Genital-mining sister site Fleshbot tips us to a story in News of the World alleging the existence of yet another Paris Hilton sex tape. Since sequels must be both bigger and less imaginative, the possible video runs 12 hours and supposedly stars ex-boyfriends Nick Carter and Jason Shaw repeatedly putting their penises into her vagina while she mugs for the camera. No word on whether Paris interrupts the theoretical hot action by pausing to hunt for her misplaced chihuahua, sign copies of her autobiography, or take calls from a delighted publicist, who is probably behind this story in the first place.

When Jeremy Sisto took on a role as a gay baseball player that spends a good part of the second act with his Louisville Slugger hanging out, he had to know that fans would discuss the lumber on display. A well-equipped audience member at Take Me Out doesn't know what all the fuss is about, reporting that Sisto has clearly avoided the scalpel:

Remember all of that existential angst we suffered over the box office results? Forget all that, because what could possibly be more soothing to a damaged soul than a picture of Britney Spears wearing an alien mask and hurling a milkshake at paparazzi? Anyone clinging to the hope that Spears' marriage was going to snap her back into normalcy has been officially disabused of that notion. If anything, next week she'll turn up in a gorilla mask, flinging her feces at a reporter for Entertainment Tonight.

The LAT discovers online writer bitch-board WriterAction, where WGA members can evaluate (or anonymously vent about) the studio executives who make their lives miserable with free rewrites, constant firings, and the kinds of helpful story suggestions that usually result in talking-animal movies.

Anonymous confession site grouphug.us has this note from a supposed Hollywood call girl describing an alleged encounter with an unnamed celebrity and his most unusual fetish.

We think we finally understand why everyone was screaming that Britney Spears isn't legally married: There's a problem with the marriage license. As you can see above (click the image to see the full version), Kevin Federline fudged his part of the license, listing "dancer" as his occupation. Everyone knows he's a background dancer when he's actually working. These little white lies may seem harmless, but eventually they can come back to bite you. At least he didn't get cheeky and put "professional bastard maker" in that spot, or this paperwork snafu potentially could have dragged on for years.

We at Defamer are sad to report that we've confirmed that the rumored Miramax layoffs are now in progress. We've always imagined that Harvey Weinstein personally wanders the halls on his job-slashing sprees, handing out pink-slips and last-chance verbal abuse while dressed as the Grim Reaper. Too morbid? Maybe we'll e-mail him and suggest he spring fifty bucks to rent a bunny costume to take the edge off.

Your messages flooded into our inbox mere moments after we opened the flood gates on this week's guessing game. Frankly, we're a bit overwhelmed by the number of responses to the item. Luckily, your collective intelligence honed in on a single name, saving us the expense of hiring an outside accounting firm to properly tabulate reader-supplied data.

Warner Bros. has pushed the release of Alexander back three weeks to better troll for Oscars. But we hear the studio is terrified to unleash Colin Farrell, the (rumored) generously be-donged Irishman, on the press because of his tendency to show up to every appearance shitfaced. Apparently whiskey fumes visibly rising off of a movie star are not as charming as they used to be, as one studio bigwig supposedly took a recent pass on Farrell after he pounded a handful of beers during a half-hour meeting. It's official: Colin Farrell is our new hero. He can puke in our car anytime, and we'll even pretend to be cool with it.

Wherein we invite you, the inquisitive reader, to divine the identity of the weekly blind item from humpy E! gossip cryptographer Ted Casablanca. We're confident that One Busty Blind Vice's lack of hetero-posing actors or wild drug abuse won't keep you from your appointed gossip-guessing rounds:

Media elitist sister-site Gawker gets its dirty hands on some bad meth (again), and a truly strange "rumination" on Cynthia Nixon's sexual identity and mutant sanitation-system alligators results:

How unlucky is Cybill Shepherd? She had a fantastically bad hair day coincide with a mildly unhinged interview on British TV, which just happened to fall on Dress As Your Favorite Brothers Grimm Fairy Tale Day, and now she's getting bludgeoned in the press. We'll go on the record as saying that even in the light of these unfortunate events, we're not going to rescind the erection she gave us from her nude scene in The Last Picture Show. (In fact, the Little Red Riding Hood act makes it all seem hotter.) Let's put this nastiness behind us, shall we?

Drudge's please-let-it-not-be-true headline screams about what is possibly America's biggest fraud since the simulated moon landing: MEDIA TRICKED [AGAIN!]: BRIT FAKED WEDDING. They explain,
"US WEEKLY uncovered 'documents' that show Britney Spears' nuptials to be a 'faux wedding.' PEOPLE mag wasted 7 figures for 'exclusive photos'... done to throw everyone off the case... Developing..."

We are right near the bottom of the list of people that should be giving out fashion advice, as our job requires that we're at least partially disrobed and exposing threadbare underclothes at all times. (It's contractual, don't ask.) However, it seems obvious to us that dating a (much) older woman doesn't give Ashton Kutcher license to raid her teenage daughter's closet. A spy reveals Kutcher's latest sartorial breakthrough on the set of his new MTV show, You've Got a Friend:

We'd imagined that Britney Spears would spend her last, precious, unbetrothed hours trolling the Las Vegas Strip for lounging background dancers, arranging a final energy drink fueled, ad-hoc orgy of sweaty premarital sex, junk food consumption, and perhaps the odd quickly-annullable trip down the wedding chapel aisle. You know, just for old times' sake. Unfortunately, a reader disabuses us of this elaborate fantasy of ours, as she encounters Spears getting some cheese puff residue sandblasted off of her by a team of trained aestheticians at the spa:

On Friday, we'd heard that the scrap at The Lot in Hollywood between crews on Jack & Bobby and Flightplan was a relatively minor dust-up between a punchy outsider and a pair of brothers who worked on those productions. A source assures us that story wasn't true, and that a J&B crew guy had himself a personal wrap party at the nearby Formosa before returning to the Lot and getting into a scrap with a Flightplan crew member in a shared work area. Supposedly the boozed-up J&B guy responded to getting his jaw broken by pulling a large utility knife, which understandably sent onlookers scrambling to call the cops. The report contained no instances of gun-fire, swordplay, or mother jokes, so hopefully no bad blood will linger between the the two productions when they run into each other on the soundstage or at the commissary. No one wants a rumble on Fried Chicken Day.

While Donald Trump seemingly obliges reporters with his one millionth utterance of his catchphrase, trophy fiancée Melania Knauss' dress recoils in embarrassment, temporarily drawing focus away from The Donald and his vaunted combover. The slightly NSFW, squint-and-you'll-miss-it version is after the jump.

There is but one thing that could rouse us from the weekend-long absinthe binge that prepares us for the ordeal of the Primetime Emmy Awards and sit us down in front of the computer: the surprise wedding of Britney Spears to layabout facial hair innovator/underemployed Baryshnikov Kevin Federline. We're relieved, really, because we anticipate not having to report any Spears-related secret wedding rumors for at least the next seven months. And that lovely thought has us feeling magnanimous enough (though we are forced to consider the possibility that the pleasant, lightly-burning sensation around our heart is due to the absinthe) to wish Mr. and Mrs. Federline a long and happy union. May the child that will soon follow grow fat and happy on a diet of mashed Cheetos and Red Bull, and may angels merrily dance in the background of its dreams.

We thought we were going to make it through to the weekend without finding out that any once-adorable, former child actors were arrested for drug possession in Oklahoma, but no such luck. Someone sent us this link showing that Macaulay Culkin apparently got popped for possession of marijuana and unauthorized prescription drugs. At least he was busted for something fun, unlike Edward Furlong, who was handcuffed for trying to liberate lobsters. Maybe Mac will try that stunt when he posts bail and gets some more pills.

We've got an update on the dust-up we posted about earlier between Jack & Bobby and Jodie Foster's Flightplan. According to our source, the mini-rumble wasn't between the two productions—it was between an outside party and two brothers who each work on those productions. Apparently, the Outsider came to stir up trouble with Brother Number One, and Brother Number Two stepped in to assist. The cops who rushed to the scene (they really come running when a Hollywood studio lot calls) took away the Outsider. No intramural gang war involved, just a little bit of fun family business. We're keeping our fingers crossed for some news about a hot-oil wrestling match between the craft service guy on Everybody Love Raymond and a grip on Joey over at Warner Brothers.