The lucky lady: Kathryn "Kate" Rogers. We're not sure where the wedding is taking place, yet, but Rush reads the site, so maybe he'll let us know!

Rush loves the holidays: his last wedding was on Memorial Day, 1994. Prior to that, his second wife left him on Christmas.

Christmas specials were feeding you messages to accept gays, love women, embrace Jesus, and do lots and lots of LSD. Yes, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeeris on CBS tomorrow night, and watching it can be like playing a Judy Garland record backward looking for Satanic messages. This is our early present to all of you out there. Free your minds from the traps set up by network executives and watch with your eyes wide open for the first time. These are our thoughts on five classics, but in the seasonal spirit of giving, please share the subtext of other more obscure specials in the comments. We know some of you out there speak the truth.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
The Story: A reindeer that is born different casts himself out of normal society, until everyone realizes what makes him different also makes him strong, and he and the other "misfits" must save Christmas.
The Subtext: Rudolph's nose should shine with fabulous, because this is a tale of gay empowerment. Aside from Rudolph, his fey elf friend Hermey is also a big old queen and the Island of Misfit Toys looks like the craziest gay bar this side of the Ramrod.
Favorite Example: Yukon Cornelius was the first bear ever in an animated television special.
Nice List: Babygays, PFLAG moms, tom boys, anyone who might be a little bit odd, Levi Johnston.
Naughty List: School bullies, Fred Phelps, girlie girls, people who voted for Prop 8, Sarah Palin.

Frosty the Snowman
The Story: After being brought to life by a magic hat, Frosty has to flee the hot city or else he'll melt. An evil magician traps him in a greenhouse, where he melts, but Santa brings him back to life.
The Subtext: Global warming is a figment of your imagination, and praying to Jesus will save the environment and return the ice caps to their former glory.
Favorite Example: Seriously, Santa magically undoes all the damage from "greenhouse gases" with a flick of his wrist.
Nice List: People who think evolution is a joke, monkeys, your mother's pastor, Sarah Palin.
Naughty List: Scientists, thinking people, your rabbi, Al Gore.

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas
The Story: A furry green thing hates a bunch of strange insect-like creatures so much that he steals all their bizarre looking holiday accoutrement so that they can't celebrate. Then they sing in an alien language.
The Subtext: Do a shitload of drugs. The Grinch is Timothy Leary geeked out on acid and tripping so hard that he thinks that hoo-hinkers are real. By the end of the program, he sobers up and gives everything back.
Favorite Example: The hoo-roast beast is really the kid that the babysitter put in the microwave instead of the turkey.
Nice List: Stoners, Dead heads, ravers, Marion Barry.
Naughty List: Frat boys, Celine Dion fans, addiction counselors, Sarah Palin.

A Charlie Brown Christmas
The Story: Charlie Brown is sad because Christmas has become about fake trees and commercialism. He finds salvation in Jesus.
The Subtext: Do we have to spell it out for you? This cartoon special has converted more people than death row and foxholes put together.
Favorite Example: Linus lisping the message about three wise men coming to visit baby Jesus.
Nice List: Fundamentalists, Kirk Cameron, anti-consumerists, Marcie, Sarah Palin.
Naughty List: Scientologists, Alan Thicke, Wal-Mart, Peppermint Patty, Barney Frank.

The Year Without a Santa Claus
The Story: Santa is sick and wants to take a year off. Mrs. Claus gets two elves to go to Earth to get someone to convince Santa to get off his lazy ass and work. The humans will only do it if the elves can make it snow in the warm south. They have to go to Cold Miser and Heat Miser and convince them to let it snow where it should be sweltering. The two squabbling brothers won't do it, so Mrs. Claus goes to Mother Nature, who makes it happen and saves Christmas.
The Subtext: Fuck the patriarchy, women rule! With all the inept, lazy, fighting, macho men bumbling about, it's the ladies who get everything done.
Favorite Example: Mrs. Claus dresses up as Santa and says she could do the job if she really wanted to.
Nice List: Naomi Wolfe, diva worshipers, third-wave feminists, your mom, Hillary Clinton.
Naughty List: Dr. Ruth, misogynists, Girls Gone Wild, dear old dad, Sarah Palin.

Oh, right, like half the population. Here's right-wing panic site World Net Daily's aghast summary of the game, via Wonkette:

The elf reveals he specializes in assassination, and the other character replies, "I bet you're good at a lot of things."


The elf responds, "Mmmm, that's quite an offer, especially coming from another man – if we are both speaking of the same thing."


If the player selects the response, "I suspect we are," the elf agrees to have homosexual sex with the character.

WND then quotes selectively from gay blogs ("Gay geeks rejoice, all your gaming fantasies have come true") and YouTube comments ("We're a bisexual nation living in denial") and provides a list of retailers (like Wal Mart!) presumably for boycotting. Because, you know, if there's one way to make gay sex look hot and appealing, it's by showcasing it with stilted dialog, jerky body movements and elf ears, in a role playing videogame like Dragon Age. Hottt.

We have a tendency to remain faithful to our favorite shows for far too long. When they start to take a turn for the worse, we hold out hope that they will get smart and return to their former glory. We wait and we wait and no improvement comes, and then we feel like we have to see it to the end, now that we've invested so much time in waiting for it to get good, we don't want to leave and have it return to form without us.

We were seized with this dilemma last night while watching Desperate Housewives. And before you start joking, Housewives in it's first season was awesome. It was fresh, funny, campy, and full of unexpected joy. It took a turn for the worse in seasons two and three, but rebounded in seasons four and five. Now we're well into the show's sixth year, and while it is still highly rated, it isn't what it used to be creatively. There are tons of peripheral characters that we barely care about, Teri Hatcher's Susan is even more unlikable than ever, Felicity Huffman's Lynette is pregnant again, and the writers even managed to make Eva Longoria Parker's reliably hilarious Gaby a snooze while seriously underusing the fantastic Dana Delany and Drea de Matteo. The show has gotten so bad, in fact, that we no longer enjoy making jokes about what a shitty mother Susan is or how annoying we find her daughter, Julie.

That is when it struck us—there is actually a formula that we can use to figure out when to quit watching a show, and it looks something like this:

We estimate that each season is worth 8 months, and that "joy" is measured on a sliding scale of 0-5, with zero being no jokes at all and 5 being Gossip Girl levels of hilarity at its badness (really, "Serena is a skank" jokes never get stale). So, if you plug the numbers in for Desperate Housewives here is what happens:

120 - 56 / 0 = 0

That means no more time should be afforded Desperate Housewives. Fine by us! Consider your season pass deleted from our TiVo.

This also works for deciding what to do about a new show. Here is our calculation for V, which we still find moderately amusing because of the aliens wearing human skin concept, but is starting to wear on us. Since it's a newer show, we calculated in weeks rather than months:

4 - 2 / 1 = 2 episodes.

Alright, V, you have two episodes to prove yourself when you return in March. If you can impress us in that window, then we'll keep you around until you start smelling worse than an giant alien ship without a sewage disposal and we have to bust out our formula again to calculate your life span.

But, like most formulas, there is a variable, and that is what else is on at the same time. Right now, there isn't much in terms of television greatness on Sunday nights until Big Love returns January 10, which means Housewives may get a stay of execution until then. But as soon as it does, mathematics has determined that the ax will fall. And we won't even feel guilty about it, now that we have our patented Television Doomsday Clock and good old algebra on our side.

[Image via EssG's Flickr]

If you want to see all the stories, visit the comments section of the original post. All of the stories tend to fall into certain genres—cooking nightmares, drunken exploits, family drama, death, illness, and general destruction—so we've picked out some of our favorites so that you don't have to read all 500 or so horror stories like some of us had to. Here are our runners up. The titles are ours, but these stories are all yours:

• Most Inspirational: Babygay's Escape to the Big City by BettyCrocker.
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• Grossest Cooking Mishap: One Seriously Nasty Salad by MomOf3WildKids.
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• Saddest Passing: Mom's Dream House of Death by Saelmar.
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• Most Delinquent Family Member: Stripper Sister-In-Law on the Run from the Law by Lysergic Asset.
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• Cooking Experiment Gone Wild: The Proof Is in the Pesto by ThatGirlInNewYork.
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• Best Bad Turkey Disposal/Funniest Punchline: Bird on the Lawn by RollsRoyceRevenge.
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• Stupidest Family Fight: Patch Adams Rules by Allyzay.
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• Worst Plumbing Accident: Shit Hits the Fan by Scairborn.
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• Best Drinking Contest: Grandma and Grandpa Go Shot for Shot by Meredith.Terry.
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• The Scariest Night Out on the Town: A Real Life Episode of Cheaters by WickedlySane.
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• Most Destructive: Burning Down the House by Willow150.
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• Self-Referential Award for Excellence: Thanks for Giving Me Something to Put on Gawker by TheExperience.
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• The PETA Award for Animal Cruelty: Gobble on This by Kimrod.
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• The Overly Dramatic Oscar: My Mother the Drag Queen by RabbityThings.

And the Ultimate Award for Thanksgiving Horror and the $50 prize for a bottle of Wild Turkey goes to DrunkExpatWriter, for his two-fold tale of his family behaving badly. The full story is reprinted below for everyone to enjoy and so that we can all laugh at his pain to make our pain a little bit more bearable.

Here's the winning tale:

Ok. I have two stories for you. Roughly 13 years ago my family got together at my parent's house for Thanksgiving. My step mom and her brother have always had a "tumultuous" relationship. After dinner they got into an argument over who loved their long dead mother more. Shit was thrown around, plates broken, the usual. My dad tried to calm them down to no avail. So, he decided he had to distract them. He'd just gotten a Dodge conversion van, so he went out and fired it up and started ramming it at the cars of all our relatives - totaling roughly 10 cars until my step mom and uncle noticed and stopped fighting with each other in order to yell at him.

Now, second story. The next year, my dad decided that having people over to the house for Thanksgiving was a bad idea. So he booked us all into this super fancy restaurant and paid to put all the relatives in a swank hotel next door - on the assumption that people would be more well behaved in public.

Everything went well during the meal, until the check arrived. The waiter then put the check near my uncle rather than my step mom (who insists on handling all the financial shit for her and my dad.)

Her brother then said "See, you can talk about liberation all you want, but classy people know a man is supposed to pay."

My step mom then upended the table and grabbed the carving knife and tried to stab her brother to death. He took me, my dad and my brother to literally hurl her off of him.

In a matter of minutes the cops arrived (small New Jersey town.)

While my step mom and my uncle were trying to tell the cops they didn't want to press charges against each other, my dad walked up to one of the cop cars, unzipped and pissed on the cop car's tires.

Flash forward two hours later to me, my then-wife and various cousins pooling our money to bail all three of them out of jail.

Congratulations go to DrunkExpatWriter for giving us reason to believe our family isn't so bad. You can either pick up your booze at Gawker HQ (the lawyers say mailing it's dicey) or email Gabriel to tell him where to send a $50 check to spend on the libation of your choice.

Feel free to continue to add stories to the official compendium of misery in the original post, and in the comments, tells us what a crappy job we did picking the winner and provide links to your favorite tales (you can get a permalink to the comments by clicking on the date below the commenter's name).

And while we're glad that we didn't have to live through any of these tales of terror, we would like to thank you all for the memories. Christmas is going to be a doozy!

A "hacker" obtained a bunch of emails from climate scientists at the University of East Anglia and posted them to some website, and for some reason Matt Drudge and the right-wing media have decided that these emails are proof of a massive conspiracy to make up global warming, for fun. The emails are mostly scientists complaining about political pressures and people they dislike and things that make their job—and their job is attempting to reconstruct climates of hundreds or millions of years ago based on fucking ice floes and tree rings—harder.

There are precisely two emails that even sound scandalous: one in which a scientist refers to borrowing another scientist's "trick"—which skeptics interpret as falsifying data and which actual legitimate scientists say means "a clever way of doing something"—to "hide the decline," which is a poor way of saying he is attempting to correct for the fact that tree rings don't reflect modern warming trends that are well-documented by actual thermometers.

The other email that is terribly scandalous is even better. As George Monbiot explains:

One of the most damaging emails was sent by the head of the climatic research unit, Phil Jones. He wrote "I can't see either of these papers being in the next [Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change] report. Kevin and I will keep them out somehow - even if we have to redefine what the peer-review literature is!"

One of these papers which was published in the journal Climate Research turned out to be so badly flawed that the scandal resulted in the resignation of the editor-in-chief.

So the scandal is that a researcher thought a paper was flawed and said he would do anything to keep it from being published, not because it said something dangerous that he is trying to keep hidden, but because he thought it was bad science. And then it turned out to be bad science.

Ahem:

Half of the journal's editorial board, including editor-in-chief Hans von Storch, resigned from the journal's editorial board because they felt that publication of the paper in question represented a breakdown in the peer-review process. The publisher had refused to allow von Storch to publish an editorial on the topic, but later the president of the journal's parent company stated that the paper's major findings could not "be concluded convincingly from the evidence provided in the paper. [Climate Research] should have requested appropriate revisions of the manuscript prior to publication."

So. The scandal, again, for those keeping score at home, is that academics are bitching to each other about papers they think are bad, written by people they dislike, that are being published in journals they dislike.

Also the scandal is that someone made Andrea Peyser's child sing a song about global warming!

The Post's resident sex goddess and outrage factory reports from the front lines of the Obama/Soros/Polar Bear Indoctrination Campaign:

My daughter came home from school recently with a spring in her step and a song on her lips. With no foreshadowing — or time to call an exorcist — out came this chilling refrain:

"...You can hear the warning — GLOBAL WARMING... "

By the time her father and I removed our jaws from the floor, we had learned that:

A) All the kids had been coerced into singing this catchy ditty, which we called "The Warming Song," at a concert for parents.

B) Further song lyrics scolded selfish adults (that would be us) for polluting our planet and causing a warming scourge that would, in no short order, kill all the polar bears and threaten the birds and bees.

C) There was no deprogramming session on the menu. And no arguing allowed.

Well, we're sorry you weren't allowed to "argue" with a school assembly, Andrea. That must've been hard for you! Also we're sorry that someone is scolding grown-ups for polluting the planet, but, you know, it really can't be argued that that is anyone else's fault.

Clinton was supposed to get married in Martha's Vineyard this summer, but that didn't happen, obviously. Maybe because she wasn't actually engaged yet to her dynastic boyfriend Marc "son of two former congress members" Mezinsky?

Jake Tapper broke the news on his blog, because that is basically how this news was destined to be broken. Chelsea and Marc sent out an email the morning after Thanksgiving, ensuring that no one would report on it until Monday:

"We're sorry for the mass email but we wanted to wish everyone a belated Happy Thanksgiving! We also wanted to share that we are engaged! We didn't get married this past summer despite the stories to the contrary, but we are looking toward next summer and hope you all will be there to celebrate with us. Happy Holidays! Chelsea & Marc."

Congrats, Chelsea. May your reception be free of aspiring reality show characters, and here's hoping Marc doesn't mind the title "First Dude."

At 2:25 a.m. on Friday morning—in other words, late on Thanksgiving night—one of Woods' neighbors in Windermere, Fla., called 911 to report that Woods had crashed into a tree in front of his house and was lying on the ground outside his Cadillac Escalade. He was taken to a local hospital in "serious condition" with facial lacerations and released later that day. The Florida Highway Patrol didn't release details about the accident until Friday afternoon, twelve hours after it happened, and the initial report from Windermere police officers was that Woods was drifting in and out of consciousness when they arrived on the scene. Windermere's police chief told the Orlando Sentinel that Woods' wife Elin had heroically used a golf club to break out the rear windows of Woods' SUV and rescued him from the vehicle; when they arrived, the Sentinel reported, she was "hovering" over her husband, "frantic and upset."

Within hours of the story breaking on Friday, the truth began to emerge: According to TMZ and RadarOnline, Tiger and Elin had been arguing before the crash, and she scratched his face up before he attempted to flee in his car, telling her, "You've ruined our Thanksgiving! Are you happy now?" Elin chased after him swinging a golf club, and managed to bash out the SUV's back windows as he drove away. Woods "got distracted" by the attack and ran into a fire hydrant and then a tree, hitting them at less than 33 mph, to judge by the fact that the car's airbags didn't activate. There was no blood on the steering wheel, TMZ reported, making it unlikely that Woods' injuries were sustained during the crash. According to TMZ, Woods told a friend that he wasn't drunk at the time, but had been taking painkillers.

So why would Elgin attack her husband on Thanksgiving night? Probably because last week, the National Enquirer reported that Woods had been having an affair with Rachel Uchitel, a New York City nightclub promoter and self-described celebrity-dater. The Enquirer story claimed that Uchitel had told a friend, "I don't care about his wife! We're in love," and that the pair were "constantly sexting." TMZ says Tiger had told a friend on Friday, before the accident, that Elin had "gone ghetto" over the allegations, and that he had to "run to Zales to get a 'Kobe Special'"—a diamond ring—to mollify her. It apparently didn't work.

For her part, Uchitel has denied the Enquirer's allegations, telling the New York Post, "this is nothing to do with me. We have never had an affair, and the claims we did are completely false." She's reportedly retained celebrity lawyer and horrible person Gloria Allred and is considering a defamation claim against the Enquirer.

What does Tiger say about all this? Not much. In a statement released yesterday, he said,

This is a private matter and I want to keep it that way. Although I understand there is curiosity, the many false, unfounded and malicious rumors that are currently circulating about my family and me are irresponsible.

The only person responsible for the accident is me. My wife, Elin, acted courageously when she saw I was hurt and in trouble. She was the first person to help me. Any other assertion is absolutely false.

The Florida Highway Patrol has attempted to interview Tiger and his wife about the accident three times, and been turned away each time. And Tiger's lawyer is now saying that, under Florida law, they don't have to talk to the cops, and won't:

We have been informed by the Florida Highway Patrol that further discussion with them is both voluntary and optional. Although Tiger realizes that there is a great deal of public curiosity, it has been conveyed to FHP that he simply has nothing more to add and wishes to protect the privacy of his family.

But that's not going to cut it: According to TMZ, the Florida Highway Patrol is seeking a warrant to gain access to medical records from Tiger's hospitalization to find out if his injuries are consistent with a car accident or assault. If it's the latter, the next step could be charging Elin with domestic violence. TMZ also says the Woods home is equipped with security cameras, and Florida authorities want to see what's on the tapes.

Long story short, the Woodses spent their Thanksgiving like most families do: Trapped in a sickeningly familiar cycle of recrimination, betrayal, lies, and poor decision-making. We can't wait for Christmas.

And by "Google Phone" we don't simply mean another Android handset. We're talking about Google-branded hardware running a version of Android we haven't yet seen.

Over the next few weeks, Google Phones (most probably in early, prototype form) will flood the Mountain View campus. They'll don large LCDs while running a new version of Android—either Flan or the version of Android beyond it—which our source spotted running on Google's handset as well as a laptop. (Whatever the software was, it most certainly wasn't Chrome OS, we were assured.)

But maybe the most intriguing bit is what someone said to our source offhandedly, that the current Android, the we all know and love, is not the "real" Android. So what makes for a "real" version of Android?

Our best guess is an Android OS with Google Voice at its heart.

Kaelin was famous for being a guest of OJ Simpson's when the latter did not stab his ex-wife. He now seems to have moved to leeching from Durham, an equally pleasant character. Last week the obnoxious big-spender's offices were raided by the FBI. Pictures of the raid's aftermath can be found here, along with one of a notice that disingenuously just says Fair Financial, Durham's company, is closed for the holidays.

That's consistent with what Durham is telling friends and family. One tipster, who was at the Durham household for Thanksgiving, said Durham was always on the phone and just said he was "handling business." The tipster, who says he thought Durham was a billionaire from the way he spent and talked, took a look at the fat-faced financier's car collection too - which he boasted was worth over $4m. It includes a Rolls Royce Phantom convertible, an Aston Martin, a Ford GT40, a Bentley, an AMG Mercedes "and of course his Bugatti." Of course. The wonderfully nosey source also noticed that Ludacris has his own room in Durham's mansion. There is no word yet on how often Luda is there, but he should make the most of it while he can. The FBI has moved to seize the house.

A second source pointed out that Fair Financial had recently taken to targeting elderly Amish and Mennonite people. Who knows what kinds of investments they're after — perhaps shire horse derivatives — but here's a picture the tipster took of the new Fair Financial offices in Millersburg of a notice in the window of another office announcing a new location in Millersburg, in the heart of Amish country.

Durham may soon have a line of carts outside his door, if allegations of a Ponzi scheme are to be believed. If a woman we hear is his "right hand lady," Shannon Frantz, deals with those irate investors, we hope she's wearing more than this (very NSFW).

The New York Post details the revelations laid bare in Ian Halperin's book Brangelina: The Untold Story of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, which comes out on Tuesday. The highlights:

• Brangelina: going down Breakup Road, are not passing go. They argue about everything from politics to how to raise the kids to Brad's weed smoking habit. Everyone knows they're miserable. Brad's family wants them to break up, even their drivers have seen their knockdown-dragout fights. A publicist gave them 18 months. And those fights!
  
  
• Their fights are intense, because Angelina's kinda crazy. I mean, we knew this way back when she was her and Billy Bob were swapping blood samples and putting hexes on each other, but apparently, people are scared for Brad. The aformentioned driver said she had a temper "like a cobra." They scream when they fight, and it's often her doing the screaming. Also, she's been reported as being very, very controlling of Pitt, and won't let him out of the house. Related: Snakes are scary.
  
  
• Yes, their sex was crazy-awesome. They used to stay in bed for up to 20 hours a day, fucking. Most people who stay in bed for 20 hours a day are either dead, morbidly obese, or getting high and eating cookies. Oh, also, that:
  
  
• Brad Pitt loves to get really, really high. Angelina's not a fan. She refers to Brad's affection for drinking and smoking as his "habit." Angelina doesn't think Brad's "habit" is the right environment for their kids. She's obviously never seen True Romance. Assuming they separate, the publicist quoted on the aforementioned 18-month window also thinks this is gonna turn out to be a huge publicity line both of them will tow.
  
  
• Pitt might've cheated. Apparently, this story keeps "popping up." It goes something like: Pitt met a hot Sudanese woman at a benefit at Cannes. He was seen with her a few times. Angelina obviously wasn't pleased over this.
  
  
• Their family is run on nannies and publicists. The kids have a "'"multicultural' team of nannies to care for their young brood." Brood! The nannies are like second-parents to the kids. Every move by the family is coordinated for image; they very intentionally have nannies crouch out of pictures, basically choreographing public appearances.
  
  
• Angelina's Aniston Problem. When Angelina was stealing Pitt from Jennifer Aniston on the set of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Angelina didn't want to be viewed as a homewrecker, so she spread those nasty rumors about Aniston not wanting to have kids as opposed to focusing on her career. Not so much. Brad and Jen built a nursery for a kid that never came for them, except....
  
  
• Jennifer Aniston had two miscarriages, one in 2003, the other in '04. Woah. Pitt was "furious" about the rumors Jolie spread, and he came to her, and told her to stop. Via a Fox source: "She was convinced that is the story that would resonate with all these women who saw her as a man-stealing bitch." Damn.
  
  
• Jennifer and Brad used to get really high together. But Jen always got paranoid. Of course Jennifer Aniston's a paranoid smoker.

Now that all that information's out there in the Post piece, question: who's gonna buy this book? Are people that obsessed that they have to go beyond their sociopathic celebrity weeklies and summary of shit gone wrong with Brangelina that they need to read an entire book about it? Apparently so. Because people buy these books. But who?! Do you really need to read 300 pages on Brangelina? Scientology and Tom Cruise, maybe. Michael Jackson, sure, if you're that morbid. But Brangelina? Really? I promise, Netherland is better.

That aside, is this BOOM! Goes the dynamite-true or complete bullshit? Hard question to answer, but it most likely has at least one solid foot firmly planted in reality. Ian Halperin—another one of these strange, bowtied gossip creatures who can, yes, write entire 9/11 Commission-esque reports on the crumbling marriage of Brangelina—has done pretty credible reporting, most recently, on Michael Jackson's death, where he had his Called it moment of smug. He claims to have talked to 900 sources to get the story, but that's where the issues come in.

1. Of these 900 people, how many do you actually think have a substantial, true account with nothing invested in either party and/or talking to a reporter?

2. Take a line like this:

A hotel employee at the Dorchester Hotel in London once overheard 3-year-old Shiloh refer to one of her nannies as "Mommy," Halperin writes.

Sure, okay, probably true. But 3-year-old kids have (A) Freudian slips, (B) small brains, and (C) names for things that aren't actually their names, because they're three.

3. The account seems entirely biased on the side of Pitt. Certainly, if there's celebrity fallout, Pitt's the larger celebrity, and who knows if Halperin has a motive (besides selling books) or how he slanted his narrative to get the accounts he wanted.

All of that aside, as previously mentioned: Jolie's always been kinda nuts. Pitt was reluctant to dish on his perfect joint-rolling strategy recently, maybe fearing retribution. And they're building a militia with those kids. Who wouldn't be tense if you had to fear a potential coup d'etat over cereal selections every nine days?

And all of that said? How great would it be if Pitt and Aniston got back together? Seriously. She's earned her stripes, and even if she is worried about the fuckin' cops, man, she's probably still cool with Brad toking up and could maybe even learn to love Angelina's Army too, so long as they don't try to kill her and/or suck her blood. And it'd make my job exponentially easier. Who wants to learn what a Gerard Butler is, anyway? Braniston 2011! Show of hands on this, please.

"The way to not end up divorced with four children is to not get married."

On this weekend in particular, this gem could have come from any number of mouths straight to your ear: the drawn, harried aunt with the sullen kids; a character played by Ray Romano on TV in the background; the gossiping blonde at your 20-year; your wisecracking grandfather, killing it.

And so to have it nestled in a Vows column is almost overkill, just one more nugget of depressing realist wisdom to top off a weekend containing many. Having spent several days discussing she and dissecting he, ducking in and out of bathrooms and judgmental conversations, and receiving advice and opinions both solicited and un, I am running low on the prying and meritophiliac stomach acids necessary to properly digest the back pages of the Sunday Styles.

So forgive me in advance. This will be quick. The NJ Transit is going to suck this afternoon. Too many Vera Bradley bags; two of them mine. [Ed. "Vera Bradley?" SHUT UP, CORNELL.]

Our preemptively single speaker, as it turns out, was film producer Kelly Macmanus, who for over 4 years periodically flaked on Jonathan Funke, a "debonair Harvard grad … who reads three daily newspapers, runs marathons and habitually quotes 'The West Wing'".

"Marla Hooch. What a hitter!"

Her excuses for stringing him along / staving off divorce involved, variously, Harrison Ford, political campaigns, Kevin Spacey, grandmother's funerals, and private planes. Maybe I need to diversify my portfolio beyond "have 2 go 2 dentist!" But at long last, after setting the mood by making jokes about urinary disorders, Funke converted in the soft glow of his office's Xerox machine.

Anyway, Macmanus's axiom is kind of the tone-setter for a weekend that features a number of folks whose previous marriages ended in divorce. Like power-divorcee yinzers Trish Ramirez and John Whitehill.

The bride comes from an ACLU lineage straight out of your high school history textbook: her father was the lead counsel in a 1962 landmark case that ended state-prescribed prayer in public schools, and her mother's father was involved in the Scopes Monkey trial. And the groom, who has been divorced twice, that old tomcat, has among many other things a masters degree in E-commerce, which reminds me: bid on the Most Important Literary Document of Our Time on eBay TODAY!

This weekend's other Depressing Truth is brought to us care of a bad blind date out in LA that admitted to Andrea Sabesin that "it was hard to settle for one person because he knew there would always be more women coming along." Excuse me while I clutch my heart and digress:

I spent a good 60% of my waking hours on Friday watching the incredibly addictive TLC series Say Yes To The Dress in my parents basement and one common refrain from the no-nonsense, over-lipliner-ed, bifocal-peering-over salesladies was this, to an indecisive bride: "Hon, choosing a dress is like choosing a man. Once you found him you stopped looking. You didn't keep looking for new men." (One girl, confused: "But he's been my only boyfriend." She didn't end up buying the dress.) But anyway, the cloudier implications of this otherwise brisk advice were too devastating for me to spend too much time considering.

Luckily for Sabesin, because she seems far too nice to be dealing with douches who would actually say that on a first date, she found Scott Mantz, the film critic for "Access Hollywood" as well as "'The Billy Bush Show' on the Westwood One radio network." I love that that's his job. And besides being a marathon runner (I think at this point the designation is implied for any man over 40 who shows up in the Times?) Mantz is also, and here comes the big reveal, a Trekkie.

"I don't need to be with someone who loves 'Star Trek', just someone who allows me to love it," explains Scott, and isn't that just it?

And so he got even better in Sabesin: someone who "surprised him by dressing up as Uhura, the "Star Trek" pinup character, much to his inner-nerd delight."

No offense to anyone, but the rest of this week's couples are kind of just happy to be here. It's kind of an awkward weekend to get married, no?

But I suppose Ana Yang and Casey Muller, a pair of Facebook employees with Harvard and MIT degrees, are much richer and more influential than I'll ever be (she was Employee #1 at FriendFeed!). I didn't need to know the gory details of their black mold "situation" though, Rosalie R. Radomsky.

And I was pretty impressed with the credentials of Jocelyn Kirsch and Evan Guggenheim — phrases like "nurse in the pediatric epilepsy clinic" and "from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology" piqued my interest — and they even had me with the parenthetical aside about grandmothers known for awesome brisket and noodle kugel. But then the last third of the announcement devolved into borderline offensive food porn the likes of which I haven't read since my middle school Spanish teacher let us watch Como Agua Para Chocolate with the subtitles on.

Anyway, I've managed to get all the topics in here: divorce, angry relatives, food porn, Star Trek, and mold. Happy Thanksgiving! In honor of family overload, this week's face-off features two couples whose parents are given no role in the announcement whatsoever.

Jillian Ellen Kannengieser and Gregory Daniel O'Mullan

• The bride graduated from Georgetown and received a joint masters in health policy, planning and financing from LSE and the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine (LOVE that name - so very very British): +2
• The bride received her masters in nursing at Yale: +4
• The bride works in the neonatal intensive care unit :( at New York Presbyterian: +1
• The groom graduated from Rutgers and received a master's degree in cell and developmental biology at Rutgers and UMDNJ: +1
• The groom earned a doctorate in ecology and evolutionary biology at Princeton: +4
• The groom works at a research unit of Columbia University +1

TOTAL: 13

Maria Jean Trumpler and Kathryn Marie Dudley

• One bride went to Princeton and received a PhD from Yale: +7
• The other graduated from Wisconsin and received a PhD from Columbia: +5
• Ms. Trumpler is the director of the Office of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Studies" at Yale as well as a senior lecturer in women's gender and sexuality studies: +5
• Ms. Dudley is a professor of American Studies and anthropology at Yale: +2
• She has written two grim-sounding books: +1

TOTAL: +20 oh and also a rousing middle finger to all of the relatives, including my own, that anyone may have encountered this holiday weekend who continue to approach the issue of gay marriage with such frighteningly closed minds. I would threaten that history will judge them harshly, but I'd also like to think that the people who will be looking back in retrospect are the same ones who today manage to avoid such binary forces of thought.

In other words, NEVER eat the piece of pie I was saving ever again.

1. They represent American ingenuity, and the possibility it manifests. Just when you thought you'd never get into a State Dinner: there's hope yet! All you need is to know a few people and fake it till you make it. And ambition! These people actually went through with the mischievous shit you only daydream and giggle about to yourself when you're bored. You want moxie? These creatures bleed it.

2. They've demonstrated and unleashed previously understated powers of Facebook. Remember when your parents first started smokin' the 'Book? It was embarrassing. Humiliating, even. Now, adults might feel slightly more free to put up crazy shit on their Facebook account, which, you know, evens the playing field a little bit. Also, why put out a press release when you can just use the viral autogenius of Facebook? We always kind of knew it to be a press outlet for our overshares, but this just steps the game up to an entirely new level.

3. Diplomats are assholes. Power-corrupt assholes. And this proves it! Diplomats are gonna have to check themselves before they wreck themselves a little more often now, as America's Favorite Party Crashers probably had help on the inside from an Indian ambassador. Did you know! Having diplomatic status basically allows you to get away with everything. Everything! These guys put the "dick" in "dignitary." [Ed. ?!] Forget a fire lane; these guys could park their motorcade on your face and they'd barely be ticketed. It's time we throw down on diplomatic immunity. Somehow, this is all evil John Bolton's fault. It's time to fix it.

4. Reality TV needed some highbrow classing-up. It's here. Seriously: the kind of people who want to get on reality TV, lately? Sociopathic, egomaniacal parents (Richard Heene) and emotionally unstable killers (Ryan Jenkins). The pool of reality television stars comes exclusively from the lowbrow-despicable quadrant. If we don't move up, at least we can move right: towards the brilliant. And aspirations of crashing the state dinner via diplomats is—out of context, Beavis and Butthead-level stupidity—in the context of reality televisions' current state, mindblowingly brilliant. A solid season of these pranksters and desperate social-climbers in The Real Housewives of DC (which the couple was aiming for stardom in at one point) could be a refreshing antidote to the philosophical nuances of NeNe and Danielle Staub.

5. They're keeping us honest. The Secret Service failed. Miserably. And those are your tax-dollars at work, America! It should go without saying—but often doesn't—that, to their credit, a more docile quality control check on the abilities of the Secret Service has never taken place with such tremendous results. Let's say one of these two charmers were psychotic, and went after Somebody Important with a presidential spork: I'm pretty sure, despite letting them in, the Secret Service still would've bent this guy's face up his own ass faster than you can say "colonoscopy." White House Party Crashers: Low Risk, High Yield. America needs more problems like this.

6. They're crazypants freaky! Just like the rest of us. Come on. Hello, huddled masses yearning to breathe free! We all have some kind of freaky weird shit inside, and these people let loose. This country is a melting pot of crazy. We need different spices in it, and occasionally, someone needs to spike the punch with something a little psychedelic (thankfully, they didn't actually do that). But really, first: just look at them. Second: Who crashes a White House State Dinner and puts the pictures on FACEBOOK? Crazy people! Freaky people! People without discretion! And these people aren't just freaky, but are functionally freaky.

7. The White House Party Crashers are American Greatness, incarnate. In the grand tradition of people getting places they don't necessarily belong, they've set the bar, there's not much else higher than this. Maybe karaoke with Kim Jong-Il. Maybe. But nobody got hurt, and these guys crashed a state dinner! Again, sure: they exposed a massive hole in our national security, will cause diplomatic stresses, are going to cost taxpayers a shitload of money, maybe put some Americans in an unnecessary state of fear, dominated a news cycle when there're surely more important issues to be discussed, and stripped even further bare the terrifying ethos of people who desperately want to be famous in America by clearly blacking out any and all rational thought, but come on. This was epic. As President Jimmy Carter once noted, "If you fear making anyone mad, then you ultimately probe for the lowest common denominator of human achievement." These Party Crashers deserve our highest regards. They are freaky, weird, awe-inspiring hot messes. In whatever era we live in, there are far worse things to aspire to than meeting our country's leaders....asking for hundreds of thousands of dollars for their story, and then dissing them on Facebook.

Yeah, they're assholes. People are ridiculous. Shine on, you crazy diamonds. Shine on.

The New York Times detailed Jenny Sanford's ongoing rise to prosperity through her husband's infidelity. The article is actually a cleverly disguised guide to capitalizing off of your cheating, no good, dirtball politician husband who didn't even care enough to cover his tracks.

Step 1: Book deal. Per the Times: "She is writing a memoir, "Staying True," to be released in April by Ballantine Books, about grappling with her husband's marital infidelity." Not unprecedented by any means, though, granted, Elizabeth Edwards has a slightly higher profile than Ms. Sanford in addition to, you know, cancer. Make sure your book touches on themes of survival and—yes—resilience. Make sure the everywoman can relate to your struggle, even though the reality of your wealth and privilege makes your story otherwise totally inaccessible to most people who've been through what you have. Dina McGreevy definitely did it right, though. I mean, that cover!
Step 2: Trademark that shit. Elizabeth Edwards and Hillary Clinton made a misstep here. Like the old Spaceballs line, moichendising! The Times notes that Jenny Sanford's taking the smart step of trademarking her name, so she can sell "clothing, mugs, 'other household items,' stickers, decals, notepads." I can't wait until Jenny Sanford's Locate-A-Husband GPS Tracker (Now With International Capabilities!) hits stores. She already missed Black Friday, but I've got faith she can get this bad boy out in time for Christmas, so wives may spy on their "bad boys" everywhere.
Step 3: Barbara Walters. Always Barbara Walters. If you don't get your catharsis on with Barbara Walters, you don't get your membership card. And take a guess who made this year's list of Babs' Ten Most Fascinating People. Hint: It's not the transvestite who "peed" on Adam Lambert. Sure, there are other ways to get on TV: if you're Brian Grazer's ex-wife, just rewrite The First Wives' Club as a USA mini-series. But did she make the Times today? Nope.
Step 4: Web Presence. Once you lock down THE_REAL_JENNY_SANFORD, get rid of those pesky fake Twitter accounts, verify your own, set up your own website, and get music recommendations via @ by Questlove, you'll know you've equipped yourself for electronic success. Be viral, be with the people. Or as Miss Sanford would have it: "She has set up a privately financed personal Web site, complete with news releases and photographs." Nice. Silda, we still await your Tweets anxiously, so you can throw down the subtle RT on free throws like this.
Step 5: Get into politics. You've already proven you can deal with both sleazeballs and scandal. Anyone who says you're not ready for politics is clearly a moron. And the best way to start: by endorsing the candidate who's going to win your Pussyhound Husband's position after his constituency gives that tail-chaser the boot. "[Sanford] has endorsed a candidate to succeed her husband, State Representative Nikki Haley, a Republican and the only woman in the race." Just like that, you come off as both a strong feminist and a dedicated party-line driver, setting yourself up for political support further down the road, when you....
Step 6: Run for office. "Genius" is right.

Like, honestly, this is not what my parents had in mind for me, sussing out this kind of thing. They thought I was going to go to law school. Law school. Now I help explain the nuances of TRANNYPEEGATE. Great. Where do we start on this one? How about here, via Top Idol:

So, this "Trick" person or whatever only has three Tweets. So, it just so happened that the night he opened up his Twitter account, he pissed on Adam Lambert at The Box?

Former Spin columnist and New York musicperson about town Ultragrrrl (this story, it just gets stupider by the word) was in the house. She was witness to the peeceedings:

So if a blogger and a Twittering Transvestite say Adam Lambert got peed on and threw a drink at a transvestite at The Box, did it actually happen? Kind of. The sad, boring denouement, from Adam Lambert himself:

So, he did get peed on, but it wasn't actually pee, though we don't know if he knew that at the time. So, yes, Adam Lambert kinda got peed on by a transvestite at The Box. Related: if there's a single person in America who still thinks Adam Lambert isn't gay, the fourth estate is failing. Miserably. Also, good to know that, after the holidays, "order" has been restored to the internet.

[Top image via Getty.]

The august news organization known as TMZ reports that the facial lacerations Tiger was found with were reportedly caused by his wife, Elin Nordegren, after she got wind of rumors that Tiger

(A) "....had to pull his putter out of another hole."
(B) "....was getting his balls washed on another course."
(C) "....got busted hitting a new back nine."
(D) "....took a few too many strokes back there."
(E) "....had hired a new caddy to organize his clubs, and that caddy was possibly a hot club promoter, and by 'caddy' we mean 'mistress.' and by 'organize' we mean 'have sex with,' and by 'clubs' we mean 'penis.'"

Take your pick.

Basically, they got into an argument, she went all crazypants, beat the shit out of him, he got in his car, she smashed his window, he tried to get away, he backed into a tree and a fire hydrant.

We're told he said his wife had confronted him about reports that he was seeing another woman. The argument got heated and, according to our source, she scratched his face up. We're told it was then Woods beat a hasty retreat for his SUV — but according to our source, Woods says his wife followed behind with a golf club. As Tiger drove away, she struck the vehicle several times with the club.

Another interesting development: there was no blood on the wheel, and Nordegren's been changing her tune for cops, both evidence towards the "scorned wife" theory. Oh, and also, he might've been fucked up on pain pills for his knee. Not, for the record, his Wheaties. Which he clearly didn't have that night. Or if you ask his dick: has been having more than ever!

Maybe, maybe not. According to the woman who he's probably given more than a few mulligans to, not so much. Rachel Uchitel, the woman who Tige's lady thinks is schtupping her mans, says the National Enquirer story Woods and his wife probably fought over is bullshit. BlackBook got her on the horn:

I totally deny the Enquirer story. They did contact me about it, but they didn't use any of my quotes or any of the information I gave them. They make it sound like I said those things, but it's all other people saying I said things

Meanwhile, Tiger-style's apparently going to talk to cops today, which will give us a more clear picture on whatever happened, but since Woods lives in one of these insular Florida neighborhoods that protects the livelihood of celebrities first and foremost, and the local news organizations are probably used to kowtowing to said authorities, we're going to have to depend on the reporting of Harvey Levin and Co. to keep us sufficiently updated on this one. But, basically, the story that's developed is something like this: Tiger's lady went psychotic once rumors of Tiger cheating surfaced, Tiger, trashed on pain pills, tried to escape evil lady's clutches, crashed into fire hydrant and tree. Awesome.

Any pop culture incident involving celebrities, infidelity, drugs, domestic wife-on-man violence, and car crashes? Come on, it's like celebrities going shopping for you. Personally, I have my own theory as to who's behind all of this madness. This menace must be stopped at once:

[Top Image, where Tiger is pictured reacting to a threat of "fuck(ing) your shit up, soldier" via Getty Images.]

In the photo album Michaele Salahi posted on her Facebook page after the event, one photo stands out among all those of the crashers smiling next to famous media personalities, politicians and Joe Bidens: A picture with one "Ambassador Singh":

This is Arun K. Singh, Deputy Chief of Mission for the Indian Embassy, and he has chilled with the Salahis before. Here they are drinking wine at a September 9th event hosted by the Indian Embassy to announce America's Polo Cup, a 2010 India Vs. USA polo match organized by Tareq Salahi and co-sponsored by Indian Ambassador Meera Shankar:

A (terribly reproduced) picture of the three even made October edition of the Indian Embassy's newsletter. Ambassador Singh is quoted in the Indian Express as saying "the polo match between India and the US next year to be played at the National Mall reflects another dimension of the growing relationship between the two countries." In that same article, Michaele Salahi is quoted as saying the match "aspires to bring the love of the game to a wider audience and bring international cultures together..." So, Singh and the Salahis are polo buddies. They go way back.

Furthermore, Tareq Salahi's only statement to the Washington Post's Reliable Source blog after crashing the state dinner was "India is the challenger in the America's Polo Cup World Championships June 11/12 2010, and they are very excited in this first ever cultural connection being hosted on the DC National Mall since Polo is one of the primary sports in India." This suggests a polo-motivated party crashing.

Based on this knowledge, here are a couple theories of how Singh helped the Salahis crash the White House.

1) Singh invited the Salahis to the dinner as a reward for their work on the India Vs. USA polo match, but for some reason their names didn't make it on the official guest list. When they showed up and were turned away (Brian Williams told the Times the couple's car was turned away by the first ring of Secret Service, after which they "hopped out") they called up Arun K. Singh: "Dude, you said we were on the list!" Singh spoke to the Secret Service and got them in.

2) The Salahis showed up uninvited, confident that they could use their Singh connection to get in the party. After being turned away, they either name-dropped Singh or got him to vouch for them to the Secret Service.

Either way, the Salahis weren't just some randos who showed up at the White House and schmoozed their way past the Secret Service with their fancy clothes. The Salahis knew somebody; they likely leveraged their connection to Arun K. Singh—the Indian Embassy's polo liaison—to crash the state dinner and successfully roll their way to immortal fameball-dom.

The Salahis will be appearing on Larry King Live Monday, where they will maybe prove our theory correct. Stay tuned!

UPDATE: Talking Points Memo has a statement from the Indian Embassy: "Neither the embassy nor anyone from the embassy was involved in any way in their getting into the White House. Nor did we request any invitation for them."

The Palin-Beck drama began when the former governor of Alaska told Newsmax she considers Beck "a hoot" and would be open to running with him. She repeated the coy "we'll see..." wink-nudge invite on Fox and Friends, prompting the king of televised weeping to dismiss Palin as frivolous, strident, and exceedingly female. First he asks her to stop using the word "hoot":

BECK: I don't think things are hoots. I don't. I don't think it's a hoot. I would never use the word hoot, and I respectfully ask that every time my name is brought up she would stop using the word "hoot."

And then he puts her in her place, the kitchen. He adds a note of self-irony about "evil conservative stereotypes," but does that actually redeem it?

BECK: I'm just saying, Beck-Palin, I'll consider. But Palin-Beck—can you imagine, can you imagine what an administration with the two of us would be like? What? Come on! She'd be yapping or something, and I'd say, "I'm sorry, why am I hearing your voice? I'm not in the kitchen." I mean, you'd have to live up to the evil conservative stereotypes, you'd have no choice, you'd have to. Look, I talked to the woman about it, I don't even know what she was saying.

Listen here:

Palin has a hair-trigger reaction to sexist slights—see Newsweek Cover Melodrama, The—so I would predict a wingnut feud, but in this case, Lady Alaska's martyr complex is going to conflict with her effusive love of right-wing media. Also, Beck's producers will likely pressure him to make nice. She's way too valuable to them.

Then again, if this most schadenfreude-rich year has taught us anything, it's that the only predictable thing about the Thrilla from Wasilla is her ability to hold grudges, so I'm going to call a 50-50 split on whether she flies into attack mode or sits back, arches an eyebrow, and quietly snubs him, instead. Hooray, now we have something to look forward to for after the holiday!

Beck's Sexist Reason For Ruling Out Palin-Beck Ticket: She'd Always Be ‘Yapping' Like We're ‘In The Kitchen' [Think Progress]

Correction: An early version of this post said Beck's Palin-slamming broadcast occurred today, but in fact it was yesterday.

The day after Thanksgiving is the most popular shopping day of the year, but it also the most deadly. Sure, there are always going to be fights over limited merchandise, but early morning specials and stores trying to frontload their days with shoppers ready to spend has created an atmosphere of deadly frenzy. Well, it is time to fight back! Here are several methods that will keep you alive and get you to the front of the pack. This December 25th when you have a pocket full of left-over cash and your children gratefully screech, "Thank you, Santa!" You better turn to your computer, nod, and say, "No, thank you, Gawker."

The Paparazzi Strategy: Pretend like the mob rushing the front door for cheap Blu-Ray players are like photographers and you are Robert Pattinson. Surround yourself with some thuggy types and have them walk you through the crowd.
Fatal Flaw: You have to have a big, tough entourage, or else you'll all go down like Tila Tequila at the dick buffet.
Best For: Big egos, people who are well connected, anyone with a subscription to Star.
Do Not Attempt If...: You do not know who Robert Pattinson is. That means you have never seen someone successfully avoid the paps and you are doomed to a million footprints on your face.

The NASCAR Strategy: At 4:59, right before the doors open, have a friend or family member pull up in a car that vaguely resembles a NASCAR racer. It's going to be dark, so it doesn't have to be perfect. When all the Walmartians are staring shout, "Look, it's Jeff Gordon!!" The crowd will go rushing for autographs and it will be just you and and the Walmart greeter.
Fatal Flaw: You may be stuck in a stampede when everyone goes Gaga over Gordon.
Best For: Red staters
Do Not Attempt If...: You live somewhere where no one will know who Jeff Gordon is. If you are standing the cold in front of Target instead of Walmart, you are in one of those places. If that is the case, a black town car with a black lady in the back seat can be used to create a diversionary "Oprah."

The Blocking Wedge Strategy: This football-inspired move is so effective that it got banned by the NFL. Get several "toughs" (great aunts work especially well for this) and have them run in a tight V formation. You are at the center of the V safe from harm. You will plow through the crowd of bargain hunters like a plow through snow.
Fatal Flaw: You have to get Great Aunt Fanny and the girls to run fast enough or else your wedge will be destroyed by the tide of bodies behind you.
Best For: Sports fans, Deadspin readers, lesbians.
Do Not Attempt If...: You are not committed. It's not easy to make your way through a mob, but when you get your hands on an electronic hampster it will be all worth it.

The Storm Trooper Strategy: Just like when Han Solo and Luke Skywalker put on Storm Trooper costumes to infiltrate the Death Star in Star Wars, all you need is a Walmart uniform to get inside. Show up in a blue apron an hour early and use the employee entrance. They've hired tons of seasonal staff, so they won't even care that they don't recognize you. Make yourself busy organizing shelves or something. And when the doors open, ditch the apron, and grab whatever your little heart desires.
Fatal Flaw: Someone might realize that you don't have a time card with your name on it.
Best For: The nondescript, chameleons, failed actors.
Do Not Attempt If...: You have any distinguishing features. People won't remember a mid-height lady with brown hair, but if someone with a goth 'do and a face full of piercings shows up at the employee entrance, it might cause a stir.

The Stay the Fuck Home! Strategy: Um, see the above. Really, is it worth risking death over a cheap TV? Also, it is real early in the morning.
Fatal Flaw: If servers crash on Cyber Monday then you are screwed.
Best For: Sane individuals, spendthrifts, city folk.
Do Not Attempt If...: You really want to go out with shopping cart wheel marks over your face in your coffin.

The Washington Post's Reliable Source blog reported earlier today that the two notorious DC socialites had not been on the official white house guest for last night's state dinner honoring the Indian Prime Minister—but were there anyway! This evening, Reliable Source received official word from the White House: The Salahi's had slipped through a Secret Service checkpoint "which did not follow proper procedure to ensure these two individuals were on the invited guest list." AKA: THEY CRASHED THE FUCK OUT OF THAT PARTY.

But the Secret Service told Reliable Source that the couple did not pose any risk aside from embarrassing everyone by dancing sexy to "Bad Romance":

"Everyone who enters the White House grounds goes through magnetometers and several other levels of screenings," said Ed Donovan, a spokesman for the Secret Service. "That was the case with the state dinner last night. No one was under any risk or threat."

Like most good party crashers, the Salahis flitted around like they owned the place, mugging for the camera with celebs and politicians for pictures Michaele would later upload to her Facebook profile (status update: "Honored to have attended the state dinner at the White House in honor of India with President Obama and our First Lady.")—basically stopping just short of pushing Obama aside to deliver the opening toast themselves, blisteringly drunk, complimenting the Indian prime minister on his "funny hat" before trying to goad the Obamas into a quad-kiss. Here they are with Joe Biden, who you will remember is the vice-president of our nation:

The Salahi's biography is predictable in a sad way: She is a rumored contender for the upcoming DC edition of Bravo's hope-squelching "Real Housewives" series, and defines her style as "classic and feminine with a slim rocker edge. I'm addicted to white clothes, and I love stilettos." He has been embroiled in a complex lawsuit over a family winery and is a polo enthusiast who founded "America's Polo Cup"—which is also being sued for not paying a caterer, according to Reliable Source. Of course these are the people who crash state dinners.

It is pretty ridiculous (and scary) that on this night—Obama's special night!—these two fameballs showed up and successfully used an important geopolitical event as a launching pad for their now inevitable reality show/string of late-night television interviews. But also kind of awesome. Go (to Hell) Salahis!

UPDATE: Commenter Claire Buoyant points us to the Salahis wedding video, which adds about 10,000 pounds to the "sad" side of the Sad/Awesome Scale of Justice.