Since those catty bitches at "The View" won't give her the proper goodbye she so richly deserves, we've put together a tribute to Rosie O'Donnell set, for some reason only our videography team quite understands, to Keven Federline's "PopoZão." We have nothing else today about this.
Torture porn got you down? Want something a little less explicit, something that titillates mildly while still doesn't physiologically humiliate you at the office? Today's "Today Show" offered a segment on the oh-so-2004 trend of housewife stripper pole parties. If you're hesitant to watch, let us assure you: Ann Curry does not mash her cuppable rump against a pole at any point. Enjoy?
Is there a more American way of spending your hot summer weekend than sitting benumbed in some air-conditioned popcorn palace while the latest installment of some celluloid masterpiece based upon a comic book or amusement park ride unspools across the screen? We sent Richard Blakeley and the Cajun Boy around to different New York multiplexes (multiplexi?) to see how viewers enjoyed their two hours of brain no-thinkee time. This week, the cineastes of Brooklyn's UA Court Street Stadium 12 express their opinions on the third iteration of that pirate flick.
By now you're aware of the tragic news that Rosie O'Donnell will not return to "The View" after her recent altercation with co-host Elisabeth Hasselbeck. But this weekend Ro took to her blog to explain her relationship with the loopy Christ-lover. What was it like behind the scenes? You'll be shocked to learn that all was not daffodils and flowers. We are digging the bandana, though. Also, Nora Ephron WTF?
In this holiday edition of First Responders, our man on the street segment, The Assimilated Negro and Richard Blakeley find out how New Yorkers are planning to spend their Memorial Day weekends. Except TAN never showed—you know how black people are—so Blakeley was forced to fend for himself. The result? What may very well be the best episode yet!
In the interest of closure regarding the "Sanjaya is actually some sort of performance art stunt" video we posted on Tuesday that has certainly challenged everything you thought you knew about untalented karaoke competition contestants who refuse to disappear, we invite you to watch the above clip, in which the lusciously coiffed imp admits to some David Blaine-level mindbuggery. Sanjaya, it turns out, is real. All too real. (And now he's friends with Will Ferrell, who seems to be out of good viral video ideas now that he's exhausted all the creative possibilities of the drunk, foul-mouthed baby genre.)
Unless you've been napping in a sensory deprivation tank buried a mile beneath the earth's surface for the last ten or so hours, by now you know that Jordin Sparks (just 17, as we were reminded every 30 seconds of this past season) is this year's American Idol, a conclusion so foregone that runner-up Blake Lewis put in an application to run the mechanical bull at Saddle Ranch mere minutes after the finalists were announced last week. Indeed, the only real questions left unanswered before the bloated two-hour finale began were: What sexagenarian-and-up singers would call in favors to perform in front of a television audience of tens of millions of teenage girls? (Answer: Tony Bennett, Bette Midler, Gladys Knight, Smokey Robinson, a hologram of Fat Elvis, and the ghost of James Brown.) And: What washed-up celebrity would be this year's David Hasselhoff, caught weeping while lost in a transcendent moment in which all melts away but him, the singer who has reached down deep inside him and caressed his very soul, and Idol's all-seeing, audience-scanning cameras? The answer to this query comes after the jump, at precisely 3:44 of Midler's moving performance of that one song she does:
In any event, McMillan can't be a worse hire than WGA mole George "Scab Writer" Ellis, whom the Guild hopes will be snapped up during a studio's MySpace hunt for cheap, strike-insurance labor, and whose shoddy, non-union workmanship will doom any stockpiled project to instant failure. His video resume follows:
Last night was dating columnist Julia Allison's 17th birthday bash for soap actress Leven Rambin at Tenjune, and the members of the media elite who Julia had invited were all there to celebrate. Well, okay, only HufPo gal Rachel Sklar showed up. But it was still a fun time! Until a doorman had a problem with someone (the guest of honor, maybe?) being underage.
Nightline looked at the Page Six dust-up last night, and in addition to finally learning just how much weight New York Post chief Col Allan has put on lately, we also learned that Page Six honcho Richard Johnson and company basically just made shit up. We also learn that, somehow, T.V. feels sleazier than print! Oh, also, funny that talking head commenter (and the man most likely to always be wrong!) Michael Wolff's hot daughter is totally a reporter at the Post!
Transformers director Michael Bay is more than just the force-of-blowing-shit-up-nature behind some of the wildly successful, underscripted summer blockbusters that help you drown out the drudgery of your life with two hours of awe-inspiring mushroom clouds and balletically twirling Ferraris; he is also, as you may know, an unquestioned master of a more intimate (if equally mercenary) form of filmmaking—the commercial. Bay's must-read news blog shares this behind-the-scenes clip of a recent Pepsi One ad he helmed, giving us a rare glimpse of how the fauxteur is sometimes willing to put aside his ego to better serve the narrative, resisting every impulse to spectacularly detonate star Kim Cattrall's bathtub just for the selfish purpose of putting his creative stamp on the project.
Some precocious students from RISD are currently circulating the above video on the internets, in which a postlapsarian Sanjaya Malakar begins a new campaign to rape the minds of an American public he hasn't been able to brain-diddle on a mass scale since his shocking Idol dismissal, claiming that "Sanjaya's" entire existence is nothing more than an elaborate art project by someone named "Bill Vendall." It's just cute enough to pass along, so: enjoy, even if it somewhat ruins your pet theory that tomorrow night's winner would dramatically tear off her latex Jordin mask to reveal the pony-hawked incubus beneath.
If you naively believed that Sylvester Stallone's involvement in Rocky Balboa represented the absolute rock-bottom in career-reviving desperation, we humbly submit this preview footage from John Rambo (released to Ain't It Cool on Saturday), the actor's latest attempt to make ageist Hollywood take notice of the perfectly competent, fading action star it so callously discarded at the beginning of the decade. Be forewarned: the footage is bloody, so depending on your workplace's policy on viewing graphic violence perpetrated by a Vietnam veteran driven insane from botched cosmetic surgery that's rendered him nearly unrecognizable from his younger, PTSD-powered-vigilante self, you may need to watch it on your lunch break.
· S Day is finally here, and Tim and Eric couldn't be more excited about it. Really.
· Posthumous note to Jack Valenti: If you're playing Truth or Dare with the 1991 Madonna, you always take dare. Always.
· Ah, we knew there something wrong with the way Britney Spears dresses, and now we can put our finger on exactly what it is. [via goldenfiddle]
· Worn down by months of unironic posts about Matthew McConaughey's abs, Reese Witherspoon feeding parking meters, and Hyde's guest list, a writer at TMZ finally loses her shit.
·Hey, unicorns! Flying ones!
It's been reported that accused closet-raider Lindsay Lohan won't be charged with felony grand theft for allegedly boosting clothes from a local woman, as there's insufficient evidence a crime was committed and the Los Angeles County justice system has already dedicated all of its celebrity-prosecuting resources to the ongoing Paris Hilton case. With this avenue closed to her, the accuser, model Lauren Hastings, has taken her case to the internets, dropping by the offices of Buzznet to describe (in painstaking detail—get comfortable, you're going to be here for a while) how the supposed theft went down—and, far more chillingly, revealing the ensuing campaign of Blackberry-enabled terror (there are photos!) waged against her by Lohan, Nicole Richie, and Samantha Ronson for Hastings' choice to go public with the matter. We applaud her willingness to stand up to this intimidating, wardrobe-pilfering triad, a brave effort that calls to mind the sage words of entertainment newsmagazine philosopher William Hall Bush, "All that is required for the triumph of celebutard evil is that good models do nothing."
