Leatherman, who a sheriff's spokesman characterized as a "transient in the Santa Monica area," was brought in for investigation of stalking, violating a restraining order and petty theft, and was held at $150,000 bail. In the past, she has thrown missives accompanied by rocks and screwdrivers into Cusack's home, begging the question: Had Lloyd Dobler given Diane an aerial onslaught of tools instead of his heart, would he have gotten a trip to the pokey instead of a pen?

• Woman Arrested Near Cusack's Home [AP]

When you spend two years monitoring the comings and goings of celebrities, as we, your devoted Gawker Stalker map girls have, you develop a certain world-weary toughness. You surround yourself with a battle-hardened façade that not even a picture of the baldest vagina can shatter. And yet, sometimes, as I imagine happens with like, war correspondents, something gets past the armor and shakes you to your very core. Today is that day here at Stalk of The Town. Analysis of an event as earth-shattering as the pregnancy of Jamie Lynn Spearsrequires both Stalkettes.

Robespierre: Um...
Erica: I know.
Robespierre: I can't even deal. I cannot even deal with this news. I literally cannot focus at work today.
Erica: Maybe she was just trying to take some of the attention off her sister, like when they made up that war in that Dustin Hoffman movie.
Robespierre: Never saw it. Too ridiculous. Pregnant. 16. Live-in boyfriend. Whom she met IN CHURCH. He's 19. Statutory rape. Parenting book. The most hilarious part is that Lynne Spears' parenting book is now on indefinite hold.
Erica: Ha. Delayed, but not canceled. What would have to happen for her to cancel it?
Robespierre: If the brother raped a dolphin.
Erica: Or a panda. My favorite part is that they sold the story to OK! for cash. Your 16-year-old daughter is pregnant, Lynne Spears, what are you gonna do now? Get her precious little baby-fatted face on the glossies!
Robespierre: There is a complete and utter absence of morality. She is morally bankrupt. The entire Spears clan is morally bankrupt. Actually, that is the mark of true celebrity.
Erica: She got us talking. She could teach Ashlee Simpson some lessons. In this day and age, getting plastic surgery to look exactly like your sister is gonna get you like one post on Perez, at most. But this young Spears, well, she out-did herself.
Robespierre: She out-did her sister. PS. Fantasia's pregnant . Hahahaha.
Erica: What happened in that house when they were growing up? I mean, those parents really fucked those kids up. They are like the Jacksons or something.
Robespierre: Yeah, and we didn't even notice while it was happening. They seemed relatively normal. Remember Britney and her mom wrote that book about how they were best friends and stuff.
Erica: Crazy. Maybe we're overreacting. They ARE from Louisiana, at least she's not related to the dude.
Robespierre: That may still come out. You need to do this for Stalk, like an emergency edition.
Erica: But what do I do? I don't think that little one has ever even been to Manhattan.
Robespierre: Who cares? This is URGENT.
Erica: You're right. Besides, who's gonna yell at us? I don't even know who we work for anymore!

Not really that gay? Au contraire. In fact, two days ago, Ricky's facialist Ole Henriksen officially "outed" Ricky after implying he was gay, but mainly by confirming that Ricky receives facials. Yet long before Ole made the shocking revelation, Ricky confirmed his gayosity - not by wearing brightly colored silk shirts and dripping wax on himself, but by failing to give a "straight" answer to the "Are you gay?" question. Indeed, when Barbara Walters asked him the question, Ricky replied by answering ten completely different questions, including whether he was concerned about his nieces reading things, what his mother discusses at the beauty parlor and whether sexuality is something that each individual should deal with in their own way. Failure to absolutely 100% confirm straightness by having sex with a woman during the actual interview equals gayness. Closeted case closed.

Ricky is not alone in outing himself by virtue of ridiculous roundabout answers. Queen Latifah is constantly photographed with her "personal trainer" Jeannette Jenkins, but her "I know me and that's all I need to know" responses combined with the fact that she obviously hasn't worked out in decades belie the true nature of her sexificationality status. Ryan Seacrest's unambiguous answer that he has "straight male habits" coupled with his convincing and in no way staged kiss with Teri Hatcher exposes his gayitude. And Jodie Foster's declaration "My life is my life" plus her trip to the sperm bank and thanking of "my beautiful Cydney" sufficiently satisfies the public's wonder. They're not out "officially" of course, for fear of losing roles and endorsements.

As with farts, whoever denied it, supplied it, and evading the question is the new confirmation. Accordingly, CoverGirl and American Idol need to immediately rip up their contracts with Queen Latifah and Seacrest because now, who will be able to trust them to sell makeup or accurately report America's text message votes? Pepsi must fire Ricky as its spokesperson because, in an ironic turn of events, everyone knows that gays poison wells and pollute our drinking water. Instead of dreaming up outrageously cagey answers to the critical sexual orientation question, closeted celebrities need to channel this energy into researching and moving to leper colonies so that the public will finally be rid from their insidious influences.

It's going to be tough to be the next President of this country. Putting aside the huge shoes that need to be filled, there's also the two wars, the other countries with their nukes and their hating us, the fact that the globe seems to be packing it in and calling it a day, not to mention Us Weekly going around willy-nilly accusing actresses of having plastic surgery when they have CLEARLY never had anything of the sort. The issues are indeed daunting. Which is why it's good that we have a man like Barack Obama in the running for the job. Let's take a look at all the reasons he is a clear-cut choice for the next leader of our nation.

1.) The resemblance to Will Smith. Honestly, ever since he turned his blazer inside-out to individualize himself among those snobby Bel-Air prep-schoolers, haven't we all been waiting for the day Will Smith threw his hat in the ring? And, since he hasn't, and he's getting sort of weird with this hanging out with Tom Cruise and the Scientology-defending, it's nice that we have a similar-looking alternative.

2.) He's good-looking. Now, say what you will about this country but no matter how great the national strife there's one thing you can always depend on. We only listen when pretty people are talking. Missing white women are only newsworthy if they're photogenic and no one cares about the fact that the Lower 9th Ward is still destroyed until Brad Pitt puts on that adorable little Newsies cap and tells us we should. These are facts.

3.) He is well-endowed. Some will argue that this is less important than foreign policy experience. These people have obviously never dealt with a man with a tiny penis and the ensuing problems of arrogance and short-temper that result from years of over-compensating.

These reasons, combined with the fact that he is Oprah-approved, make the man practically unbeatable. So, there you have it. Now you don't even have to skip 'The Hills' next time they have one of those stupid debates.

Any fool knows that the key to success on Wall Street involves buying low, selling high and wearing Preferred Stock cologne. However, few realize that the other ticket to extreme riches is achieved by diversifying one's portfolio. With gas prices rising, the ozone disappearing and childhood obesity ballooning out of control, celebrities like Hilary Duff and Hayden Planetarium realize that in order to protect their assets, they must divide and conquer. The days of getting by on mediocre acting skills, eating disorders and implants are over. Indeed, celebrities must have at least three back up plans in case their WB show gets canceled or they ruin their careers by accidentally starring in Christmas with the Kranks or Mona Lisa Smile.

Matriarchs Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, pioneers of the celebrity-branding trend, shrewdly realized that, having no talent besides being twins, they could market themselves as terrible singers as well as terrible actors. Following the successes of their terrible albums, they discovered that they were also terrible at many other things, including designing clothes, starring in movies, and making calendars. Unwittingly, the twins stumbled upon a core celebrity tenet: mediocrity in many areas adds up to greatness.

Once it was confirmed that one actually didn't have be good at anything in order to be great, celebrities quickly codified the exact path to overexposure and a cheapened image. Step one: declare either acting or singing one's primary talent. After tepid reviews, implement step two by following up acting with a music album produced on a Muppets Casio keyboard, or if a singer, by starring in a movie about a singer. Step three: produce a perfume that smells like lilac pantyliners. Finally step four, produce a garbage clothing line to be sold at Dave and Barry's.

Aside from MK and Ashley, J.Lo, Mariah, Jessica Simpson, Kimora Lee Simmons, Lindsay Lohan, Sarah Jessica Parker and Paris Hilton, Hilary Duff is the undisputed high priestess of the mediocre path to greatness. Starting as a second-rate actress, Hilary became an international celebrity by producing an underwhelming album, launching a fragrance that smells of baby powder and hawking a line of rags sold at ghetto department stores everywhere. Thus it's no surprise that Hilary is hanging out with Hayden at Butter - Hayden's album drops in 2008.

David Duchovny is clearly a smart guy. He went to Princeton, he wrote a thesis called The Schizophrenic Critique of Pure Reason in Beckett's Early Novels, he came up with an inventive way to never forget the name of at least one of his kids. Yet here he is, presumably hoping that Swarovski makes bedazzled crystal socks, because not one person, including his Masters-degree-having self, thought to ask the Red Hot Chili Peppers before they decided to use the word Californication as the name of his new show. How is that even possible?

I'll tell you how—because David Duchovny did it on purpose.

Imagine you are Duchovny. You've done all that fancy Ivy League crap. You broke ground with your cross-dressing role on Twin Peaks. You defined sleazebag in your star-making turn in Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead. You got naked and did it with everyone on your new provocative Showtime series, and yet, to an entire horde of Sci Fi geeks, as well as just regular geeks, you will forever be the man born to play Fox Mulder.

His efforts to alter this reality over the past several years have been less than successful. House of D, the movie he wrote, directed and starred in, got some of the worst reviews a movie has ever gotten in the history of movies. The new show is getting mixed reviews and it's hardly the next X-Files. And he got upstaged by Mary-Louise Parker, two snakes and an apple in the promo poster. His only option at this point is to resign himself to his fate. And signing up for the movie sequel was a nice first step. Which, thank God they are finally doing a sequel! Mulder and Scully are totally doing it in this one.

It's no secret that aging is a sin in Hollywood. Luckily, for the grandes dames of the red carpet, there are a myriad of ways to combat the ravages of time. Droopy eyelids? Slather that shit in baby foreskin. Turkey waddle neck? I'll take an order of unicorn horn, please. Face in total disrepair? Go under the knife and end up looking refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to deny having any work done. Or go to Jan Adams and end up dead.

Unfortunately, science has not advanced to the point where Hollywood men can safely avail themselves of plastic surgery. The evidence is compelling: Patrick Swayze went from sexy to surprised!. Bruce Jenner transformed from Olympian hunk to burn victim. Michael Douglas gets a new and apparently ineffective facelift every year.

As a result, the swollen, aging forefathers of Hollywood - John Travolta, Jack Nicholson, Tom Hanks and Val Kilmer, to name a few - face Sophie's choice: remain fat and bloated and spend the winter of your life starring in mortifying autobiographically-titled films such as Wild Hogs, The Terminal, As Good as it Gets and Something's Gotta Give (or, in the case of Val, signing autographs at Chiller Theatre expos in Parsippany, New Jersey alongside fellow "celebrities" David Faustino and Elvira) or get plastic surgery and end up like this.

The consequence of this devastating choice between the Scylla of plastic surgery and the Charybdis of bloat has left virtually no regal older gentleman available to play the love interests of carefully preserved beauties Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep and Dame Judi Dentures. Hollywood is in crisis. If science does not act quickly, we are in danger of losing a genre of movies like The Bridges of Madison County and future repulsive geriatric love stories. What kind of world do we live in where former Batman Val Kilmer is forced to see pictures of sagging breasts on his digital camera - especially when the sagging breasts are his own?

Assuming this lady means raspberry in a sexual kind of way and not in a making-fart-sounds-on-a-baby kind of way, this is one of several sightings we've received lately from women admiring the adorably awkward smoothness of one Michael Cera.

Ever since he got fake-fired from "Knocked Up" and starred in "Superbad," , Mr. Manager has been getting lots of attention.

And while he is certainly hysterical and seems like a very nice kid (born 1988!), something in the profile pieces and the female adoration for being an ordinary-looking, slightly-geeky guy is triggering an ugly, big-lipped, abyss-screaming pang of Braffian déjà vu. And since we adore him, and every relationship we have with an actor is only ever one date with a Simpson sister away from being broken beyond repair, let's look at some proactive steps Michael Cera can take to avoid becoming the next Zach Braff.

1.) Don't date anyone famous or blonde. Some cursory Google-stalking of Michael Cera indicates he is currently dating a stand-up comic named Charlyne Yi. Perfect. Let's just hope with the growing attention he doesn't lose his head. It's a slippery slope people. The kid has too many beers one night, his friends convince him they should see what this Le Deux is all about, just to make fun of the people there of course, and BAM. We lose him forever.

2.) Stop blogging. This is okay now because it's for his web series "Clark and Michael," which is actually funny. However, what if he starts using blogs to talk politics or respond to things the media says about him? It could get dicey. It's better to end it before it starts. It could end up on HuffPo! Ack!

3.) Stop being in a band. Again, all reports are that the band is good, but we're talking preemption here. If you have a family history of breast cancer sometimes you need to lop that boob off early to save your life. It's common sense.

Is all this just a pessimistic attitude shaped by a world in which Promises mean nothing and Carrot Top gets laid? Maybe. But whatever. With the paparazzi on his tail and his growing appearance on those "hot" lists, we happily make the case that it's never too early to take action.

Few industry insiders could have foreseen the devastating and far-reaching impact of the subprime mortgage market crash. Second Avenue hellhole Brother Jimmy's is now at capacity on Tuesday nights, a direct result of the layoffs of thousands of douchebankers and hedgeturds. The market for summer 2008 Hamptons shares is stagnant. Hundreds of hastily-bought iPhones are being returned for cash refunds.

But perhaps most alarmingly, there has been a disturbing trend of washed up 80s and early 90s celebrities forced out of forced retirement and reappearing on prime time television. In this Halloween edition of Stalk of the Town, we explore the resurrection of celebrities whose careers have been raised from the dead and answer the burning question on everyone's mind—why the hell does Steve Guttenberg have an entourage?

One has only to watch any of the major networks during prime time to realize that nearly all of the "hit" shows are populated by moving picture forefathers including Bob Sagat, Howie Mandel and AC Slater.

I repeat: HOWIE MANDEL HOSTS A SHOW WHERE THEY OPEN BRIEFCASES.

This is unacceptable. Why hasn't anyone said anything? The elephant in the room is that these has-beens, hit hard by the recent recession and having squandered their royalty monies on booze, fast cars, fast women and the latest in hair regrowth technology, are now indentured servants of the networks, forced to host every crappy pageant or gameshow, just to get by.

But, much like Stevie Wonder, the economy's downturn is blind, affecting not only canceled sitcom stars, but also washed up 80s and early 90s recording artists, including Paula Abdul, Flavor Flav and Salt N Pepa (stars of a terrible reality show). Bands that are always mistaken as "dead" in the game "Dead or Alive?" such as Genesis and The Police are now forced to transpose their songs into lower keys, pack up their arthritis medication and tour the country, begging for cash.

Instead of giving to UNICEF this Halloween, won't you find it in your heart to donate your time and money to watching their terrible shows and seeing their embarrassing concerts?

Seeing his peers on television, Steve Guttenberg, no fool himself, is wisely whipping himself into game show shape. He just sold his memoir! Yes, seriously! And now he's rolling with an entourage, he's purchased a leather jacket, and is splurging for the Presidente tanning package at Hollywood Tans—all in anticipation of the network call that will surely come to host Cooking with the Stars: On Ice.

How long will these zombies continue to haunt us?

Everyone in Hollywood is Botoxing these days. Ashlee Simpson is doing it at only twenty-three, Nicole Kidman's forehead hasn't moved since she was married to Tom Cruise, and no judgment on that reality will be passed here. After all, celebrities have essentially one job—to remain better-looking and thinner than the rest of us so as we watch them from our couches, eating peanut butter from the jar and wondering where our lives went, we won't see even a passing resemblance to ourselves that makes us reflect inward. If they need to employ pharmaceuticals, illegal drugs, surgery or other life-endangering methods to make this happen, so be it. That's why they get paid the big bucks. Plus, the alternative is horrific.

That being said, there's something off about the idea that Keanu Reeves is now Botoxing. Say what you will about the man; he's only famous because of his bone structure, his movie-star, vanity-band is awful, "The Lake House" was the the best time-transcending love story since "Back To the Future," but there is one thing we can all agree on—it doesn't seem like he showers that much.

Obviously he's not just acting like a dirty person, at least not believably, so getting needles stuck in his skin to appear younger seems to be something he wouldn't have the inclination to do either. Perhaps though, Keanu is smart. Maybe he realizes that his success thus far and any success in the future can only be related to his looks and he is willing to do whatever it takes to maintain them. Good for him.

I just hope he didn't get a plastic surgery recommendation from his friend Patrick Swayze. Because that guy should have his license taken away. Yes. His license to have a face.

The sun may be setting on the fairy-tale love story of Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen. Born out of the football-player's maybe-cheating on impregnated girlfriend Bridget Moynahan, the Tom-Gisele union seemed destined to succeed, and it appeared that at last these two deserving individuals had finally found a love true and pure.

And yet recently, preoccupied with the rigors of his new ad campaign for sleazebag cowboy cologne Stetson (not to be confused with Shania by Stetson) and busy with the new son that he never sees, Tom appears to be losing interest in his Victoria's Secret girlfriend. The luster of banging an aging supermodel has understandably worn thin, and the time has come to trade in for a younger and thinner model who preferably speaks better English.

Sensing her man slipping away, Gisele at first tried to play nice with Bridget and curry Tom's favor by thoughtfully sending Bridget a onesie for the bastard child that said "Supermodel" on it. But as the public fights with Tom continued, Gisele knew that she was at a crossroads with only two options—either get plastic surgery or get pregnant. Indeed, every self-respecting woman knows that the best way to keep a man who is slipping away is to juice up the implants, fake a miscarriage, or up the ante and really get pregnant. But while plastic surgery is forever, pregnancy is fleeting and children can be ignored. If Gisele wants to keep her man, it's time to go fishing—fishing in the trash for used condoms, that is. It didn't work for Bridget, but the second time's the charm.

Since Gisele is a savvy businesswoman, as evinced by her line of gorgeous peasant sandals, odds are she'll shrewdly choose the pregnancy route that will at least temporarily prolong her relationship with Tom. While this spells good news for Gisele, it is bad news for the American—we taxpayers who must shoulder the burden of yet another unwed mother draining our welfare system. .

You have to imagine that Jennifer Lopez has been less than pleased with the way things have shaken out since the end of that Bennifer mess in 2004. Sure, she managed to get herself revenge-married within six months, but Ben Affleck got married too and in the type of checkmate move that almost makes you respect him and his enormous head, he managed to get his new lady pregnant before the wedding.

Now, the two of them are walking around town sporting one of the most adorable babies out there and JLo's stuck with Marc Anthony, who, while appropriately-sized, is not the creature she envisioned would be suckling at her breast more than three years into the marriage. Add to that the fact that both her music and acting careers seemed to have stalled and you just know that Jennifer Lopez has been working and planning for this baby/career-resurgence for a while.

First, she got Scientology. She won't admit it and probably doesn't even actually believe in it, but obviously since the two times a month she got drunk enough to sleep with Marc Anthony were not yielding desired results, she took the necessary steps. Because, maybe he's an alien that lives in a volcano, or something, but when it comes to making adorable babies, Xenu is clearly your guy.

After Scientology knocked her up—we normal people don't have the money or fame to ever know or understand the exact process of how that happens—she developed a pre-baby project. Obviously, you can't launch a baby with nothing behind it, that's in poor taste. It doesn't matter if said project is any good, or even remotely creatively-titled. The less work put into it the better. Stress is no good for baby.

Right now she's doing the necessary baby promotion, which she obviously planned for by designing an entire wardrobe that made her look pregnant in which she could be photographed while coyly refusing to answer questions about her pregnancy. She is clearly milking this stage, but who can blame her? She put the work in. And surely today's Us Weekly cover is just a prelude to the two-part Diane Sawyer sit-down in a softly-lit room.

There is one thing that is vaguely upsetting about all of this—it's unoriginal. Popping out a kid to salvage a fading career has been done more times than Jennifer's nose. In fact, Halle Berry is doing it right now. We simply expect more from the woman who brought us "Maid in Manhattan." Does she not realize she's gonna be splitting the covers when she loses all her baby weight in ten days? And there's no way the book she's already written about her battle with post-partum depression is gonna sell as well with Halle's out there at the same time.

Why someone hasn't yet assassinated Carrot Top is beyond me. Just to be clear—Carrot Top is 100% obsolete. And yet, according to his IMDB entry, Carrot Top sells out "over 200 shows a year." The honest frightening truth is: If you try to purchase a ticket to his show tonight at the Luxor in Vegas, the best available ticket is in the second-to-last row. And that ticket will cost you more than $50.

But apart from Vegas, the only paying gig he had in recent memory was as the spokesman for 1-800-CALL-ATT, a service for prisoners who need to harass ex-lovers. As the very concept of calling people and making them pay for it is odious, Carrot Top's steady gig vanished with the advent of this new and unforeseeable cellular phone technology and he was left with only the National Suicide Prevention Hotline in his Fave Fives. Now his only other non-Vegas income appears to come from his set at the wildly outdated Friar's Roast, posthumously hosted each year by Rodney Dangerfield and Walter Matthau. And if "roasting" Jeff Foxworthy and Drew Carey counts as a career, it's time for America to reevaluate.

Beyond Carrot Top's outdated career, there is the obvious—have you seen him lately? He was always a monster, but he couldn't just stop with the juicin' G.I. Joe physique. Sadly, sometime in the early 2000s, Carrot Top took matters into his own hands when he put silly putty on his face, ran into a wall and then drew eyebrows on in order to achieve his desired result of looking like an R.L. Stine Goosebumps character. Getting laughs any way one can is respectable, but his face is nothing to laugh it. It's horrifying. There is not enough room in this (stalk of the) town for two 'roid raging readheads, and America already has Danny Bonaduce.

This is our a public plea to all media outlets to stop filling the internets and airwaves with pictures and stories about Carrot Top. Every we time we read about him, minutes of our lives are wasted and possibly years shaved off. (This is happening to you right now!) He scares little children and countless people have had to acid-peel their eye layers. Until he is obliterated from the national consciousness, we remain prisoners in our own country, constantly on guard against any alarming pictures of him wearing a visor and lifting weights, living in fear that at any moment he could be given a special on Comedy Central. America cannot rest easy until he is finally nabbed: help us, To Catch a Predator!

Previously: George Clooney's Fear of Commitment Clearly Caused His Motorcycle Accident

No man is perfect. Even the sexiest, most cleverest, and charm-oozing among us put on their perfectly tailored pants one leg at a time and have their bad days. The thing is; you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have, the facts of life. Truer words have rarely been spoken, and though they may have gotten the girls through their chubby periods and helped Natalie deal with the ramifications of losing her virginity to Snake, they must have offered little comfort to George Clooney as he sat in a Jersey hospital with a nasty case of the road rash.

So, how in God's name does such a pedestrian accident happen to Gawker Stalker's patron saint?

First off, in a post-8/26 world we can never take for granted that a celebrity wasn't trying to self-harm. If we have learned nothing from the events of that day we know this—sometimes being handsome, rich, famous and able to sleep with anyone you want at the drop of a hat is just not enough. However, the fact that Clooney was with guest and in New Jersey both render this theory unlikely. The Hollywood suicide doesn't try to take others out with them—they don't want to share the headline—and they would never choose to do it in Weehawken, New Jersey (too low-rent).

This brings us to the second, more probable theory—that hot chick he was with totally sabotaged him. Honestly, what do we really know about this Sarah Larson person? She was a contestant on "Fear Factor," so she's obviously not afraid of a stunt. She was working as a cocktail waitress in Vegas when she landed one of the biggest movie stars in the world, so she must be at least fairly cunning underneath all that hotness. And, since she's got a brain in her head and is a woman, you know that before their first date was over she was picturing their life together: hosting dinner parties at the Lake Como Villa, her big, toothy face on the cover of People next to the headline "How She Finally Tamed Him!" in 36-point font.

Maybe this Sarah also knows the universal truth that nothing moves a man with as much efficiency as guilt. She gets him stoned, convinces him to take a ride to the unfamiliar side of the Hudson and grabs his junk just as Tony Jersey goes to make a right. Next thing you know, her foot's broken, Clooney's saying "I love you," and she finally gets to walk the goddamn red carpet like a real girlfriend he's not ashamed of. Right, Sarah?

This all becomes strikingly clear when you take into account the above sighting; mere hours before the accident Clooney was out for a spin on the same bike—better side of the river—with a blonde. Now, it's possible, since this tipster is apparently only six years old, that she was mistaken and the girl on the bike was indeed the brunette Sarah, but, even taking that into account Sarah had to know her days were numbered and she took action like the "Fear Factor" champ that she is.

Poor George, if only there was some way to warn him. He really needs to learn how to work the internet.

Previously: Jake Gyllenhaal's Misty Acne-Covered Memories

Long long ago, in a city far far away, Jake Gyllenhaal attended Columbia University, alma mater of embittered, antisocial people who don't fit in anywhere else but have been working on their problems in therapy twice a week and feel they've made some improvements. Having only been in City Slickers at the time, Jake was by far the lamest celebrity to attend Columbia, as his fame was eclipsed by TGIF luminaries Rider Strong and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman's daughter.

It did not help that Jake also had terrible acne at the time and wore the same ratty white Hanes t-shirt every single day. Nor was it helpful that Jake would use familiar Buddhist analogies in his Contemporary Civilizations class and attempt to pass them off as his own, eliciting the mockery of his fellow students.

Understandably confusing the campaign to "Save Pluto" with the public's interest in seeing a movie about astronaut coalminers, Jake's turn in October Sky did little to bolster his college image. As with most celebrities who are revealed to be frauds who got into school based on their celebritydom, Jake dropped out of college for the greener pastures of Hollywood. "Let him go," some of his classmates snickered, jealously counting their dining dollars. "Only a fool would trade a medieval studies degree for a shot at fame, riches and everlasting glory. Besides, he'll never get rid of those cheek zits."

Yet fate was to deal his classmates a cruel blow in the form of new clothes, a wildly successful movie career, daily cycling trips with Lance Armstrong and laser resurfacing. Every sighting of Jake sent into Gawker Stalker rants and raves about how "hot" or "sizzling" he is while doing the most mundane of things. But who could have known that they would develop topical ointments to deal with acne and carbuncles? Who could have known that he would become so famous that even his more talented sister who looks like a Garbage Pail Kid would become famous?

While good looks, a legitimate film career and celebrity ex-girlfriends such as Reese Witherspoon are nice to have, a medieval studies degree is worth more because when times get tough Jake won't have anything to fall (broke)back on. So readers, continue to send in your sightings of Jake looking repulsively sexy—you can all have him. Mystery, call me. I'm not kidding.

Previously:
John Mayer Is Just Mining Jessica Simpson For Comedy

The Jessica Simpson-John Mayer coupling seemed slightly off right out of the gate. The public, its level of confusion rivaled only by its apathy, wanted answers; sort of. What could they possibly talk about? Did this pairing with a woman who clearly wouldn't have looked twice at him in high school officially make him the musical Zach Braff? Or, did the fact that he dated Jennifer Love Hugetitts back when Braff was still just the awkward, big-lipped guy on that doctor show make Braff the acting John Mayer? Also, didn't one of Time Magazine's 100 most influential people in the world want someone who could appreciate all his witty, voice-of-a-generation blogging?

But. Wouldn't Jessica Simpson be more comfortable with someone more muscle-y who didn't make her stare at all those tiny words?

Only in the past week have the answers to some of these pressing questions become clear. John Mayer wants very badly to be funny, and though her boobs are obviously a nice bonus, the guy is just doing Jessica Simpson for the jokes. Let's look at the time line:

June '06 - John Mayer bombs horribly at the Comedy Cellar with borderline racist material and vague, uninspired jokes about how sluts have "unlocked their masterlock for him".

August '06 - The John Mayer, Jessica Simpson rumors start. Both People and Us Weekly declare her madly in love. In response, John throws up a simple 'don't believe the hype' Public Enemy reference post on his blog and it's sort of funny.

November '06 - The two are back on and realizing perhaps that good comedy lies in the details: jokes about sluts are not that funny, jokes about a particular slut that everyone knows are funny. John returns to the Cellar with a victorious "not bad" set. Granted, the play-by-play we got from the cokehead who saw it leaves something to be desired, but common sense seems to indicate he threw a few Jessica Simpson jokes in there.

April '07 - SNL sets its mediocre comedic sights on the couple and you can almost see John watching at home, head raised and fists clenched as the tears of joy stream down his face; "Oh god, they're laughing. They're finally laughing!" he cries. In our mind.

And now after a break-up at the beginning of the summer and some unfunny Cameron Diaz sex, Jessica is spotted sneaking out of his apartment and the guy is now a comedy superman. The only question is; how many times can he do that dead-on impression of Joe Simpson teaching him to be good to his daughter before the hunting for new material must start?

Previously: Tears Of A Butterscotch Clown

In the wake of the tragic events of 8/26, America demands answers. Answers to vague questions, including "How could this happen?" And: "Where did things go wrong?" And: "If eHarmony is matching me only with unattractive people, does that mean I'm ugly or are there just generally ugly people in the database?"

While it may be tempting to blame Shanghai Knights as the beginning of his downward spiral, Owen Wilson's recent suicide attempt raises more questions than it does answers. Luckily, Us, Life & Style, and a host of other reputable media outlets who have dutifully heeded Owen's wish that the media respect his privacy at this difficult time have proffered a number of completely baseless but accurate theories about the circumstances leading up to Owen's attempt. Below, we have rated the persuasiveness of the theories on a scale of Four Pills (likely) to Whole Bottle (100% extremely likely).

1. "History of Depression" Theory. Owen allegedly has a "history of depression" and seven years ago spent time at the Hazeldon clinic to treat this history, which was apparently somewhat unsuccessfully because Owen recently tried to kill himself. Give me a break - everyone is depressed. Also, Hazeldon is a drug and alcohol rehab facility. Nice try, The Insider. Rating: Four Pills.

2. Breakup with Kate Hudson Theory. The theory goes that Owen was so devastated over seeing paparazzi photos of Kate with new boyfriend Dax Shepard that he immediately needed to die. Accordingly, "despondent" Kate had little choice but to french Dax in a supermarket the next day and then spend a grief-stricken Labor Day visiting planetariums and romping near Central Park. While seeing an ex with another person may reasonably induce some people to spend entire weekends watching Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" YouTube video on repeat, eating Lindt chocolate and sobbing uncontrollably in a closet, it seems unlikely that Owen decided to randomly kill himself a month after photos of Kate and Dax first surfaced. Rating: Five Pills.

3. Ugliest Wilson Brother Theory. While some have argued that in recent months Owen had become increasingly agitated by having a penis for a nose and not being as good looking as his brother Luke, evidence of a less attractive Wilson brother provides incontrovertible proof that brother Andrew is in fact worse looking. Rating: Four Pills.

4. Genital Wart Theory. Wilson has been leading a double life as Big Brother winner and head douchebag restaurateur Mike "Boogie" Malin. Indeed, tired of being everyone's butterscotch clown, and humiliated by recent and somewhat ill-conceived appearance on "Dr. 90210" for the removal of a genital wart, Owen decided to end it all, wisely preferring death to Valtrex or condoms. Rating: Whole Bottle.

Fortunately for fans of terrible Ben Stiller movies, the latest reports claim that Owen is doing better and "making people laugh" - a telltale sign of attempted suicide recovery, and a first for Owen. Looks like there is nothing to be concerned about as Owen is back to hiding his secret pain, doing drugs, and monitoring his genital wart. America can finally return to normalcy.

Previously: Bill Clinton Samples The Sweets

Even people who despise Hillary Clinton acknowledge that she's one sharp lady. A lady who may soon become our first female President. Unless, of course, Bill's channel surfing, catches one of those amazing Viva Viagra spots, gets to thinking about the good old days and does something that derails the whole damned thing.

For this reason, one might think that a sighting like this, Bill spending a hot summer day in a candy store, the scent of sticky caramel and melting chocolate wafting through the air as hungry women cling to him under the guise of posing for photos, might be something Hillary would frown upon.

But thinking that would be underestimating Hillary. Because she knows better than anyone that Bill's magnetic penis is not a liability; it's just a double-edged sword. Say what you will about the guy, the ladies love him, more than they love her, in fact. So, the most interesting question of the 2008 election becomes; Can Hillary keep Bill Clinton from groping, fondling or oral sexing anyone until after November 4, 2008?

Some will argue here that after the impeachment and humiliation Bill has learned his lesson and would never risk doing something like that with so much on the line. To these people I would say Steve Swindal. Steinbrenner's son-in-law was, at most, five years from taking over the whole Yankees' franchise and he couldn't manage not to cheat on the Boss's daughter. Dumb!

Oh, and also I would say Bill Clinton, who couldn't keep it in his pants for his whole presidency.

But now that he's slimmed down and his wife is getting all the attention there's not a chance he doesn't feel like going on the prowl for someone who will kneel down and reaffirm his man-ness.

Which is why it is probable that our tipster simply failed to notice the tranquilizer-armed guards dressed as homeless people positioned outside the front door of Dylan's in case one of the women dripped some chocolate on Bill's button-down and offered to clean it for him back at her place. And that's why I'm probably voting for Hillary Clinton maybe.

If she can keep Bill Clinton in line for the length of her campaign, then fixing Iraq, protecting us from terrorists, stopping global warming, dealing with North Korea, making it so my health insurance company stops screwing me and rebuilding stuff so pigeon poop-laden bridges don't collapse and streets explode less often shouldn't be anything she can't handle.

Since reality television overtook religion as the opiate of the masses, two main truths have come to light. The first, and most important; those egg-on-the-frying-pan commercials were misleading. Drugs fuck up more than your brain. They also mess with your motor skills and your face.

The second; we, as an audience, want our reality stars to be stereotypes. We only like to watch the real-life adventures of people with personalities that can be described in three words or less. This genius technique, pioneered by the creators of The Real World, has been employed in every reality series produced in the last 15 years. And yet, Lauren Conrad fascinates us even though, let's face it — she's boring. Yes, she seems like a nice enough girl, maybe a tad judgmental, (but honestly, is that even a flaw anymore?) and sure, she's easy on the eyes, but you would be hard pressed to find someone, not just on television but also in your life, with less of a personality. Even her sex tape was dismissed as disappointing. So why are we all hooked on her life like the ancillary characters of a late-90's McConaughey vehicle?

Her uncanny ability to surround herself with your more-typical reality character fare doesn't hurt. In fact, it's probable the only reason she got her own show in the first place was because she hooked up with Jason Wahler during Season 2 of Laguna Beach. And the fact that her roommate started dating Spencer Pratt, a white, LA-based Omarosa, certainly didn't hurt The Hills' popularity. Maybe Lauren is like Vince on Entourage; only there to look pretty and move the plot forward from week to week. Otherwise? Empty.

There is, however, another possible reason for all the Lauren-love. Maybe it lies in the haunting similarities between LC and another blond icon we've been searching desperately to replace. Another woman who spoke softly, adored black eye-liner and garnered sympathy as the unloved angle of a famous love-triangle? That's right. Maybe Lauren Conrad is our generation's Princess Diana. Disappointed? You should be. But as they say, every generation gets the Princess Di they deserve. And no, she hasn't done any of that volunteer, Angelina Jolie, good-person shit that Di did—yet. But hey, the rest is still unwritten.

It goes without saying that no one can predict the weather. And in the face of 60% chance of showers, possible scattered thunderstorms and partial cloudiness, America needs a weatherman who is consistent—consistently good looking, that is. Enter Sam Champion, who has, for nearly 20 years, fabricated the weather and looked damn good doing it.

As the predicament of the polar ice caps has become increasingly dire, the need for better-looking weathermen has grown exponentially. With the extinction of "mild and sunny" weekends, Al Roker soon realized he could no longer get away with pounding doughnuts, and therefore stepped up his game with gastric bypass. And with hopes dashed for the white Christmas he is always yapping about, Bill Evans (who is Jewish, naturally) kicked shit into high gear with a new set of hairplugs.

Indeed, though 2007 went on record as the year with the most "x-treme" weather, instead of demoting Sam, WABC instead promoted him from AccuWeather weatherboy to Good Morning America Meteorologist, despite the fact that he did absolutely nothing to stop Hurricane Katrina or the tsunami that nearly took the life of Petra Nemcova. WABC did not even dispatch Sam to the scene of those natural disasters, preferring to send uglier and more overweight correspondents, ones whose faces could be spared if nature should again attack.

Thus it comes as no surprise that this morning, while millions of commuters were squashed on broken trains and seconds away from punching the people next to them, Sam Champion prepared New Yorkers for the upcoming storm the best way he knew how—with a pre-storm trip to Dr. Zizmor, and a cruise through Chelsea with his blepharoplasty down. Streets may explode, bridges collapse and levees break, but America can take comfort in the fact that Sam's gorgeous face is staying put.

Previously: Geraldo Rivera Protects And Serves