An anonymous spy claiming to be from Access Hollywood issues this cry for help from deep within the bowels of dinner-time celebrity-worship programming:

· Britney Spears is obviously having a little fun with the public. She probably just meant she's going to shine a blacklight over Kevin Federline every time he comes home, checking for his trademark bastard batter on his clothes.
· Oliver Stone can't win. The gays say Alexander ain't gay enough, and the Bible Belt thinks it's handing out free hummers in West Hollywood. They all pretty agree that it sucks, however. It's a uniter, not a divider.
· Rush & Molly offer an up-to-the-minute briefing on Hollywood's tsunami relief efforts. If a new Boy George song can't put Sri Lanka back together again, what can?
· Open relationships, magic espresso, and, best of all, pregnant teens infect the Sims 2 universe. It's just like living in Chatsworth! (We don't even know what that means.) [via Waxy,org]
· Headline of the millennium: BLAKE'S VOMITING DIDN'T SEEM SINCERE TO WITNESSES [via BoingBoing]

Your guesses are in! Take another dip in Two Filthy and Delicious Blind Vices:

Blogger Boi From Troy writes in to inform us that Ashlee Simpson's disastrous Orange Bowl appearance was doomed from the minute the crowd heard her name. Before she opened her mouth to treat football fans to the sound of that Satan eating kittens must make, the boos were already raining down.

Wherein we invite our readers to risk permanent brain injury contemplating the blind items of humpy E! gossip guru Ted Casablanca and submit their guesses as to this week's perpetrators of gay sexual acts and substance abuse. Mr. Casablanca comes back from the holidays with two items for your gossiping rapture. You're soaking in Two Filthy and Delicious Blind Vices:

Page Six reports that Courtney Love plans on selling her Manhattan apartment, pocketing the $6 million from the sale, and heading back to L.A. to start over and reclaim custody of daughter Frances Bean. No, really, she's serious this time! But Love doesn't stand a chance if we don't pitch in and make our city relapse-proof for the recovering addict. So, right now, go to your medicine cabinets and flush all of your prescription medications down the toilet. Yes, even that OxyContin that you had your assistant's doctor prescribe for her because your doctor finally discovered ethics and wouldn't approve yet another scrip for "migraines." Helping others is supposed to hurt. Oh, and someone should probably burn down some pharmacies in Beverly Hills, just to be safe.

· The eavesdropping ex-publicist from FX gets three years of probation for his spying antics after he was fired. The DA doesn't think the flack was remorseful. Doesn't he know that publicists lack the remorse gland?
· An Orange Bowl rep says that Ashlee Simpson was booed at their halftime show because of her SNL performance. This is going to come off as juvenile, but: No fucking duh, genius.
· How Many Things Are Wrong With the Following PR Quotable? Um, many.
· Teri Hatcher, Real-Life Desperate Housewife. Also, they're real and they're spectacular, etc etc.

FilmStew's blog has a recap of last night's "Hollywood's Master Storytellers" (cough,what the fuck?, cough) Q & A with director McG following a screening of Charlie's Angels. Apparently, it took some cajoling by Mr. G before noted cineaste Drew Barrymore would allow him behind the camera:

Back when Lindsay Lohan exploded into the national breast-obsessed consciousness by undergoing a seemingly miraculous, overnight bazooming, we never imagined we'd ever have to entertain a debate on whether she'd have an operation to make the world's most-discussed rack smaller. But such is the landscape of the so far very surprising 2005, a brave new year where we wouldn't be surprised if earth's gravity spontaneously reversed, Tom Cruise suddenly became an Orthodox Jew with a psychiatry practice, or if Andy Dick sprouted angel wings and married Michael Eisner. An operative who's seen Lohan's new-old cleavage and new-new cleavage in action takes the floor:

We know that Jude Law is possessed of exquisitely beautiful and delicate features, but that's no reason to make him sound like a lesbian making an honest woman out of her longtime companion. We're pretty sure they used the same wording when Ellen DeGeneres shacked up with Portia de Rossi a couple of weeks ago.

The internets are absolutely ablaze with stories of Ashlee Simpson's appearance at last night's Orange Bowl halftime show (good news, we think the team from the local school where all the rich kids go to start their film careers won!), where Simpson eschewed the dreaded "guide vocal" for producing sounds best described as "the sound a tuberculotic infant would make after three days of being subjected to human rights violations at Abu Ghraib."

· "Micro Management is about evil midgets who take over Titan Industries, a United States defense contractor and missile manufacturer, and attempt to use the missiles to blow up Disneyland." Holy fucking shit, someone must make this movie right fucking now.
· Vividblurry provides Britney Spears with a cautionary guide to her inevitable pregnancy. We wouldn't want little DoMe Federline to start her life with any physical disadvantages, would we?
· Apparently tired with conspicuously purchasing her sex tape, Paris Hilton now moves on to conspicuously stealing her sex tape.
· We'd once spent a leisurely afternoon trying to figure out Dennis Quaid, but then we said fuck it—that guy is an enigma.

We've spent the better part of the day avoiding Britney Spears' latest Letter of Truth, but as the afternoon drags on and we slip ever deeper into the recesses of a severe caffeine hole, we find our best efforts at resistance utterly futile in the face of her prose. But where to start? Trying to examine each crucial life update offered by Spears is certainly an exercise in madness, sure to leave us bleeding from the ears and cursing God for gifting the pop star so much and us so little. So we do what we can to preserve the last of our fragile sanity, chipping away a tiny piece of Spears' constantly-evolving Rosetta Stone:

Hollywood PrivacyWatch celebrity sightings are sent in by our readers. Send yours to tips@defamer.com and let Bruce Willis know the shine off of his head is ruining your high-priced meal.

After viewing the Scarlett Johansson "mystery pic" yesterday (revealed to be a screen capture from A Love Song for Bobby Long), a reader goes scrambling to his pile of screeners, and, predictably, returns disappointed:

MSNBC's Jeannette Walls reports that Leonardo DiCaprio is joining the tsunami relief effort. Bully for him, celebrities care, etc etc. (Apparently, he's the only one harboring fond memories of The Beach). The Kabbalah Centre, meanwhile, is rushing 10,000 litres of their magical water to the tsunami victims. Rimshot coming: They've also pledged 50,000 tons of enchanted Kabbalah rubble, 400 tons of blessed Kabbalah splinters from ruined bungalows, and 15 bags of
of wet sand personally touched by Madonna.

· Starved for material and eager to revisit past dirt, Page Six and Jeannette Walls hand out their year-end gossip awards. The winners: Tara Reid, Courtney Love, and Britney Spears. The losers: Tara Reid, Courtney Love, and Britney Spears. Funny how that works.
· LA.com's art director narrowly escapes tsunami disaster, only to return to the Biblical downpours currently offered by our local skies.
· Kirsten Dunst's bathing suit falls off, and, naturally, paparazzi lenses (and hoards of bloggers) are waiting. [via Fleshbot]
· Pierce Brosnan and his Aston Martin face off with a spoiled Ferrari-driving teen on the streets of our fair city. Michael Bay is set to direct the first two movies chronicling their aborted drag race.
· Sandra Bullock donates $1 million to tsunami (really, we must've typed that word a hundred times today) relief; George W. Bush expected to defiantly pony up another billion before others in Hollywood embarrass him.

Media-obsessed sister site Gawker is kind enough to host a video collision of two great tastes from 2004 that taste great together, freelance celebutante vaginalist Paris Hilton and megalomaniac fauxteur Vincent Gallo. You got your on-camera blowjob and 70s art-house pretensions on my publicity-hungry skank! No, YOU got your publicity-hungry skank on MY on-camera blowjob and 70s art-house pretensions! We're not exactly sure of what to make of this supposedly Gallo-directed short, but one thing is for certain: Paris Hilton slowly rotating on a lazy susan is completely hypnotic, and our eyes have gone all swirly like a pair of three-dollar X-ray specs. Also, we've soiled ourselves.

While we were thinking back on the past year (OK, it's more like seven months or so) of Defamer, we came to this conclusion about what we'd like to see here in 2005: more possibly fake pictures of rising A-list actresses who've had sex with Benicio Del Toro in an elevator, barely covering up their surprisingly ample natural assets. Amazingly, Golden Fiddle immediately obliged this need. If anyone wants to clarify where this image originated (assuming, of course, it isn't some impressive Photoshop artistry), we're all ears. If it turns out to be from A Love Song For Bobby Long, we may even be willing to sit through two hours of John Travolta's bloated head chewing the scenery to conduct further investigation.

The first time you discover that your favorite celebrity doesn't live up to your idealized version of them is kind of like walking in on Santa Claus fucking the Easter Bunny; not only are your childlike assumptions about the world shaken, but you've also discovered your parents are into some freaky role-playing. (Those scars last a long time. Trust us.) To wit, Vince Vaughn's bravura performance at Chi, submitted by a trusted Defamer operative who was practically sitting in his lap. Treating your admirers like shit is so money, baby!