The Awful Truth

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A short time ago, David Duchovny did a very brave thing. He fessed up to signing up for sex rehab. Few stars in Tinseltown would ever even attempt to consider such a declaration. Fab and ultimately headed in the healthy, right direction, right? Wrong.

Fox news was the first to smell a horny rat when it surmised Duchovny was hyperaware that many in the media, including this column, were eventually going to out the guy's less than stellar sexual habits, so he decided he'd just beat us all to the punch.

And what with D2's latest media-bashing statements from his attorney—that we're all undignified gutter rats whose scurrilous questions are not to be addressed—makes clear David never respected the institution of public information in the first place; it was all just an attempt to squelch, not reveal or humble oneself.

But whatev. I'm a forgiver. Besides, I'm addicted to poker and my husband's ass, I know how difficult these damning sitches can be, babe. Hope ya heal fast, hon!

AP Photo/Chris Miller; Virginia Sherwood/NBC

Well, the comparing-Obama-to-Paris ads didn't work, and they certainly backfired enough. So, now our sleazy little wife-switcher, otherwise known as John McCain, is gunning for the femme-powered spot so sadly left vacant by Hillary Clinton. What, by choosing fetching (and far more demure than Clinton) Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin, J.M. just thinks he can swing those Clinton-leaning babes to vote for him?

Or is the hardly record-breaking choice (Geraldine Ferraro beat ya to it, Palin, sorry) more about guilt and goss over the coldhearted way McCain launched on current spouse Cindy before ditching his first wife, Carol, who was handicapped and heart-crushed when J-poo changed his little lascivious mind round all those years ago?

After all, it's the story that just won't go away for McCain.

And Palin and the young Carol look eerily alike. I say it's guilt, guilt guilt—the things that always make for such stellar choices with men. Particularly with those who are attempting to run the world. Don't know 'bout you all, but, I'm runnin' the hell away from this broad-of-goods.

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Like a hideous Steven Spielberg-created creature, it’s here! A 50-year-old Michael Jackson now occupies precious space on our ever-endangered planet. Are little boys safe? Guess I’ll leave that to the preposterously celeb-ass-kissing West Coast courts to decide.

On better and second hunch, let’s not. Let’s not forget the depositions which contain harrowing descriptions of acts no child could dream up, no matter how much their parents might have been dreaming of green. Happy B-day and no more, we say, Jacko.

And on lighter (and blonder) but perhaps also fake happenings, Jessica Simpson is yapping away to the press Michael Lohan-style about her relaysh with Tony Romo, calling him “the love of my life.” Nicer things than Daddy Lo & Co. have been swapping back and forth, but just as stupid.

Hasn’t J-babe learned anything from the last time the two parted ways, right after a similar media cupid spilling? Learn a thing from Ashlee about keeping coy, huh? We’re on your side, hon, we like ya happy.

—Additional English-screwin’ reporting by Becky Bain.

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We've decided we hate the beginning of the day as much as Mondays, so, heretofore, we're getting pissed off every damn ayem, so good morning and ef you! Kidding, love you, don't mean it!

Ah, see the kind of crank-a-thon moods those stupidasses Mackenzie Phillips and Matthew McConaughey's mom, Kay, are putting us in? Really, the crap they're respectively pulling—reportedly walking through an airport security check with heroin and coke, and writing about how the daddy of your son passed on while diddling you—make Tatum O'Neal's line about how she bought crack for a movie part seem downright genius.

First of all, I knew something was up with Phillips when we did a stage reading of Valley of the Dolls (she played Miriam Polar, I played some queen named Ted Casablanca). Not only did Phillips fall down onstage, trample everyone's lines and forget her own, she couldn't wait to leave so she could haul ass across the country to go hook up with some twentysomething. Sounds hot, but it wasn't. It was sad.

Almost as tragic is a celeb's mom writing about how she was screwing the dad of said celeb (without whom, by the by, she wouldn't have a book deal in the first place, as who cares what stage moms like Lynne Spears have to say about their otherwise designing, opportunistic lives, anyway?). So, do we really need to know it was coitus interruptus rigor mortis for Matthew's dad?

And if we do, shouldn't some creep like me be delivering that nasty biz? I mean, I broke that drunk-off-his-butt stuff M.M. just pulled down in Nicaragua. Kinda makes sense now, doesn't it, that Matty was friggin' celebrating the fact that he was caught down there with his toes toasted? His own mother uses her husband's sensational passing for a book deal.

And these famous folks say we're heathens? Gimme an effin' break.

Matthew Simmons/WireImage, Paul Fenton-KPA/ZUMA Press

The Next Paula: The judging juggernaut that is American Idol is getting some new blood next season, thank gawd, with singer/songwriter Kara DioGuardi, who is to the music biz what Paris Hilton is to restrooms and table tops (i.e., she's been around).

As K.D.'s written and produced pop tunes for just about everyone in the music biz, guess she's at least professionally qualified. But is she bitch-ready? If she isn't, let's just call the whole damn thing off now.

'Course Paula, we're guessin, is pissed enough to making our her own lists right about now. Paul-hon's gotta be less than thrilled she's no longer the lone token female, and Ab-doll's status as a relevant musical name will be even more dated compared with someone currently succeeding in the poppy game, all the while off meds. Look for tons of new (sober?) catfights come January...can't wait!

Lance Dance: Lance Bass was announced as one of the contestants on Dancing With the Stars, but instead of Lancie-pants tangoing with another man (as was rumored), L.B. will be paired up with a woman, Lacey Schwimmer. Why not have a same-sex pairing on the ballroom competish? Gay couples like to swing and salsa, too (we don't know any of them, but surely, they must exist). Or do we need Ellen and Portia to do it in the public eye first until everyone catches on? This is so friggin' lame, though. It's like Will & Grace never existed.

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You know the dirty drill: It’s Monday, which means we get to be as pissy as all you are about our divine new color scheme. Let’s go.

Off-Key: Heidi Montag has a new song out. We’re pretty peeved no one’s stopped her yet. Guess they figure it helps ratings for the show? Also pissed The Hills starts a whole new season tonight, which means these people are going to be talked about more than they already are. Here included.

Off-Game: John Mayer told paps (on video, too) all about his breakup with Jen. The guy needs to STFU. Even saying nice things is probably more than Jen wants him to say about their relationship at this point. And, dude. At least pretend it was a fifty-fifty bustup, for the gal’s sake. Think your magnificent little—and smelly—ego could deign to help out the most famously dumped woman in the world, at least a friggin’ little bit? Guess not.

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Some things never change, like malcontents and Mondays. Our new format could change a billion times, babes, and we’d still make time for bitchy beginning-of-the-week musings, here goes:

Mother, May I Not: Lynne Spears’ self-penned tome, Through the Storm, chronicling the chaotic ordeal it is to parent two famous tots through tabloid dreck, is finally being released. And yet the brave, strong Spears mamacita is still wagging her finger at the paps who document her little girls’ lives daily. Allow us to laugh uproariously at the hypocrisy here, ‘K? You are the one who created this, Lynn. You are the one getting the richest off your cute li'l commodities, not the paps or the goss rags. And, pray tell, what are we supposed to learn from you, how not to raise a kid without underage pregnancies, rehab stints and mental-ward visits as a rite of passage? We’d rather read a memoir from the polygamists wives, fer sure.

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Quote of the Week: Hell-Ay’s finest boys in blue are apparently just as bitchy as we gossip mongers. Police Chief William Bratton poo-poo’d probs with the ever-present paparazzi, especially since all of H’wood's bad girls have started cleaning up their acts: “Since Britney started wearing clothes and behaving, Paris is out of town and not bothering anybody anymore, thank God and Lindsay Lohan has gone gay, we don’t seem to have much of an issue.” Apparently these three girls are the only ones stirring trouble for SoCal residents—and god forbid Linds return to her man-eating ways, which, according to Chief W.B., is apparently soaking up taxpayer money.

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Sienna Miller and her married dude-toy put us in an even crankier mood than usual with today's Pissed List, not to mention the Emmys, which are looking to be another friggin' yawnfest. Plus, who's trying to curb his man-slut ways? Say it ain't so!

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