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.
No, that headline isn't the name of the imagined Benji sequel that was to star Entourage's Vincent Chase. But according to the uber-reliableStar ragazine, Paris may need more than a New BFF, as she allegedly dumped her dumpy, crappy-tat-covered boyfriend of nine months, Good Charlotte's Benji Madden (it's like they had a relationship baby!).
My favorite part of the report is that they peg the gossip-column-toppling event to an actual date (for, ya know, journalistic accuracy), alleging it occurred this past Monday, November 17 as a result of Madden being controlling and a possible cheater. Mark that moment in history down in your Blackberry documents next to the Hindenburg disaster and JFK's assassination.
Paris can now, of course, resume doing what makes her a worthwhile cultural commodity in the first place: fucking mass quantities of dudes (and yes, chances are she was fairly easily convinced to call it a day as a worthy PR tradeoff). Meanwhile, Benji can attempt to regain his punk-rock integrity by, I don't know, buying a DeLorean on eBay and travelling back to a time when he and his Nicole Richie-romancing bro were known less for banging vapid debutantes and more for... um, making glorified emo for teenagers?
Oy vey, what a week. Color me pooped, verklempt and all out plotzed. Between the election still burning up to its final campaigning days, Axl Rose finally rising from the studio dead, the economy still being in the shitter and more VH1 reality spinoffs clogging up airwaves like diarrhea in a bidet, did somebody say thank god it's Shabbat?
No? Hm, yeah, I should have realized from our demographics research that NCDSUV somehow inspires a devoutly Protestant following.
Anyway, here are the top five things we learned this week, and hopefully you'll find them equally educating. Because if not, we can't refund your Web hits.
David Duchony might like sex with lots of women, but how dare a British newspaper suggest he have the balls to bang a tennis player? In the latest entry to the ongoing saga that is the disgraced Californication star's sex-rehab/separation from wife Tea Leoni, the 48-year-old is suing the Daily Mail for printing a story insinuating a solid serve wasn't the only ace in the hole he had with tennis instructor Edit Pakay.
The suit is to the tune of a requested $1 million, which sounds like it should be just about enough to fund any messy divorce proceedings between he and Leoni or flights back and forth to indulge in visitation rights with their children. Hmmm. I guess one tabloid's legal retainer is another soon-to-be-washed-up celebrity's damage-control fund.
By now, you may have seen the above clip of William Shatner going on a bizarrely candid, if pointed, tangent regarding his lack of invitation to George Takei's wedding. Apparently, Takei still resents his former Star Trek co-star for his ego during that period (a sense of self-centeredness surely brought back down from the Starship Enterprise to Earth after decades of B-level TV roles and self-parodic ad appearances), hence the snub.
Whatever the case, Shatner rips him a pretty good new one. Or at least calmly explains why the guy's a total nutjob who uncourageously waltzed out of the closet during his twilight years. Now, we can sympathize with both sides. Takei spent years as the token Asian sidekick, repressed in his personal life, to Shatner's seductive starring turn as Captain Kirk. And Shatner, meanwhile, has been more than amiable about taking the piss out of himself in recent years, and maybe felt bygones should be bygones. Or bi-gones, as the case may be.
But this is where NCDSUV comes in to help. We cracked our brains together and beamed up five ideas about how these two can settle their differences, before it's too late and they join Scotty in that space craft in the sky.
Thanks to the news of her impending divorce from Guy Ritchie, the American people have taken a quick moment from observing the destruction of the global economy to plead with Madonna from the bottom of their precious hearts: “For the love of God, not A-Rod!” It seems that the Material Girl has been in England for far too long and doesn’t realize what a gigantic douche Alex Rodriguez, her rumored lover, happens to be. So to help Ms. Ciccone along in her newly single dating life, below is a small sample of her past loves for renewed consideration (even including Mr. Ritchie), with a likelihood of reconciliation (ranked in order of who we’d ideally enjoy seeing her reconnected with). Because even though Madonna’s vagina has had more visitors than the Grand Canyon over the last few decades, there is still time for her to find that true blue love, and it may just come from a familiar face. Or at least penis.
8. Prior Madge-Meat: Jean-Michel Basquiat
Stage Of Her Career: Struggling Bohemian/Shining Star
Their Immaculate Conception
Before they were famous—Madonna for her charming habit of not wearing panties and Basquiat for creating some of the most terrifying paintings this side of the river Styx—they were just two weird art kids living and loving on the same decrepit New York streets. The Day The Music Died
In the end, the dirty squalor could not contain either of these two visionaries. Madonna took what she learned, marginalized it for Middle America and started the process of turning all tweens into pint-sized whores. Basquiat, on the other hand, was discovered by world-renowned freak Andy Warhol and invited to countless art shows with free cheese and bad wine. Chances Of Reconciliation: 2 Percent
Like all great artists, Jean-Michel developed a lovely little heroin addiction and subsequently died in 1988. His untimely demise does not completely count out a renewal of their once-fiery passion. Madonna has been known to change her image frequently, so perhaps a necrophilia phase is in the cards. We can only hope.
7. Prior Madge-Meat: Carlos Leon
Stages Of Her Career: Eva Peron Wannabe/Desperate For A Baby
Their Immaculate Conception
The father of Madonna’s first child, Lourdes, Leon was nothing more than sperm with a hot tanned body, a donor who could dance. She wanted to have the best-looking child possible baby and found a young, fit, ethnic provider. Not to mention Mr. Leon also falls into one of Madonna’s favorite fetishes, the minority athlete. Although, in fairness, he seems to be the high water mark of that group. The Day The Music Died
This seemed to be one of those "Meet superstar, provide seed, become famous for doing so and move along" type of relationships. While Carlos and Madonna likely make for an enjoyable time at PTA meetings, at that point time, she still possessed strong, wandering urges and playing house wasn’t one of them yet. Chances Of Reconciliation: Fifty Percent
By all accounts, Leon seems like a good fella. He has kept his trap shut regarding his time with Madonna and has an active relationship with Lourdes. Does that seem like lofty praise for basically not screwing up and seeing a rich kid a few times a year? Sure. But compared to some of the schlock on this list, it’s near a miracle. So if she’s going to backslide, Leon is still vigorous and seems sensible enough to put up with the pure lunacy that must come along with being Mr. Madonna.
6. Prior Madge-Meat: Guy Ritchie
Stage Of Her Career: Ray Of Light/Ugly British Nanny
Their Immaculate Conception
Another reason to dislike Sting (if you needed any others) is that he was the matchmaker between these two. She had recently entered her 40s and wanted to settle down, and who could be better than a charming British bloke who makes low-budget crime flicks? Probably any other male in the United Kingdom, since the guy’s a one-trick pony in love with Cockney rhyming slang and inane double crosses captured with choppy editing. The Day The Music Died
Seemed only a matter of time, given Guy has been responsible for turning our wild deity of depravity into a proper English lady with a fake posh accent and a children’s book called The English Roses. Does Mr. Ritchie have no shame? Chances Of Reconciliation: Fifteen Percent
Guy and Madonna had their fun, but that bridge is done burned. She’s a phoenix rising from the ashes of this failed relationship. With the help of Kabbalah and an ego that knows no limits, she will trap another innocent young man and mold him.
5. Prior Madge-Meat: Sean Penn
Stage Of Her Career: Material Girl/Bigger Than Jesus
Their Immaculate Conception
A love that burned too bright to contain. This relationship lasted for the better part of the mid-to-late ’80s, at a time when Madonna was the hottest thing in the world and Sean Penn was the older brother of the fat guy from Footloose. The Day The Music Died
The apparent reasons behind their split were that Sean was a psychotic thug who got his jollies off of beating the living crap out of paparazzi and that Madonna was far too famous to pal around with Jeff Spicoli. Chances Of Reconciliation: 10 Percent
Penn has recently gotten back together with his wife, Robin Wright Penn (better known as Buttercup from The Princess Bride and Jenny from Forrest Gump. Now, Madonna is a sex goddess and all, but does Gloria from Shanghai Surprise hold up against Buttercup and Jenny? All Sean has to do is consult IMDB and realize he has made the right choice.
Wow, talk about a whirlwind five days. You know it's a nutty week when David Duchovny and Tea Leoni's inevitable split finally makes the front pages, but not NCDSUV's Top 5 Things We Learned This Week.
But not to worry. All that means is we had plenty of revelations from the likes of other megastar couples, multi-billion-dollar fast-food chains and, of course, our neverendingly illuminating presidential candidates. So enjoy, and hopefully you've learned as much as we have this week. And ideally lessons of greater societal import.
Is that Tea Leoni taking something out of her purse in that picture, or perhaps packing her bags so she can take a permanent vacation from her philandering husband? I dare say the latter. (I also know the answer because the image is from Spanglish.)
Anyway, the reports of she and sex-monger David Duchovny being officially separated come as fairly underwhelming amidst the previous day's Madonna/Guy Ritchie D-Bomb (that's Divorce Bomb, for those of you lacking in nuclear-weapon-analogy inference) and the fact that, well, Duchovny's been outed as a cheating douchebag for weeks now.
So, congratulations, David and Tea, you have joined the likes of Verne Troyer's penis and Sarah Silverman and Jimmy Kimmel's coitus in the esteemed annals (or is it anals?) of NCDSUV's Least Something Or Other Of The Month. Your gift certificate to Applebee's and trophy in the shape of Sonny Bono will be mailed to you shortly.
Since news emerged of Madonna and Guy Ritchie's official split (sorry for not breaking the info ourselves last night, but soooome of us were busy watching the possible future leaders of our nation get it on--debate style), the talk has surrounded how much of Madge's material earnings Mr. Ciccone would come away with. Would he pull a Heather Mills or a Phil Collins' ex, or would he get swept away in disadvantageous divorce proceedings?
But to me, the funnier scenario would involve quantifying their collective intellectual property and divvying it up. Sure, you can argue that the bulk of Madonna's savings were earned by her hard work, and that Ritchie's recent films even benefitted from lecherous attention. But what kind of value would be placed on the timeless societal contribution that was her kid's book, The Children's Roses versus the instant 4 a.m. cable anti-classic RocknRolla? Or likewise, used VHS copies of the Griffin Dunne romp Who's That Girl? placed against the self-referential rehash clunker Snatch? Don't even get us started on who to saddle with disproportionate credit (or blame) for Swept Away.
Eh, we could always just put their intellectual property up for public sale in conjunction with a police auction. Then we see what fetches a higher price to gauge which of the couple should be more embarrassed by how they've negatively corroded each other's creativity.
Come to think of it, maybe the most pressing question is, does this mean Madonna will no longer be British?
