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As much as we theoretically think we'd enjoy the ritualistic humiliations meted out to the desperate strivers on The Starlet by the tragically slumming host Faye Dunaway (on-the-nose dismissal catchphrase: "Don't call us, we'll call you"), we still haven't caught a single episode. Obviously, the show has lost a deathmatch deep inside our TiVo with something more urgently demanding our attention. For those of you who've been following the show, however, we suggest that you avoid the Pussy Ranch blog's potential spoiler, inadvertently leaked in a fit of parental pride by a contestant's mother who felt her little starlet-in-waiting was slighted:

I received an incensed telephone call this morning from the mother of one of the contestants on The Starlet. For those discerning consumers who aren't familiar with the program (approximately 95% of the viewing public, I'll wager), it's a reality show on the WB in which a group of ingenues complete for a role on One Tree Hill. Anyhow, Mom was totally T.O'd because I described her daughter as "acne prone" in this review.

The best part about Mom's furious voicemail was that she revealed to me that her daughter wins the show. (Delivered in a satisfying so there! tone.) You heard it here first, not that anyone cares. Maybe I should try pissing off Jeff Probst some time; then I'll actually score some usable dirt.

If you need further suspense to continue your viewership, you can always savor the tension of knowing that at any point, Dunaway might throw herself under a Hummer to atone for her participation in the show.