Guy Ritchie may have made out like a cockney-accented pulp-movie bandit during he and Madonna's divorce settlement. But she's heading back to the States with their two little tots, Rocco and David.
Or at least that's the word on the street. But it's been raining all morning and the sidewalk-chalk isn't really legible anymore, so who knows.
But presuming this information is accurate, one hopes Ritchie will be making occasional custody visits to ensure the safety of their tiny innocents. Because although it's a little known fact, Madge maintains her tightly wired figure and muscularity by draining the life's blood out of cute young boys in a scared Kabbalah ritual.
What do you think explains her relationship with Justin Timberlake?
Well, ladies and gents, we can now move ahead toward a time of economic prosperity and racial harmony, because Barack Obama has been sworn into office. What's that? You're still unemployed and your boss keeps referring to you by prejudiced terminology? Oh, bummer. Guess one man can't change everything.
But even if you haven't been swept up in Obama-as-Messiah fever (ironic given his presidency signals an end to high government as guise for holier-than-thou demagoguery), we can all agree it was pretty sweet to see George W. Bush (and don't call him Prez) sent off on that helicopter one last time.
Not as sweet as seeing the likes of Mike Myers and Cameron Diaz get sliced and diced by the Razzies of course. So without any last-minute presidential pardoning, here are the top 5 things we learned this week.
5. Katy Perry may pretend she likes to kiss girls and is preciously cute when calling other people gay, but apparently she'll settle for nothing but the straight dish when tabloids report on her sex life, or lack thereof.
4. Britney Spears is somehow being raked over the coals for the suggestive phonetic pronunciation of her new single. Meanwhile, no one raised an ounce of cain over Van Halen's non-too-subliminal epithet placement within the titular acronym of their 1991 album. Guess parents were less afraid of Sammy Hagar gettin' their teenage tots in a heated lather.
And the feeling is mutual between Lopanthony and the public. Which is why get off on reading stories about the possible dissolution of their matrimony. I mean, what could there possibly be to loathe with searing disdain and jealousy about a relatively talent-free pair of Hollywood darlings who get paid oodles of cash to peddle their newborns around on magazine covers?
But much like Jenny From The Blizock revealed images of her twins via the sophisticated pages of People, she has gone through an equally ironclad journalistic outlet, InTouch, to ensure the public that "divorce is not an option."
And from a PR standpoint, probably not, as everyone knows La La Land has a three-strikes-and-yer-yesterday's-trash rule about three-time divorcees.
Incidentally, has anyone actually sat through El Cantante, she and Anthony's primary creative collaboration together? If you thought Mariah Carey's Glitter was as helpless a vanity biopic project as it gets, go try that foul-stenched turd on for size. I bet it will be even less complemetary to your day than Jennifer's wedding ring was to her Golden Globes dress.
OK, am I the only one who read the gossip from Star magazine about Matthew Broderick supposedly sleeping around behind Sarah Jessica Parker's back and thought, "Really, but wasn't Ferris Bueller her Broadway beard?"
I mean, not to be crass, reductive, insensitive or anything else that may as well comprise the story tags for our archives, but the notion of SJP (incidentally the original acronym for Stone Temple Pilots when they first christened themselves Stone Jessica Pilots) seeking respite in a separate home because of her husband's philandering seems, at the very least, a bit backwards.
Then again, the Sex And The City starlet does kind of resemble a cross between Ruth Buzzi and post-Kabbalah-era Madonna, so I could kind of see why Matty boy would make a run for less pruneish pastures, regardless of their what they're packing between the thighs.
Hey there, and how's your father? No, seriously, he wasn't doing so well the last time we made love and I'm genuinely curious if he's gotten over that horrible encounter with the Samoan princess.
Well, at least we've been able to competently take the temperature of Hollywoodland, and let me tell you, it is burning up. No pun intended in the case of still-rockin' and still-shirtless Travis Barker. And absolutely pun intended in terms of the rampant gonorrhea ravaging the Rock Of Love Bus.
But those were just a couple of the items exploding the zeitgeist since last weekend that have whetted our appetites for some good ol' pop-culture excess and voyeurism, and on that accord we triumphantly bring you the top five things NCDSUV learned this week:
5. Were we the only ones who read the news about Travis Barker getting back behind the drum kit, became momentarily inspired, then saw that he was still insistent on playing shirtless despite a burn-ravaged body and thought, "Man, he's still a skater douche, huh?"
4. Awww, Jennifer Love Hewitt and Patricia Arquette broke up with their boyyyyfweeeends. Someone call the waaaaaambulance. Now the remainder of Hollywood's single male population will have two more pairs of phenomenal, natural breasts to play comeptitive tourneys of backgammon over. Waaaaaa!
Not since two number one college sports teams were upset on the same evening has there been such a shockwave of unexpected coincidental downfall in our cultural waters. Yes, yes, both Jennifer Love Hewitt and Patricia Arquette publicly announced (because why do such things privately when there's absolutely no one knocking down your door suspecting controversy?) their separations from fiance Ross McCall and hubby Thomas Jane, respectively (you know, the guy who was supposed toi be a next big thing but then starred in The Punisher) in the last 24 hours.
No more details have surfaced per se, although I suppose all the heat from Love Hewitt's "I'm not fat I just have super-fine lady curves" scandal must have worn on poor McCall. Or maybe he got tired of her singing "Bare Naked" in the shower all the time.
As for Arquette and Jane (or as I like to call them Janequette), the real victim here of course is their 5-year-old daughter, Harlow, who we imagine will be placed in a special celeb-splitup orphanage home with the rest of the babies bred by famous people lacking foresight. We're pretty sure Kevin Federline is the headmaster there. Should be awesome.
Well, to be slightly more accurate, ex-Heather Mills nanny Sara Trundles is suing the former Mrs. Paul McCartney for "constructive dismissal claim with an employment tribunal." Which means, in non-archaic Parliamentary parlance, that Trundle claims she had to spray tan Mills' nude body (prosthetic appendage presumably included) and suffer other apparently sueable injustices, like working really long hours.
Mills is apparently "devastated by the allegations," although one imagines it couldn't compare to her horror at the New York Jets' late-season collapse.
Now, while Mills has proven to be a fairly loathsome figure, it's a bit difficult to empathize with Trundle exploiting her former employer's wealth and sensational status to eek some bucks out for being as overworked (though hardly underpaid, you'd figure) as the average Joe schmo. Not to mention the obvious seizing of an era in which celeb nannies (Jude Law, David Beckham, et al) have become favorite subjects of UK tabloid fodder.
So, Ms. Trundle, while I do believe you deserve a hug for spraying down Mills' faux-lower-limb on a regular basis, I'd have to say the court of public opinion may not swing in your favor on this one.
Ah, the last week before the Christmas-time blitz of abusive commercialism and schmaltzy, ceremonial sentimentality. A time for celebrities to get one last headline blast before the world pretends to care about religion and family more than the dogma of tabloid culture for a few days.
Fortunately for us, there was no shortage of boob-flashing, divorce scuttlebutt and rehab-hyjinks. So without further prolonged pause, here are the top five things we here at NCDSUV (and we hope you as well) have learned this week:
4. Tara Reid, not to be outdone by her more youthful underlings Lindsay Lohan et al, finally went into rehab for undisclosed reasons. We're guessing it's because she's been chronically addicted to an illicit co-dependent substance, but what the heckfire do we know?
Sure, his name has an extra "t" in it, but Guy Ritchie's finally embodying the promise of his name in undeserved wealth, if not believably accrued critical kudos. Even Paul McCartney and Phil Collins have to be cringing with empathy for Madonna, who forked over $76 million and some of their shared property to the middling quasi-pulp director.
Does this mean Madge is finally completing her long overdue separation from vacuously vicarious faux-Britishness? Is the Queen actually dead? Or is she too busy tripping over herself on stage lately to have any equilibrium one way or the other?
And incidentally, enough with the guitar-playing during segments of your new concert tour. You're about as believably authentic straddling a six-string as Jon Bon Jovi in the "I'll Be There For You" video.
I know, I know: It's cold outside, you're dead broke and the holiday-shopping season six days away, and you forgot what it means to be funny after watching too many episodes of Frank TV.
Have no fear, however: The real-life foibles of celebrities are here. And thanks to everyone from Jean Claude Van Damme to Paris Hilton, the last several days have seen an abundant enough amount of Tinseltown tomfoolery to warm even the blackest of hardened hearts. So as always at this time (or maybe a bit earlier, depending on when our Sanka settles in), here's the top 5 things NCDSUV learned this week:
5. Where was Sean Stewart, son of Rod (doesn't have quite the same ring as Son Of Jor-El, does it?), when Rodney King was beaten mercilessly by LAPD in 1991? Oh, right, opening that week's unnecessary luxury gift as compensation for his dad touring the world and ensuring him a life of comfort and endless opportunity. So how exactly are their situations parallel enough to warrant co-participation in Celebrity Rehab?
4. Sinbad cut his fade-top 'do and stopped dressing like the retarded kid in your sixth grade math class. Talk about losing your sense of humor in your old age.
