Hey, the New York primary is right around the corner! Expect to see a lot more of our favorite New Yorkers the Clintons around town! Your Bed-Stuy correspondent can report that there is a shitload of Obama signage around the neighborhood, but Hillary's still relying on a major delegate pick-up in her adopted home state. If she can keep Bill quiet. Or maybe not keep him quiet? Who the hell knows! Thank god we're getting Sharpton involved, though. That's great news for everyone.

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 Now his only other non-Vegas income appears to come from his set at the wildly outdated Friar's Roast, posthumously hosted each year by Rodney Dangerfield and Walter Matthau.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Beyond Carrot Top's outdated career, there is the obvious—have you seen him lately?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

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

The date: July 20th
The time: 9:48 a.m.
The place: 19 E. 57th Street
Sighted: "Renee Zellweger walking toward Bliss Spa. Wearing yoga pants, long sleeved T, and flip flops, drinking Starbucks and looking better than anyone else."

If history has taught us anything, it is that the two greatest motivators known to mankind are high school reunions and inciting jealousy in an ex. And while it's possible that Renee Zellweger is prepping for her grand entrance at her reunion because she was, like so many of us, rejected for the sophomore semiformal by a guy who looks like a rabid chipmunk, sleeps in a Ferrari-shaped bed and works for the United Jewish Appeal, the more likely scenario is that Renee's current insane workouts are a last ditch attempt to incite jealousy in former flame and recent co-star George Clooney.

Fully knowing that George reads Gawker Stalker Maps, Renee has launched what can only be described as a desperate campaign to win George back, sending in sightings of herself invariably dressed in yoga gear "looking great." And, believing us to be ignorant fools, just yesterday a "tipster" emailed the Stalkettes wondering if we've "noticed that nearly all of Renee Zellweger's Gawker Stalker sightings are basically of her in workout clothes?" Please, Renee. Have some dignity.

Renee's pathetic (albeit successful) attempts to get onto Gawker Stalker Maps and into Stalk of the Town begs the question: why must she resort to Bridget Jones-like tactics in order to bag a man? Why can't Renee —a Hollywood starlet—just date George?

For most other celebrities, nabbing George would be as routine as checking into a hospital for exhaustion. These same celebrities are also "all natural" and blessed with god-given implants and airbrushed 32-pack abs. Yet other celebrities must work hard to counteract their round, lemon-eating faces and the fact that they are over the hill by at least ten years.

The conclusion is inevitable and absolute: Renee's celebritydom, like that of Minnie Driver, is accidental, and a result, she must bear the crushing burden of trying to emulate a higher class of humanity. If she were a real celebrity she could have married a gay Kenny Chesney and just taken up Scientology—she wouldn't have lost face by filing for divorce by fraud. If she were a real celebrity should wouldn't have to pretend to be George Clooney's best friend a la Eponine in Les Miserables—she could just date him and live in his totally bitchin' Lake Como villa full time, instead of lame "just passing through" drive-bys and transparent "may I borrow some sugar?" attempts.

The tragedy of Renee's sad Gawker game is another reminder that celebrities are born, not made. Either you're born with implants and a nosejob or you're not, and no amount of Mari Windsor Pilates (yes, I'm talking about you, Daisy Fuentes) or Grind workout videos can bridge such an unbridgeable gap.

Previously: Not Much Owen Wilson Rubbed Off On Matt Dillon

It is thankless, repetitive work that results in a relatively small post that few people care about and fewer even read, and yet, it is our job. Oh, we don't expect sympathy: there's plenty worse we could be doing (Conrad Black trial roundups, for instance! Much worse! Or you know, weeping in a permalancer's cubicle at Viacom) but we just want you to have a sense of our state of mind when this Stalker sighting came over the transom this afternoon:

Rupert Murdoch

59th and Park Avenue
chillin on Park Ave, rocking the suit.

Some people might argue that observing and chronicling the daily activities of celebrities is a hobby of the mean-spirited, bored and miserable. These people may have a minuscule point. But, they are also stupid. And obviously drunk ALL the time. Because, since the famous person is simply a richer, better-looking version of us, in watching them we learn about ourselves. In celebrity veritas, if you will. And the above sighting of Matt Dillon is totes a Cliff's Notes version of the sibling rivalry chapter of any psychology textbook. Let's explore.

Back in the late 80's and early 90's Matt Dillon was very hot. All chiseled and brooding and badass. And, since movie-goers enjoy hot people, his career took off. He dated Cameron Diaz and Brooke Shields, he had on-screen threesomes with Neve Campbell and Denise Richards, life was nothing but green lights, ice cream, and free smack. His younger brother Kevin, however, was the victim of one of those unfortunate genetic twists where similar features don't work as well on one sibling as they do on the other. His career reflected this appropriately.

But things change. Time passes, you stop doing the smack, your chin disappears into your neck fat, and your brother gets a part on an HBO hit playing, Alanically, the less-famous brother of a star. Meanwhile, you're getting listed underneath Michael Keaton on the IMDB page for Herbie Fully Loaded and working on a film from the acclaimed director of that John Travolta-in-a-do-rag romp, Wild Hogs.

The point is this: Career dysfunction or collapse is bad enough for the fragile celebrity ego, but when you add to it the fact that your younger sibling's career is (magically, mysteriously) taking off, the pain must be unbearable. (It is for us.) And yes, "You, Me and Dupree" was such a good-grossing step in the right direction—but he had to play straight boring man to Owen Wilson, thereby only cementing the perceptions of him as an aging, less-cool fella.

It's all enough to make a man slap on his best Paris-style Chanel's and take a trip to Starbucks with his cell on speaker in the hopes of getting noticed. It's not a bad philosophy. Maybe Jessica Simpson should try it.

Previously: Moby's Inconvenient Truth

Moby is a man divided. And by divided, I mean "is a massive hypocrite." By day, Moby dines at veggie bistros and wears sunglasses purchased on St. Marks, but at night—while rainforests are being destroyed and glaciers are melting—he sleeps peacefully curled up under his bear-skin blanket beneath the whirring sound of the central air conditioning that cools his modest 1,500 square foot apartment.

They say Moby originally moved uptown because of his disgust for the gentrification of downtown, with its proliferation of Calypso stores and Starbucks. In an effort to escape the LES bourgeois citadel, Moby moved to a $4.5 million apartment in the El Dorado on the UWS, where he could shop with the poor at Zabar's and slum it for brunch at Sarabeth's. Perhaps realizing the irony of his choices and the inconvenient truth of his energy bill, Moby, "racked with class guilt," then put his 3-story apartment on the market for a paltry $7.5 million, in an effort to reunite with the masses and prove that he is indeed... whatever it is that he wants to be. Moby's feast at Counter was the last horseman of the Apocalypse—he's back, and downtown is now officially as played out as, well, Moby's Play.

Unfortunately, Moby is not content to simply ruin several Manhattan neighborhoods. (Question: Why has he never taken to Brooklyn?) He is also in the business of ruining lives. Instead of saving the environment at Live Earth—like Ludacris who sang "Pimpin' All Over"—Moby was at home in his solar powered kitchen complaining about the concession stand options. Instead of supporting our glorious war in Iraq, Moby is inciting murderous rage by serving shitty granola at his restaurant, Teany. And let us never forget how he completely RUINED Z100 for an entire summer when they were forced to play his Muppets Casio creation, "South Side," ad nauseam.

And here he is now, returning to the Lower East Side. Please do not issue him a check for $7.5 million. Boycott the undersized and overpriced crumpets at Teany. Let us return Moby to his rightful place: not on the UWS, not in the LES, but in the Keebler tree, where he will be free to bake delicious rainbow chip cookies all day long and be of some use to society.

Previously: Alec Baldwin Feels Inadequate

There are two stages of life in which the always-fragile celebrity ego is most vulnerable to a complete loss of its proverbial shit. The more photogenic of these stages occurs in the female during her late teens and early 20s. The photos and drunken ramblings of young, lady celebrities in various amusing stages of meltdown/undress are not exactly hard to come by these days. The second stage is, arguably, not as well documented. Probably because it occurs in the aging male celebrity and, though our nation clearly has a few issues, we haven't yet reached the level of complete societal breakdown indicated by a yearning for photos of old-man privates. But hey, it's only June. Unfortunately, the above sighting seems to indicate that Alec Baldwin is teetering on the edge of a stage-two crisis.

Granted, his nonsensical appearance on "The View" back in April didn't rise to Cruiseian couch-jumping levels. But it was kind of weird. And no, he hasn't gotten bombed and called anyone sugar tits yet, but honestly, can't you picture that happening fairly soon? Let's be clear. Alec Baldwin is hilarious. And that hilarity has kept him in the public's good graces through countless instances of douchebaggery. And though calling his teenage daughter a pig offended the inner, chubby bulimic teen in every woman I know, no one wants to see a video of him trying to eat a cheeseburger off the floor shirtless.

This is a dreadfully important time in Alec's rebuilding before the public. And much of it must happen in private. Nearly anything he does wrong now could turn all of America against him. Is this something he is too churlish and petty to understand? Does he not enjoy his celebrity status at all? Does he want to be forced to be removed permanently to Ronkonkoma to live in a 2-bedroom and do nothing all day?

Maybe the whole thing was Basinger's fault, but regardless, Alec needs to watch himself. He has a family history. And let's face it, as funny as the guy is on 30 Rock, he's only one Hawaiian shirt and a bad hair day away from being a total Nolte.

Previously: Dead Larry King Deserves His 'Privileges'

Every morning, nearly all of us non-celebrities are woken up by our foreign adopted children, take our ineffectual AIDS cocktails, greet our repulsive wives and/or husbands and then go to church or temple to worship the wrong god. And this is fine, because this is the short, nasty and brutish life into which we were born. But life is different for Larry King (nee Ziegler), who, though dead, gets up, greets his triple threat country singer/model/actress spouse Shawn Southwick and his 5 white children from 6 different sizzling wives, thumps his quintuple bypassed heart, and goes to work 7 days a week. What's his secret? Principal Secret? Possibly. But the more likely explanation is that Larry King, like all celebrities, has access to things not available to the rest of us downtrodden trolls.

Beyond the $100,000 awards show "swag bags" filled with diamond encrusted cameras and gift certificates for "cosmetic procedures," celebrities have access to countless other special privileges. While proletariat losers slog through the adoption process only to get piece of shit Chernobyl babies, Sheryl Crow and Sharon Stone snap their fingers and get 100% white American ones. Furthermore, while we waste our hard-earned dollars on (PRODUCT) RED iPods, Magic Johnson apparently already has the AIDS vaccine. And despite having to hoist his penis up with suspenders, Larry King has somehow managed to bang and impregnate a hot wife well into his 70s—a privilege not available to the masses. But why them and not us?

The bottom line is that the world's treasures should only be bestowed on deserving individuals. And who is more deserving than celebrities? Magic Johnson was a great basketball player who deserves to be cured of god's curse for promiscuous sex. Tom Cruise has given us Cocktail and The Last Samurai and therefore deserves to know the secrets of the world's only true religion, Scientology. And finally, having spent a lifetime interviewing people that matter, including Liz Taylor and Mary Kay Letourneau's husband, Vili, Larry King has earned the right to bone a hot wife well into the grave. You and I haven't done a single goddamn thing worthy such precious gifts, and as long as we continue to lead ignoble lives in the shadow of celebritydom, we will continue to die of AIDS, surrounded by dumpy spouses and foreign children, and denied by Xenu at the gates of the Galactic Confederacy.

Previously: Christina Aguilera's Husband Is Huge

No one ever said being a celebrity was easy. Sure, a quick glance at the Stalker Map might lead one to believe it's a charmed life, what with all the leisurely spring afternoons spent sipping cocktails at restaurants about the city while the rest of us sit in our fluorescent-lit prisons as the bitter rage at our station in life grows by the second until someone as unimportant as Zach Braff sets off a spewing geyser of raw emotion that can only be stemmed by pretending he doesn't exist in our world. BUT, actually, there are a few drawbacks to being famous. One of which is, if you're Christina Aguilera and you decide to marry someone who looks like Jordan Bratman, people are going to point out that your husband is ugly. Cruel? Yes. But so is life.

Now, there are only two reasons the celebrity woman pairs herself with an ugly mate. 1.) Billions of dollars (e.g., Ronald Perelman and Ellen Barkin). 2.) Musician status and/or penis size. Tommy Lee has the gift of both, and, though there is no photographic proof, Richie Sambora most likely does as well. Lyle Lovett is reputed to have a gigantic dong, and he got to marry Julia Roberts.

Based on the above sighting, and countless, gushing interviews about Jordan's over-the-top displays of affection, it would appear the man is operating under the assumption that Christina married him because he "treats her well." A quaint notion. This, along with "he makes her laugh" may matter in your standard, civilian, hot lady-ugly man pairing. But we're talking about celebrities. People who, through some deficiency in parental love, have chosen to spend their lives searching for acceptance from an appearance-worshipping general public. Bottom line, Jordan is wasting his time. She married him because of his tangential relationship to the music industry and his big man-part.

He should do himself a favor and start treating her like crap. So what if she's pregnant? She can carry her own bag.

Previously: Zach Braff Is Without Worth

Celebrities are typically horrible people, but most of the time they have the decency to try and hide it. For instance, Naomi Campbell is widely known for her work with UNICEF. Most people know Lindsay Lohan for her selfless devotion to Kenyan AIDS charities. Who would ever suspect that these two women were legitimately terrible people, each horrendous in her own special way? That's why when we learn about celebrities behaving like the hideous monsters they truly are, we are disillusioned and betrayed, not only by the celebrities themselves, but also by trusted rags like Us Weekly and Celebrity Life & Style that peddle their false images to an unsuspecting public.

Luckily, in the case of Billy Crudup (allegedly pronounced "crew-dup")("right"), America was forewarned that this Pirate of the Caribbean imitator had a soul filled with soot. Even prior to The Event That Shall Remain Nameless, Billy revealed himself to be the pompous, pompous, jerk that he is, stating in interviews that, "every time I make a movie, I think it's going to be a huge hit" and faux-sheepishly "conceding" that "the bones on the side of my face are really pronounced and high and that there's a certain symmetry to my face." Thus it should have come as no surprise when in 2003 Billy left 8 month pregnant girlfriend of 7 years Mary-Louise Parker for his co-star Claire Danes (who herself left boyfriend of 7 years Ben Lee), and thereby jumpstarted a new bastard club in Hollywood which now includes the likes of bastards Tom Brady, Kevin Federline and Eddie Murphy. In the words of the wise prophet Justin Timberlake, what goes around comes around, and Claire, having learned from the best, left Billy for co-star/occasional gay man, Hugh Dancy. Devastated by this unforeseeable turn of events, and having discovered that Mary-Louise was back on the market after dumping her Weeds co-star Jefferson Dean Morgan, Billy seized the opportunity and placed a desperate phone call to Mary-Louise to beg for her back.

The shame was great that day, my friends, as Billy cowered in an obsolete phone booth, crying into his red mustache. Though Billy was no stranger to begging, in that phone booth he became a celebrity stripped of his charity work and façade as a decent human being—a regular loser forced to call an old girlfriend and weasel his way back into her pants, and life. In his acknowledgment of and apologies for his hideously blackened soul, Billy bridged the seemingly unbreachable divide between celebrities (who conceal their evil) and peasants (who must apologize for it). That was the moment that we were one with him.

Previously:
Ellen Barkin, Sex Educator

Ever since Cain slew Abel because he never truly got over that whole "our parents ruined the world" thing, screwing up your children has been the natural parental order. Are celebrities better at it than the rest of us? Maybe. Or maybe the combination of their narcissism and our voyeurism just makes it seem that way. Regardless, perhaps it's the goodwill left over from Drop Dead Gorgeous talking here, but we would argue that Ellen Barkin taking her teenage daughter to a high-class sex store is not akin to the aforementioned biblical tragedy, nor is it on par with the Hoff's cheeseburger incident or Baldwin's voicemail. It is, instead, simply an example of a mother protecting her teenage daughter with a cloak of her own hard-earned, well-lubricated knowledge.

Let's face it, when your mom is Ellen Barkin there's no way you make it to teen-hood without knowledge of the adult act of love. The woman recently admitted that since her second divorce she's not into blind-dates because she doesn't like all that pesky dinner getting in the way of her sexing. Granted, she stopped doing nude scenes once her kids got old enough to be embarrassed, but before that, sex was a contractually obligated prerequisite to any role she took. So maybe Ellen figured, before the family headed off to Cannes for the opening of Ocean's Thirteen, she'd take her daughter on over to the neighborhood upscale, sex shop to see what's what in the world of 24-carat gold handcuffs. Sort of a prep course, if you will.

After all, the more you know about the ins and outs of rich-people sex, the less likely you are to put your career on hold for the first fat, bald billionaire who buys you a two-way mini-tickler. And that's just good parenting.

Previously: Foxy Brown's Endless Reign of Terror

To every generation a musical prodigy is born. In the nineteenth century, it was Beethoven. Today, it is Foxy Brown. But the comparisons between Beethoven and Foxy do not stop at the eerily similar Ninth Symphony and Ill Na Na. Forced into isolation by virtue of their rare genius, both were ironically and tragically afflicted with profound deafness, Beethoven in his Vienna apartment, and Foxy in the studio with Jay-Z. Fortunately for Foxy, breakthroughs in medicine have allowed her to regain her precious hearing, but modern science could not cure the emotional scars.

Foxy's illness set her upon a path of erratic and dangerous behavior. Like Beethoven before her, Foxy punched and kicked two nail-salon manicurists, and was sentenced to three years' probation and anger management classes. Also like Beethoven, Foxy threw hair glue at a beauty supply store manager and spit on him. And now, the virtuoso has successfully broadened her reign of terror to include not only physical assaults on beauty industry professionals, but also verbal and email threats to deli owners, lingerie salespeople, personal assistants and innocent bystanders. It seems clear that with a rap sheet as comprehensive and as diverse as Foxy's, her abuse is merely another expression of her genius. After all, genius and abuse go hand in hand across the artistic spectrum, and it is no coincidence that Naomi Campbell, a good friend of Foxy's, needs to abuse her assistants as part of the unfettered expression of her beauty.

But Foxy and Naomi's abuse serves an important social function as well. It reminds us that there are indeed two classes of people—celebrities and everyone else, and the latter group is basically worthless. Celebrities, by virtue of their genetic superiority, superior wealth, and general superior nature, have earned the right to abuse non-celebrities. If we lose a few manicurists and Agent Provocateur salespeople at the hands of a musical genius, that is indeed a small price to pay to maintain "the last real bitch alive." Consider it collateral damage in the ongoing struggle to maintain celebrity culture for our generation and for those to come.

Previously: Vanilla Ice Will Kill Someone Soon

There are two possibilities for what's going on in the above sighting. Either Vanilla Ice is doing some sort of "celebrity" bartending at McFadden's or, having reached the bottom of the washed-up celebrity reality-television trough, Ice has gone and gotten himself a bartending job to pay the bills. Either way, the fact that he's serving drinks while his own song plays in the background like some sort of Rocky-esque theme is, at first glance, hilarious. However, when one stops for a second and remembers what Celebreality has taught us about Mr. Van Winkle's temper, the concept moves from funny to frightening.

Maybe he never really got over being forced to dress like this, or perhaps it was the chilly reception of his rebel-without-a-cause inspired flick, Cool as Ice, but anyone who caught the finale of "Surreal Life Fame Games" knows that this man is only one insult away from becoming the first person to actually murder someone on television.

Starting with an assault on an innocent MTV set back in 1999 and continuing in 2001 with an arrest for ripping his wife's hair out, Ice's temper is well documented. Which brings us to a third, more probable theory as to what Ice is doing behind the bar at McFadden's: VH1's newest Celebreality show ("Cracking the Ice"?).

Face it: After Danny Bonaduce let everyone down and made it through two full seasons without killing himself or anyone else, putting Vanilla Ice in such close proximity to a group of drunk New Yorkers is the obvious next step in the search for an on-camera homicide. Kudos to whichever producer had the guts to reach for that elusive Celebreality brass ring. We just wouldn't recommend hitting McFadden's on a Saturday anytime soon.

Previously: Joey Lawrence Knows His Place

As in high school, when it was better to be head dungeon master than the fat friend of the cool kids, in Hollywood, celebrities must know their place in the celebrity pecking order so as to ensure the longevity of their fame. When former A-listers such as Tara Reid and Jennifer Love Hewitt refuse to accept their new C-list status and attempt to claw their way back to the top by doing talk show tours about their botched plastic surgery and by starring in Hanes commercials, the result is the bitter stink of desperation and the perversion of the celebrity social order. Friends, this will not be an article mocking Joey Lawrence, for he is a celebrity who knows and accepts his (low) place. Instead, we examine Joey's genius transformation from teen heartthrob to third-rate has-been and pay tribute to his "if you're never really there, they can't ask you to leave" professional strategy.

It's no secret that following the cancellation of Blossom, Joey planned to maintain his fame by doing what he had always done best—playing loveable dimwits and wearing flannel shirts. For a while he succeeded in remaining A-list, as evinced by the wild success of the hit single "Nothin' My Love Can't Fix", the lead single from what many critics consider the greatest album of February 3, 1993, Joey Lawrence. But when popular sentiment turned against Vidal Sassoon mousse and the TGIF Friday evening lineup, Joey's piece of shit show, Brotherly Love, was unexpectedly cancelled, and his music career fizzled.

Despite his attempts to distance himself from his teen idol days by demanding to be called "Joseph," Joey realized it would take something more drastic than an absurd name change and getting a new wife at Disney World in order to reinvent himself - it would take a haircut. Inspired by Howie Mandel's own transformation from mop-haired loser comic to bald and jacked game-show host, Joey shrewdly realized there was room enough on the C-list for two bald and jacked celebrities.

After ditching his luxurious mane and implementing a daily regimen of iron pumping, eyebrow waxing, and spray tanning, Joseph Lawrence, the new C-list celebrity and Mr. Clean imitator, was completely unidentifiable as former teen star Joey Lawrence. Whereas Joey wanted fame and groupies, Joseph is just grateful to be allowed back on TV, even if that means appearing on Dancing with the Stars. Thus it should come as no surprise that in today's dark, dark era for Broadway - "Cats" is no longer playing at the Wintergarden and "Movin' Out" failed to close on opening night - Joseph will be appearing as Billy Flynn in "Chicago," starting May 4th. Whoa, indeed.

So kudos, Joseph Lawrence, for knowing your place. America applauds your humility and eagerly awaits your forthcoming CW sitcom.

Previously: Jude Law's Downward Spiral

BuyCatch: So my apologies for not being able to chat with you more last night, Ms. Gould. It is difficult for a shy boy like myself to cut through your fanbase.
Memily: Heh, fanbase. [Note: Emily doesn't actually have a fanbase — Will is employing a literary device called "hyperbole."] I don't think either of us really has the fanbase of Prom King John Green! [Note: John Green wins awards for his writing and also is just generally very endearing, so he's like a rock star among his fellow YA writers.] The funniest part is how much some of the ladies there OBVS hate his wife.
BuyCatch: Ha.
Memily: "You stole our dream date John Green! We hate you!"
BuyCatch: That is absolutely true. I think by the end of the night he was kissing babies and signing boobs.
Memily: It's such an interesting scene. I mean, it's actually a scene!
BuyCatch: Yeah, I never realize there's a scene until I actually show up at one of those. Someone who I'd never met told me last night, "I thought your story really didn't fit with what they were doing with this book. It's a little too adult." Hey, good to meet you too!
Memily: Who SAYS something like that? Oh: hopeless loser dorks.
BuyCatch: I suspect there are some unresolved high school issues amongst some of that crew. Just a guess.
Memily: What tipped you off, the evening of tiara'd swaying to 'In Your Eyes'? The, uh, CAREERS IN YA NOVEL WRITING? I know unresolved high school issues are what led me there!
BuyCatch: Yeah. Someone else, at another reading a few months ago, mentioned that they didn't think, because I was writing another book that wasn't YA, I was "devoted" enough to "what we're doing." It's a cause!
Memily: I'm so disturbed yet oddly charmed by that.
BuyCatch: Of course, I also had five different people last night ask me where my wife was, so I suppose I've done an effective job of avoiding them for a while. [Note: for a while last year it seemed like Will might get married, and then it didn't.]
Memily: Those people clearly haven't been keeping up with YA AUTHOR SCANDALSHEET WEEKLY magazine.
BuyCatch: I know. You know, the people who run that magazine, they're all parasites. They're all going to hell.
Memily: They should really think about what they're doing with their lives.
BuyCatch: They really should. WHY CAN'T THEY JUST LEAVE ME BE.
[later]
BuyCatch: Does 'settling scores with old girlfriends' count as "unresolved high school issues?" I suppose it probably does.

Take a moment, close your eyes and remember the first time you saw Jude Law in The Talented Mr. Ripley. Tanned and oiled to the height of physical perfection, he actually got an Oscar nomination for being hot. And that was fine. He was extremely hot.

Now, fast forward seven years. He's regularly forced to share billing with at least three other actors to open a movie, the only awards he's getting are random French things nobody's ever heard of, and, perhaps most distressingly, it appears his hair is not in it for the duration. Is it any wonder the man wants to talk things over with a big bag of hot dogs?

Some people may point to a string of high-profile bombs as the turning point for Jude, and being in every movie made in 2004 certainly didn't help. But, perhaps what actually happened to Jude is a problem that has plagued many doe-eyed Hollywood starlets before him: letting one's personal life eclipse one's career.

First, he leaves his wife and kids for a younger co-star. Then, he cheats on said co-star with the kids' nanny. Obviously, the next step is flashing his (unimpressive) privates. And finally, in an ironic twist, hooking up with Lindsay Lohan. It's so textbook.

Regardless, looking at pictures of Jude from a few years ago has reminded us of something. He really is an exceptionally good-looking fellow. So Jude please, put the bag of dogs down, step away from the Lohan and buy yourself some Propecia. Come back from the Costner-like abyss before it's too late. In another seven years they may remake Wild Hogs, and no one wants to see you in it.

Previously: Kevin Costner in 'Waterweight'

What happened, indeed. What we're dealing with here is a classic mid-life crisis, Wild Hogs style. The roots of Costner's downward spiral into Porsches and cowboy boots began as early as Dances with Wolves, an early precursor to Dancing with the Stars. Following that film's accomplishments, Costner erroneously believed that if Mel Gibson could successfully make an epic about Scottish rebel William Wallace, Costner could also make successful epic about a mutant mariner covered in mud and feathers who lives on raft. Despite Waterworld's undeniable appeal, it unexpectedly bombed at the box office, leaving Costner no choice but to accept roles in Tin Cup and Rumor Has It - the celebrity equivalent of being put out to pasture.

In order to avoid an alarming fate filled with films such as What Women Want and Because I Said So, Kevin Costner kicked his celebrity rehabilitation into high gear and has taken the critical steps necessary for celebrity image revampization and career reclamation. First, he got rid of his "college sweetheart" old bag wife of 16 years, and exchanged her for a new, improved model, whom he promptly knocked up, proving his extreme virility. Second, he further solidified his bad boy image by exposing himself to a masseuse during his honeymoon. Finally, he invested in some not at all obvious and very convincing hair plugs, which nearly triples his already astronomical sex appeal.

Sadly, the line between image rehabilitation and mid-life crisis is perilously thin, and in his noble effort to frequent trendy restaurants such as Butter, obese whale Costner apparently failed to get the memo that food is only for photo-ops, not for eating. Furthermore, in a power move that signaled his irretrievable line crossing into identity crisis, Costner formed The Kevin Costner Band, and then sued his producer for failing to promote his garbage music.

We have already lost John Travolta to weight gain, hair plugs, jet flying and Xenu. Former national hero Tom Cruise is wearing girdles and Spanx. And now, America stands idly by as Kevin Costner starts a rock band. How many celebrities must we lose to these mid-life crises before it is too late?

Previously: J. Rhys Meyers, Clearly Gay

Oh, look at that, Jonathan Rhys Meyers out for a romantic stroll and some light shopping with his live-in girlfriend. Nothing at all unusual about that. Well, nothing except the clothes are both very stylish and all his, the girl is getting Dina Matos McGreeveyed and Jonathan Rhys Meyers is clearly gay. How do we know, you ask?

The founding principle is that all moderately famous people are gay. They become gay due to a pact with their agents, if they weren't gaying it up already before they had careers. But with JRM, the most interesting thing about Jonathan is the technique he's employing to remain in the closet. Let's call it the, "I simply act too gay to actually be gay, because if I'm going to be this flamboyant there is no way I would not go that last step and just come out of the closet; therefore I must be straight" technique.

First step: gay acting roles. Take as many as you can and always proclaim your desire to do more. Second step: fashion. Don't be afraid to wear Juicy sweats and carry a pleather bag to the gym. And always work the blouses and jewelry required for your roles. Finally, remember, A.B.G. or Always Be Gay. Tell Out magazine that "No one's ever accused me of being straight before." Say borderline homosexual things in all your interviews and make sure your co-stars are doing the same. Of course, to make this technique 100% successful one must simultaneously maintain a girlfriend and always be seen making-out with her in public.

We so admire all this. It's smart and it's working. In these internet-y times, speculating about the sexuality of actors has become something of a sport— and yet absolutely no one ever says that they suspect that JRM is gay. Never! We can't imagine why. Well-played, you creepy-beautiful Irish minx.

1. On Saturday, circa 2:00 p.m., he had a late lunch at The Mercer Kitchen alone with a young woman.

2. On Saturday evening, in the company of Liam Neeson and Natasha Richardson and the soon-to-be omnipresent unknown lady, took in "The Year of Magical Thinking." Removed hand from her thigh when he handed her a handkerchief to wipe away her tears.

3. On Sunday at 3 p.m., with a clipboard in one hand and a blonde lady in the other, entered 110 Central Park South with the additional escort of a real estate agent.

4. Last night, Monday, at 8 p.m., he dined with a/the younger woman at Cafe Luxembourg; dressed in a gray suit and blue shirt.

5. Then on Monday night, from 10:15 until after midnight, he went for drinks at The Spotted Pig with Edward Norton and a small crew of others, including the/a lady, who was reported by observers as, yes, being amenable to frequent touching.