Friday night." Asked if the ball was one of them, she responded, "No." Socialite Rank said: Where art thou, Lauren? Lauren Davis’ seats throughout the week at big shows like Oscar and Bill Blass stayed empty. Ding ding ding ding...right answer! Too bad I don't give a shit. I'm just excited that I finally know the answer to one of these questions.
Which funnyman is having an affair? His wife doesn't mind - she's got her money and her status to keep her company.
Jerry Seinfeld.
Randy Rubber has been a very bad boy. This Oscar-winning actor is, indeed, married, but somethin' tells me it ain't a happy union. 'Cause if it were, he wouldn't be trolling for tail on the side. I mean, Hollywood husbands (and wives!) are known for shtupping people in every hotel suite (and stall) from Bev Hills to friggin' Pasadena, but R.R. is just so damn obvious about it.
At a recent shindig, he told one gal that she looked like the first female he'd ever slept with. He went on to ask where she lived so he could come over and take a trip down mattress-memory lane. When said sistah revealed where her abode was located, he replied, "Good...that's far away from my wife!" Wonder if the spouse knows about his hideously horny hijinks? Is their whole relationship a front for their kids (and his rep), or somethin'? Methinks she's got her own badass sitch goin' down, as well.
And speaking of fakes, Blood E. Nostril, once known as one of America's little honeys, is, in my admittedly jaded eyes, no longer just that! The awkward teen turned bodacious babe seems to have a penchant for a little recreational fun on the side, if ya know what I mean. According to a very reliable source, during Blood's school days, she filled her nights with hard partyin' at the local pubs 'n' clubs, and her idea of a good time included the snortin' of illegal substances in the bathrooms and basements of bars.
You see, after growin' up playin' roles as the "good girl," Ms. Nostril wanted to let loose a little. So, she went out to be a regular girl and experience the college life, as sooo many a young starlet does—and fails at, usually quite miserably. Blood-babe began to take up with middle-aged married men—and I don't mean for humpin'. She was just usin' these clueless dudes for a little nose candy to fuel her already brain-cell-destroying ways. Nice. It Ain't:
It could be: Randy Rubber = Cuba Gooding, Jr. I've seen him on the drunken prowl first-hand. Blood E. Nostril= this screams Mary-Kate Olsen minus the bodacious babe comment. He says "known as one of America's little honeys" and then lists Ashley as "it ain't" leading me to believe he's talking about the "other" one. Plus the other 1,321 relevant clues... Second guess = Claire Danes only because she dropped out of college and she was an awkwardish teen.
Bet you’d be surprised to hear that Botox-Bang Slasher isn’t the well-behaved home hon she appears to be. B2 was in a hit campy TV show, as well as a string of flicks on the big screen, along with some not so hot movies lately. Now, B-Bang got hitched to her honey a while back, and she appeared to settle down, keeping a fairly low profile. You don’t hear about this couple fighting; they’re not seen out at Hyde every other night...You get the idea.
But evidently, B.B. did get a little sassy a while back in New Yawk. Botox was spotted full-on making out with another femme in plain public view at a bar. Makes me wonder if she’s really into the girls or just had a few too many and was being silly? Also can’t help but wonder if her hubby knows about her girl-on-girl lip-locks. Does he know? Does he even care? I’ve heard he might be in to guys himself, so maybe their whole happy Hollywood marriage is a farce?
Like myriad middle-America ones ain’t, either. It ain't:
My guess: I don't know but it sounds like fun! I want to say Courtney Cox but I'm sure that's wrong. She still looks superhot in her new show Dirt. It's really naughty.
Sorry, gals, another (hetero) celeb bites the dust.
‘Cause, according to one guy who’s done the biting on Tumescent Pickle’s privates, T.P. only allows da dudes down there for servicing. Oh, but there’s a catch—as is always the case in this never-as-it-seems enclave. Mr. Pickle, who has as healthy a media presence as he does body endowment, prefers to pretend his male sex providers look like girls. ¿Comprende? No? Well, just conjure up Sacha Baron Cohen’s BFF Dustin Hoffman during his Academy Award-winning Tootsie days, and you just might see the panties-wearing light.
"He’s totally into trannies,” gabbed one of same who said he’s done it with T.P. Oh, by the by, for all you sexually less enlightened folk out there who think "tranny” is short for prostitutes from Transylvania, or something, must tell you it’s slang for transsexual or transvestite. Ya know, like Felicity Huffman in TransAmerica? Good. Glad you all get it now.
Let’s move on: Sadly, just like last week’s Preen Pumper, I’m afraid this Mr. Pee also doesn’t like a lotta kissin’ or cuddlin’ along with the mostly one-way sex, just "wham-bam, thank you, man"! ‘Course, a lotta guys are like that with their gals in general—right, ladies? Uh-huh. I just wonder how long it’s going to be before Pickle’s conservative entertainment-conglomerate boss peeps find out the well-liked aw-shucks stud likes anything but born booby types in bed. Oh, who the hell am I kidding here? Half of 
I hate to say this because I'm rather fond of Ted C. but he must be must be getting old and detached - NOBODY in 2007 thinks that "tranny” is short for prostitutes from Transylvania or transmissions in a car for that matter. At this point it doesn't even make for creative writing... I don't really care about the tranny-lovin' celeb, I just want to know when Sacha Baron Cohen and Dustin Hoffman became BFF and why.
Anyway, something tells me that this is a famous person personality not actor. "Conservative entertainment-conglomerate boss peeps" makes me think of FOX but Bill O'Reilly already paved the way for scandals there with his voicemails of phone sex, vibrators, threesomes, masturbation and his famous falafel fetish. Seriously though, it's Ann Coulter.
