The second week of President Barack Obama's (yeaaaaah, it feels good, doesn't it?) tenure in Washington left a few less casualties than usual in Hollywoodland. Unless you count Steven Adler, but his exploits on Sober House were technically filmed a few months back.
It was mostly a week for celebration, as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie unveiled their finest work yet, two nauseatingly adorable children, to the entire graduating class of a Japanese photography school.
But it was also five days of serious social commentary, courtesy of Ashlee Simpson and Kim Kardashian.
So without further drawn-out teasing of content that will ultimately be more succinctly stated than its lead-in, here are the top five things we learned this week:
5. Whether Tyler Perry's films offer something unique for an underserved demographic or actually pandering nonsense is debatable. But what's not up for argument is that someone should raise Jim Varney from the dead and give him some of Medea's royalties.
4. Jennifer Aniston likes to pretend getting naked on the cover of a magazine that sophisticated men jerk off to is somehow more noble than displaying airbrushed areolas for a publication less discreetly aimed at teenage boys and male divorcees. Then, again, what do you expect from a woman who's first major film role was in Leprechaun?
How is it that countless wonderful would-be mothers struggle with the ability to conceive life out their uterus, but conservative media monster Elizabeth Hasselbeck has successfully germinated a hat trick of fetuses?
Yep, that's right. As broken by People, the View co-host/poor woman's Ann Coulter and her second-string former pro-quarterback hubby Matt are expecting their third bundle of Republican afterbirth on August 3.
And with its delivery, her plan for right-wing world domination via a litter of left-bashing kin will be complete.
I haven't seen this much fervor over the glimpse of a newborn baby since Jesus emerged from a pile of divine afterbirth. But alas, the regally christened Knox and Vivienne, kin of ones Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, have surpassed the fascination with Suri Cruise and become a point of obsession for paparazzi and pop-culture obsessives.
And finally, the little tots were unleashed before the salivating lenses of crafty cameramen.
You can view the pics here. Some folks are saying they're adorable. I personally don't get suckered into the ideology of infant adorableness by default. You gotta work for my kiddie kudos. Or at least develop into a toddler without regressing into something akin to, well, the father himself toward the conclusion of Benjamin Button.
Everyone's favorite Meth-od woman, Fergie, may be considering the Angelina Jolie-Brad Pitt route and adopt a child with husband Josh Duhamel. Or at least according to the venerable sources at National Enquirer, which are about as reliable as Stephen Glass's.
And while this would run in curious contrast to the singer's recent announcement of a supposed couple o' kittens in the oven, it's a vaguely more enticing rumor to become wrapped up in. Why, you ask? Because it would certainly support many-a-person's notion that, in light of Duhamel's clean-shaven visage, Fergie only exists to be his faithful beard.
If you know what I'm sayin'. Eh? Eh? See how silly and suggestive we're being about it so that Josh can't sue us for libel?
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!
Man. First she ditches The Cosby Show to get naked and covered in blood with future Wrestler Mickey Rourke for Angel Heart, then she marries banal, pseudo-hippie rocker douche Lenny Kravitz, and now Lisa Bonet and boyfriend Jason Momoa name their kid Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha Momoa. But you know what they say: Momoa, Mo Problems.
Now, I mean not to poke thoughtless fun. There's spiritual intent behind the naming, and Lisa seems like a relatively substantive lady. But there's no way in hell this is getting exempt from the scrutiny we bestow upon any other celebrity baby christening, where the rule of thumb seems to be: There's a special energy that has blessed me with this universally appealing combination of talent and looks, and therefore that energy needs to be appropriately reflected and reinforced by making sure my kid's gonna get the shit beaten out of him every day until 12th grade.
Good thing all Momoa's residuals from Stargate: Atlantis should be able to cover at least part of Nakoa's medical bills.
Sometimes the jokes write themselves folks. And then require me to re-type them inside a Web admin program for public consumption. Anyhow, NCDSUV just wanted to give a big ol' congratulations to Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner for producing a healthy baby girl yesterday (because what other kind might such a stunning celeb couple unleash out of their love nest?).
In fact, we were so busy debating the particulars of Nicollette Sheridan and David Spade allegedly knockin' befuddling boots that we nearly neglected to commemorate this momentous event.
Unfortunately, Bennifer Part II have yet to formally name the sister to their other daughter, Violet, but let me take a wiiiiild guess here that they're going to christen her something complementary like Rose or Hazel. Because like they say, roses are red, violets are blue, and watch out Ms. Garner, because once your hubby's acting offers invariably stop rolling in, he's going to be financially relying on you.
Ah, the innocent days of 2008. When recession, war and high-profile celebrity deaths became the glue to bond us together like societal Siamese siblings. But now it's 2009, a whole new era, a whole new ballgame. And not just for Washington, who will call Barack Obama their overlord, or the New York Yankees, who will take the field with C.C. Sabathia and Mark Texeira and still manage to lose the pennant to smaller-budgeted organizations.
It is the final stand for celebrity land in a decade that has alternately enthralled and repulsed us. It is a time for Hollywood to make its mark on culture and the planet at large, and really give 'em the good stuff we all cream for in the tabloids.
And we got off to an intermittently intriguing start, thanks largely to the birth of what could have been the First Granddaughter-in-waiting, and a certain wayward actress' parent who may love his share of his daughter's spotlight more than the woman herself. So without any pregnant pauses, here's the top 5 things NCDSUV learned this week.
4. Paul McCartney may have had to navigate Heather Mills' body sexually despite her prosthetic leg, but at least he didn't have to stick around till midnight to ritualistically spray-tan the thing.
No, no, we keeed, we keeed. We're of course talking about Saturday Night Live, and Amy Poehler's official declaration that she will be leaving the show to, presumably, raise her awesomely named son Archie and pursue a pregnant film career.
Hopefully, whatever pieces of cinema she commands as lead actress will come closer to the manic goofiness of Wet Hot American Summer than the formulaic clusterfuck that was the immensely disappointing Baby Mama.
Huh-huh, her kid's name is Archie.
Oh, and make sure to stay tuned to NCDSUV in the coming days for a suggested list of possible Poehler replacements.
OK, that was a mean and unnecessary headline. But the world is a cruel and unpredictable place, which is of course all the more reason to bring another child into its cradle of filth. Especially when you'll likely be dead by the time they're 40 and will spend much of their nascent years on faraway film sets.
So, yeah, Naomi Watts, at a ripe and delicious 40 years old, gave birth to her second kid with Liev Schreiber, this past weekend. It's their second together, but more importantly, the first that NCDSUV has belatedly reported on.
So cheers, and may your well-offspring have better fortune than to grow up resembling your ape-like co-star in King Kong. And yes, we're referring to Jack Black.
Now that we can all breathe a sigh of relief that Britney Spears' son Jayden was treated at a Louisiana hospital yesterday for an allergic reaction and is doing fine, I think we can safely put forth our conjecture about the root of his illness: a clinical aversion to Britney's parenting habits.
Doesn't it speak volumes that she even brought him to her podunk hometown, where there's nary many options for proper emergency care, in the first place, without proper backup in case he fell prone to any possible maladies?
Of course, posting this item with a creepy, not-that-old photo of Britney as a mere adolescent herslef helps reinforce the theory that her almost-old-enough-to-be-aware-of-his-surroundings offspring would suffer from latent fear of his maternal caretaker.
Kevin Federline apparently has not made a statement or announced formal plans to check in with the little tyke, but that's probably for the best. If Jayden gets within five feet of his papa zao, the toddler might break out with a bout of cholera.
Notice that headline is phrased as a statement and not a question. Why, you inquire? Because we are not merely going to curiously probe the possibilities of what Jessica Simpson may be hiding in her much-gossiped-over belly. We are going to tell you. Because we all know that if her sperm-on-a-stick boyfriend/Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo (and no, I have no idea what sperm-on-a-stick means) is too sensitive to play football with a broken pinky, he's certainly not potent enough to knock up the singer/sort-of actress. Not to mention it's highly unlikely she'd go all in utero while in the midst of promoting a new album.
So, if in fact Simpson's belly is suffering from a bit of the bulge, here's the five different objects, maladies and possessed demonic spirits that could be inhabiting it:
5. Innumerable bags of salty, delicious Dallas Cowboys Northampton Peanuts. Although she's still probably absorbed less sacks than her paramour.
Now, I know what you're saying: "If it's such a mundane turn of events, then why are you even writing about it?" Well, because if people are putting Alyson Hannigan, How I Met Your Mother and Buffy The Vampire Slayer into Google today, we don't want to be left out of the Web hits party, now do we? Also, it's better than doing a surrealist painting about it.
Not to mention, it's another addition to our needlessly antagonistic "...Of The Month" archives.
So, yeah, Alyson Hannigan (who's 34???) told People mag that she and her "actor" husband, Alex Denisof (42), have successfully intertwined egg and sperm in a magical union of baby-making bliss. Or maybe she just said they're pregnant. And then got a fatty check from the publication for their first million-dollar Luis Vuitton suitcase for babies.
P.S.: When did Hannigan—a seemingly goofy, good-natured, Anna Faris-esque comedic actress—warp into another one of those mega-thin, uber-bronzed red-carpet walkers? So disappointing.
According to TMZ (aka a website I probably shouldn't be getting my stories from, but have no choice because publicists aren't whispering in my ear yet and I don't have an army of scruples-less celeb-stalkers), Charlie Sheen is about to deliver two more unfortunate souls into his trainwreck life of tabloid tumult, as he and Brooke Mueller are apparently expecting twins.
May I recommend names for the little tykes? How about herpes and gonorrhea? Or some other set of traits they're bound to inherit from the famously philandering dad. Like Early Career Peak and Lawsuit Prone.
What's remarkable to me is that other nations have put limits on peoples' procreation to control the population, yet we continue to let remarkably unfit Hollywood whores fertilize whole villages with their presumably diseased, ethically corroded ejaculate.
Maybe it's not too late for Barack Obama to include some kind of tax break for celebrity couples who elect to spare an-as-yet-unconceived fetus the indignity of such an existence.
