Red, White 'n' Spew!

Our coke-stoked sex-a-luscious Blind Vice today is big, bad and burly—can you guess who our stupid mystery man is? (Betcha can!) Plus, Aussie with the leastest—bump, that is—Nicole Kidman makes ‘em wonder, and we skewer more celebs on our barbie than ever before. Happy Birthday, America, ya don’t look a day over 35.

Bumping to Conclusions

Happy Fourth, all you firecrotches, I mean, -crackers, course! Oh hell, you know what I mean. It's time to have a blissful weekend of short fuses, fatass food and friends. Very important, that last one. The ones you think are your buds often turn out to have some sort of agenda, ya know? Like the legions of Nicole Kidman hangers-on who are whispering the most mischievious little nothings to me about their good "friend" Nicole. Like the fact that she's supposedly wearing a fake baby bump, there's a surrogate mother, or—this one just in—that Nic-babe's sis, Antonia, actually donated the egg that was fertilized with Keith's sperm and then implanted inside Nicole. See what happens when you live with Tom Cruise for a decade? This kind of stuff just keeps dripping off ya for the rest of your life, but then, nobody's used to that more so than Ms. K. herself. She's a tough one. Just like her blood-thirsty bod-guards, eh?

So far, Nic's camp ain't talking. They're just biding their no-comment time till N.K. pops, which I hear is any sec. And they couldn't be happier with all the Brangelina brouhaha, what with the entire planet salivating for any word whatsoever of Angelina Jolie's delivery. But isn't it funny: Both babes are super-stick-thin when not in the maternal state. Now, however, dare I say, Angie looks simply divinely gorgeous (much more so than she does when she's deathly svelte and bones), and Nic looks, uh, like a coat hanger that swallowed a small rodent. No wonder people are making up these stories.

And they are stories, are they not? Nic?

Ray of Blight

Exchanging calls galore with Rachael Ray's repper, who keeps leaving me messages regarding our story two days ago about R.R. wanting to call her memoirs some stupid title and not being great with deadlines. "I'm 99 percent it's not true," relayed the nice enough P.R. dude. What? That the requested title by R2 (EVOhno and EVOhMy!, both beyond idiotic plays on EVOO = extra-virgin olive oil, so annoying) aren't accurate? That the memoir's not happening after all? That R.R. is not a giant douche who has trouble meeting editorial deadlines? Which one percentile is accurate? Do tell, doll.

Because, since our item, a number of folk who have worked closely with Ray in the past have begun contacting me, blabbing that it was not always the smoothest of experiences. EVOhNoYouDon't, in other words, might be the more accurate title of Ray's reported tome.

All-American Sausage Pile!

Are ya ready for some nice, plump wiener talk, everybody? I mean, it's the damn Fourth of Friggin' July! Let's celebrate our independence, already. After all, we're the land of the free and the bravado, right? Yep, so let's exercise that ballsy 'tude and speak out against those who have been so tyrannically trying to force-feed us with their pork-filled drivel and most unappetizing goings-on. Time for the inaugural A.T. Weenie Roast! Following are a dozen and two T-town dogs who think they're so hot—22, 'course, in honor of Lindsay Lohan's B-day. Hey, SamRo, you planning an extra-special toasting of Linds' buns this weekend?