· In about three weeks, the home video rights for Alexander will probably sell for less than its soundtrack promo at Amoeba.
· Behold, another strange intersection of Jeffrey Katzenberg and the porn industry.
· We're almost ready to officially recognize the Curse of the Entertainment Weekly Must List
· If you haven't seen this by now, you haven't been properly utilizing the power of the interweb.
· It's a cliché to use this formulation, and we've never been afraid of beating a dead horse, so here goes: Slate's Movie Club is for pussies. Bloggers do it better at The Conversation
· Should we be offended that Brad will only talk about his life with the Japanese?
· Based on this one segment alone, it seems that there's no way that the new season of Ali G will be less than amazing.

Your guesses are in! Take a refresher course on One Slurping Blind Vice:

Thanks to the generosity of an anonymous reader, we're proud to present this photo essay of Lindsay Lohan's night out in New Orleans. Unfortunately, our shutterbug didn't catch her in the act of underage drinking (maybe all of the cameraphones scared some sense into her), but these pictures are so vivid that we can almost taste the Coors Lights and Hurricanes.

Wherein we invite our readers to pick through the wreckage wrought by the prose tsunami proffered by humpy E! gossip-force-of-nature Ted Casablanca and submit their guesses about the identity of his weekly blind item. As much as it pains us to say it, we fear that Ted may be losing his touch—two of the pseudonyms in the item (luckily, not the ones of the real subjects) are laughably obvious. Still, we must soldier on! Bob up and down on One Slurping Blind Vice:

While Lindsay Lohan is partying in New Orleans during downtime from shooting Just My Luck, her publicist captions this photo for us: "She was just there with some castmates checking out the local scene. There was no 'partying.' She had one cranberry and soda."

Fox 411's Roger Friedman reports that hack director/Robert Evans footstool Brett Ratner has been subpoenaed to testify in the Michael Jackson molestation trial.

The punishing combination of unforgiving deadlines and crippling grief over the separation of Hollywood's Favorite Couple has obviously driven the entire Star editing staff to suicide, leaving the operation defenseless against a takeover by careless, zombie proofreaders.

The E! network, showing the kind of ingenuity that's made them the world leader in round-the-clock, creepily obsessive starfucking, announced that it will circumvent the ban on television cameras in Michael Jackson's molestation trial by airing dramatic re-enactments of the proceedings. If they're going to do this, they'd better go all the way...and do the re-enactments in Claymation. Using clay actors will lessen the brutal impact of the emotionally wrenching "show me where he touched you" moments that will surely upset viewers, and they'll have a much easier time matching Jackson's elusive skin tone and accurately rendering the surgeon-chiseled contours of his face. And think of the slapstick possibilities of a clever clay animator making Jackson's nose slide off his face every time he sheds a crocodile tear!

The over/under on how long we've got until the inevitable Star piece about Ben Affleck's next Canadian strip club incident is officially set at five days. Popbitch reports:

Separate the Olsen Twins for more than a couple of minutes and that high-pitched screaming in their heads drives them criminally insane. To wit, The NY Daily News' Lloyd Grove reports that Ashley Olsen and her pals went all Guns N' Roses on a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel during a friend's party over the holidays. Predictably, the twins' personal denial machine (some call it Michael Pagnotta) lurched into action:

· People's Choice Awards attendee or Star Wars character?
· Enjoy this highly fictionalized, but still highly entertaining, account of a party at Asia Argento's old place in Venice. We always suspected she played the theremin.
· We know that brother blog Gizmodo only jokingly refers to these pics of the brand-spanking-new Mac mini and iPod Shuffle as "porn," but we still can't shake the feeling people are touching themselves while browsing through them.
· Federline...a new scent by Britney Spears.
· Looking to pick up a nightclub on the way home from work? If you've got a million bucks in your Escalade, you can (probably) have Ivar.

If we didn't know better, we'd think that all of the nonstop Pitt-Aniston break-up coverage was a brilliant subterfuge perpetrated by Jennifer Garner's publicist. Just like that, no one's talking about whether or not Ben Affleck's demon seed has taken hold inside Garner. Luckily, we've got operatives who don't take their eye off the womb, no matter the magnitude of the distraction:

Shadowy fashion player-hater Mr. Blackwell has emerged from his stylish groundhog hole to issue his 45th annual "Worst Dressed" list. (That's right, he's been at this long enough to bore our grandparents with his catty nonsense.) This year's picks are like taking a jackhammer to a bag of paralyzed kittens, as Nicolette Sheridan (she wins, she wins!), Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton (everyone together now: She wears clothes?), Britney Spears, and Paul Abdul all feel the sassy sting of his superannuated tongue. While we'd love to ignore all of this dirty business and return to important work of analyzing Brad and Jen's break-up, we do feel compelled to defend one of Blackwell's victims. He probably thought that Serena Williams showed up to every movie premiere draped in the same hairy, fleshy cape, but that was just boyfriend Brett Ratner hugging her during the red carpet photo ops.

A little birdie told us that DreamWorks Animation head Jeffrey Katzenberg requested a table at the party thrown by porn distributor Pure Play Media's party at the Hard Rock in Vegas last Thursday night, right in the thick of the AVN awards. Granted, there were a lot of "mainstream" entertainment types there, but we're not sure what the top executive of a family-friendly animation studio would do at a party thrown by the company that sells titles like Anal Surprise Party and Undressed and Oversexed. Maybe he was performing due diligence for a possible new direction for the Shrek franchise. Shrek 3: White Chicks Love Green Cock would be an instant smash hit.

· Yes, but what do fellow doomed Hollywood couple Nick and Jessica have to say about The Big Brad and Jen Break-Up? "Any marriage is tough." How true, how true.
· Not all the angles have been discussed: Phone sex might be the culprit.
· Apparently, Israeli McDonalds are a lot hipper than the ones here. Behold the McSchwarma, as pimped by Vincent and Jules.
· No matter how hard they try, they can't make us care about potential voter fraud at the People's Choice Awards. Clearly, any awards show that recognizes that viewers really want their Joey accurately reflects the will of the people.
· Holy shit. Bruckheimer movie to follow shortly. (Michael Bay to direct.)

While many of us have been selfishly fretting about how we'll find a way to make it through Brad and Jen's separation and eventual divorce, has anyone stepped back from their personal misery to ask, "What's going to happen to the children?" Not real children, mind you; they were considerate enough not to procreate. We're referring to Plan B, their vanity production company with Warner Bros. In the chaos surrounding Friday's announcement, we'd heard that they were going to abandon the company, but now the official party line is that Plan B will go on, with Pitt and Aniston remaining business partners. They wouldn't want to orphan Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or their other projects in development.

Many of us are only now starting to feel the impact of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston's historic break-up. A reader questions reality itself, obviously grasping for the straws of meaning that are so elusive during the inevitable denial stage resulting from such a profound loss:

The shockwaves from Friday's bombshell A-list decoupling will be felt for days. Luckily, the First Law of Celebrity Thermodynamics ensures that the heat from Pitt and Aniston's relationship must be conserved; the airwaves will instantly replace fawning specials about their magical marriage with non-stop break-up coverage on VH1, E! and Access Hollywood.

We step away from the computer for A HALF FREAKING HOUR to finally take a shower, and the world as we know it ends: Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston are finally admitting that they've split up. The rumors have been swirling for months, with tales of Pitt finding his way into Angelina Jolie's trailer on the set of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, where the crew supposedly had to run interference every time Aniston came to visit. ("Hey Brad, pull out! Pull out! The Friend has landed!") But their sneaky, sneaky publicist now farts out this announcement late on a Friday afternoon, hoping that it will all blow over by Monday. Well played.

A reader reports on last night's action at Koi, the location most likely to be sucked into a black hole once the universe finally rights the useless-celebrity equilibrium. Highlights: Nicky Hilton! Nicole Richie! Suge Knight! A motorcycle accident involving David Spade's car! The smell of brimstone as Lucifer himself was fellated by an agent from William Morris! OK, we may or may not have made up that last one. The report follows after the jump.