The short version is preferable here. Wolff wrote a book about Rupert Murdoch, and Judith Regan doesn't like what he says about her in it. So she aired her grievances to Rush & Molloy this weekend:

"Michael Wolff has been obsessed with me and my sex life for close to 30 years," she tells us. "I'm finally going to give him what he wants - he's going to get [bleeped] by Judith Regan."...

"He projects his own perverted view of the world on everyone else. He is consumed with hatred, vitriol and pathological envy."

Regan also resents Wolff's past claim that "on several occasions, [Judith and I] almost got involved."

"He's having fantasies," says Regan. "He's a repulsive specimen."

May we just say ZING? Wolff has responded in his typical ponderous, driven, gossipy, and heavy-lidded fashion:

She told George Rush that I am particularly obsessed with her sex life. And while quite a sex life it’s been, I have been even more interested in her media life, and the ways in which it’s possible to make a fine living in the media as a train wreck. Indeed, I have written about her often—more gleefully, I’d say, than obsessively—for the same reason that she has gotten herself so often into the press.

The solution here is to let Michael kiss Judith as he's always dreamed, then let her punch him in the balls. Then they can both mercifully shut up.

Regan claims to have an incriminating tape, which she is using as leverage in her lawsuit against News Corporation. Rupert Murdoch's media conglomerate fired the unpredictable publisher after she published a thinly-disguised confession by O.J. Simpson, accused of murdering his wife years ago. Regan also had an affair with Bernie Kerik, the corrupt aide to Rudy Giuliani who could sink his already holed campaign for the presidency. Who's on the embarrassing tape? In Manhattan book circles, word is none other than Jabba-like Roger Ailes, former Nixon aide and founder of Murdoch's Fox News.

The cookies look a lot like Martha! 1970s stoney Martha.

And these look just so much like Howard Stern and yet they do not smell of personal lubricant.

That sign also says in tiny type, "Don't fuck with my motherfucking tree, you fucks."

"She had people working around the clock to make these books happen, in art, editorial, and production, and yet she always needed to be the sole person taking credit for everything."

But: wanting something as pathetically petty as a transparently 'pseudonymous' art direction credit? Well, that was just par for the course. "She wanted to take credit for the toilets being cleaned, too," our source said wryly.

This same source finds it funny that Judith mentions having a chance to catch up on her reading in that Harper's Bazaar story, guessing that maybe now she'll have a chance to sit down with some of the books she published. Because "she never read anything but the flap copy."

Like it or not, the holidays are upon us. I'm sure when you were stumbling home in the wee morning hours of November 1st in your slutty Madeline Albright costume, you saw the shopkeepers ripping down witches and vampires and putting up pictures of a fat old man who breaks into your house and tries to woo your children with toys. But there's also that other holiday in between, that one dedicated to an afternoon spent face-down on the shag carpet, woozy from tryptophan and big-bottle wine. A time when you listen to and look at your family and wonder "Who are these people??" I was thinking about this the other day and, in the immortal words of Mr. Ed: later that night, I got to thinking. I've decided we'll have a new Thanksgiving. A Gawker Thanksgiving. It's so corny! I know! But, I get sentimental this time of year.

So. How will this work? I think we'll start with the location. Naturally Laurel Touby, founder of MediaArby's, will be our "cyber hostess." (Ugh.) We'll all meet sometime around noon. Julia Allison will bring her darling dog Lilly and Jakob Lodwick will bring his darling fashion lenses. Tinsley Mortimer will arrive wearing an old, soiled Santa suit and just blink confusedly at everyone. (She'll disappear for much of the night, only to be found in the backyard, stuck in a bear trap.) Kristian Laliberte will arrive with his new boyfriend, Elijah Pollack. They'll be so in love! (Later, during dinner, Anna Wintour will lean in close, her breath reeking of gin and clamato juice, purring into your ear "Aren't they just divine together? They're like Paul Newman and Katherine Ross in Butch Cassidy. Except, you know, gay and, um, young.") John Fitzgerald Page will come crashing through the foyer in his Beemer, Eiffel 65's "Blue" blasting loudly, and shove a sweaty bucket of fried chicken into Laurel's hands. Then, just as we think all the guests have arrived, we'll hear a strange hum, a demonic orchestra tuning. As the whole house rumbles, Sean Hannity will shriek, jumping up and down and clapping his hands, "Rupey is here!" Mr. Murdoch will disembark his flaming humpback whale nuclear stagecoach and shove a sweaty Judith Regan into Laurel's feather boa.

James Lipton will utter a dinner bell clarion call from deep within his diaphragm, and all the guests will be seated at the long oak table. There will be a beautiful centerpiece fashioned out of the rawhide remains of Jocelyn Wildenstein's face. The feast will consist of many bottles of Coppola Vineyards wine, PinkBerry soufflés, and turducken. Robert Olen Butler will be the first to get drunk and hurl recriminations at people. "Elizabeth!!" he'll shout across the table at Jann Wenner, "No one poops in South America! It wasn't a sign! It was nature!!" Chris Crocker will defuse the awkward situation by stripping down to his skivvies and doing an old-style fan dance/Britney Spears hyper-sexual mash-up that erotically incorporates Janet Robinson's famous green bean casserole. ("It's the fried onions that really make it work," he'll say in a post-performance YouTube interview with himself.)

Once all are sated and sufficiently boozed up, plates will be cleared by Laurel's faithful butler, Neel Shah. Then, it's on to charades! Mandy Stadtmiller will start. She will pantomime long walks on beaches and summers spent murmuring on porch swings about the big, bright future. In mere seconds team partner Alyssa Shelasky will shriek "SuperPreppy!!" Commenter KarenUhOh, who has been quietly assessing the legal ramifications of all this, will dryly deadpan: "I thought the category was real people." Mandy will run out of the room weeping and farting, having had her hideous secret revealed. Graydon Carter will be next. He will act out a strange series of lilts and affectations, and Lizzie Grubman will yell with delight "Spike! Spike! It's your little fey creature of a son!" A few more rounds will come and go, and of course it will end in a tie and all will be smugly satisfied with their own accomplishments.

The rest of the evening will be devoted to that most revered and corny of Thanksgiving traditions, the actual giving of thanks. The list of thanks will be long and varied. Selected highlights will be:

Tionna Tee Smalls: The film Ishtar
NewToJezebel: Jewish people.
Jeffrey Epstein: Those High School Musical: The Ice Tour tickets he managed to score.
Christopher Hitchens: Religion and Bic razors.
Atoosa Rubenstein: The well-meaning gypsies who style her and, in a bold extension of an olive branch, the Omega Kitties.
Senator Larry Craig: Feet, and a willful spirit.
Josh Schwartz and the rest of the Gossip Girl team: Blacks and Asians.

And, finally, the yoga stick of thanks will be passed to yours truly. And your friend LolCait will say this:

"I find the word 'thanks' inadequate, or even inappropriate. 'Thanks' implies expectation, a resigned 'Phew! Of course these good things were coming after all.' So I'm not thankful, I'm grateful. Things of late seem pretty awful and, truth is, I've Done Nothing During The War, and yet some good things keep coming to me. Six months into my participation in this bizarre social experiment, it is quite baffling to have found both silly entertainment and keen insight on this most cold and unfeeling internet. So I am grateful for a strange new home, for precarious new friendships."

All will be quiet for a moment, and then I will fall down, completely drunk. I will be scooped up by the ever-friendly Josh Ferris (swoon!) and taken from the room.

The night will end as nights do, with sloppy hugs and prolonged, slurred goodbyes. Dear James Kurisunkal will be passed out in the broom closet, spooning a snoring Spencer Pratt, who will still be in his 'Vincent from the Beauty and the Beast television series' Halloween costume. (Or is it a costume??) Ira Glass will dejectedly try to coax Merry Miller into his cab. The Gawker editors will wander off into the night, a bottle of champagne shared between them (with a pour to the sidewalk, remembering Balks, Shafrirs, Spiers, Oxfelds, and others long gone.) Nick Denton will open his umbrella and float whimsically away into the purple night sky. And I will ramble off, thinking of puns and light bulb jokes for the next week. But, before I turn the corner, I will feel a tap on my shoulder. "Don't be alarmed," a voice will say. "It's only me, Douglas." I'll messily grin at him, this most famous of Queens landlords, and say "Oh Douglas. I'm not alarmed. I'm just grateful... Just wonderfully, queasily grateful."

Douglas will shrug his shoulders and walk away, headed off to yuk it up with Michelle and Emily, happy to have been included at all.

"Who are all those strange people?" Patrick Moberg will ask as he stands on the stoop and watches this all unfold. "I don't know," his new wife Camille will respond, robotically petting his arm.

"I've only just met them."

DUH, YES. See: "Probably my finest skill relates to art directing the process, which includes the design, the marketing, and the sales. The books on my list were so beautifully designed, I used to take art direction credits under a pseudonym—I didn't want anyone to know. And I had the best art director in the business."

And she's recording an album! God, what can't this woman do!

Also, throughout the article, a "source with knowledge of her thinking" is quoted. We aren't exactly sure who this person is, but wow. What a terrible knowledge to have.

Ha. DUH, NO! She's Judith Regan. Judith "Golden Vagina" Regan. Judith 'my cock is so enormous' Regan. The woman who has inspired almost a mini-genre of books and screenplays about what a mythically hilariously insanely evil boss she is! Judith! Regan!

Here's how she describes herself as a boss, by the way: "I was the perfectionist manager who wanted everything better. My author's book covers had to be perfect ... the title had to be changed 20 times ... the sales goals had to be revised .. the content had to be reconstructed. I was never happy unless it was done and done right."

So we've heard!

So she can dish it out, but can she take it? "People were afraid to come to my defense ... it disappointed me to the bone and broke my heart." Also: ""It was a vulnerable moment for me." Aww! So: no.

You know how, after a traumatic event like a breakup or a firing, sometimes you find yourself unable to think in any terms besides the lyrics of pop songs? That seems to be what's happening to Judy. Not only does she repeatedly quote her karaoke fave 'My Way,' she also writes,"They tried to hurt me, and maybe they did, but I know this much is true: You can take your punches, and you can take everything away from me, but no one will ever hijack my imagination, my drive, my creative spirit, or my dignity."

Yes: Lucky for Judy, she long ago discovered The Greatest Love Of All.

Send your photo to kreepiekats at gmail dot com and you could have a holiday fling with Klonopin the Kreepie Kat! All entries must be received by this coming Wednesday. Kreepie Kats and Gawker Media accept Zero Liability for any and all STDs you may get from dating a Kreepie Kat or simply reading this line of text! Good luck!

Indeed, Judith Regan's spellbinding, marvelously paced legal complaint, prepared by attorneys Brian C. Kerr and Seth Redniss and filed yesterday in State Supreme Court, should serve as a warning to us all.

After all, "Regan is a self-made, hard-working, dedicated, single mother who supported herself from the age of 14, worked her way through school, and built (against all odds) one of the most diverse, provocative, and colorful imprints in history."

But as a section entitled Defendants Defame Regan By Claiming That She Made Anti-Semitic Comments tragically illustrates, the self-made and hard-working are no match against the manipulations and machinations of a group tiny in number but limitless in power and ambition:

106. The most outrageous piece of defendants' propaganda was disseminated in the December 18, 2006 edition of The New York Times, in which defendants stated that the real reason Regan had been fired was because she had made anti-Semitic comments during a telephone conversation with Jackson.

108. Defendants made sure that their false accusations of anti-Semitic comments were disseminated globally by having a News Corp. representative speak to The Associated Press on December 18, 2006.

111. Defendants' defamatory statements were disseminated in every major media outlet—on television, radio, the Internet and in print—subjecting her to worldwide vilification and scorn.

4. NOT A SINGLE ANNOUNCEMENT WILL REACH THE PUBLIC WITHOUT OUR CONTROL. Even now this is already being attained by us inasmuch as all news items are received by a few agencies, in whose offices they are focused from all parts of the world. These agencies will then be already entirely ours and will give publicity only to what we dictate to them.

Lawyers: Kerik Welshing On $200,000 Bill [TSG]

From the daily Howard Stern recap of yesterday's show:

Howard said that Robin is looking even thinner these days. Robin said she was out detoxing with Judith Regan over the weekend. They did the detox themselves. They got some juices from a place that delivered. They drank the stuff every 2 hours and went out to see some concerts and stuff.

Robin said that she and Judith gave themselves coffee enemas while they were doing this detox. Howard had to find out more about that so he asked her about how exactly they do that stuff. Robin said they dark brew some coffee, cool it down and then shoot it into their asses with an enema bag. Robin said she lays on her side and sticks the tube into her ass about 7 or 8 inches and then shoots the coffee in there. Howard was surprised to hear the 7 or 8 inches thing. She said it goes in there pretty easy. She said that it's very simple to do that and it all comes with the enema bag. Robin said the bag hangs above you and the coffee runs in their by gravity. She said it just takes a couple of minutes.

This is a few days late, but I just saw that retarded animal-balloon email from HarperCollins HR and wanted to share what Judith thought of Harper hr's constant stream of ridiculous emails from back in the day. HR used to send these emails ALL the time (I guess they still do) with the most ludicrous, useless subjects. The best part is how she took time to make things colorful and then cc'd her staff and selected enemies. You could hear her chuckling down the hall when she sent it. I was only there for a few months but this is probably the only time I laughed at something she said while there. The rest of the time I just tried not to make eye contact and hoped she wouldn't do any lasting physical damage.