Doncha just love it when celebs get called for civic duties, the real commoners' crapola? There’s something delicious about famous folk, oh, say, reporting for jury service. It warms my jaded-ass heart, as I’m sure it will yours, too. Read on...
As noble—as much of an honor—as it is to be able to participate in our country’s judicial system, let’s get real: You show up all bright and early and wait and wait and wait in a hideously uncomfy chair, just to finally be told the mysterious neon-lit powers that be won't be needing you—but be sure and come back tomorrow, hon!
Don’t worry, the rich 'n' famous have to go through this questionable routine, too. Latest big name to be called in to Hell-Ay court was Jodie Foster, last week. And for freakin' federal jury duty, no less, which has the longest serving time.So, Jodie-doll showed up like the good gal she is and pleaded to the expressionless judge for dismissal, claiming she was due to start filming in a "distant location" on Monday.
PPS Vienna /ZUMApress.com
India, perhaps, à la Brangelina? Or off working on a film in Namibia, like Wesley Snipes? The judge asked where in the world, exactly, J.F. was headed, so that she should be excused among her plebeian fellows.
"South Florida," she answered, makin' the other jurors and judge laugh. Out loud. And a lot, mind you.
Now, no funny biz 'bout it, do I really need to tell all you incredibly partial pissy ones that Foster was nevertheless dismissed? See, celebs almost always get off from jury duty, but at least J.F. had a damn good reason (south Florida sounds simply primitive and remote to moi—how 'bout you?), and she entertained her fellow citizens in the double-standard process!
Less smiley, fer sure, is you all in this week's mailbag. Take a sourpuss peek...
You have the worst prose style that I have ever had the misfortune to encounter in my entire life. I am a loser in that I care about celebrity gossip; however, your over-the-top, ridiculous and absolutely silly punnies prove that you must be the most overpaid/undertalented gay fraud in Hollywood. Look into some lowlights, bitch!
Dear Teri Hatcher:
Girl, you're still not over what I said about you fawning all over George Clooney?
I am so happy you said what you did about Mariah Carey, my other love. That bitch can wear whatever she wants. I didn't think I could heart this column anymore than I already did, but your pic and praise of Mariah did it!
New York City
Dear Mad for Mariah:
Okay, so we agree Ms. C. can wear whatever she damn well pleases, but maybe she should take the stage on time if booing isn't music to her ears? Her fans are almost as pissy perfect as she is!
I just love your column. It is my daily guilty pleasure. I am going to venture a guess that Pussy Gabor is John Travolta. Am I in the ballpark?
Dear Det. Batter:
Oh, darling, not at all. Think far slimmer, far less talented and much less close to receiving AARP brochures.
Albert L. Ortega/WireImage.com
I love the column and have read it since its inception. But why do you always refer to the height of shorter men (Kevin Connolly, Brad Grey)? It's not very Texan-polite of you and seems such a strange thing to fixate on. Are you short, as well?
Dear Size Wise:
Honey-poo, if you've read me forever, you should know that I'm not all that southern-polite with anyone or anything. And to answer your question, I'm taller than Tom Cruise but shorter than Shaq. Help?
Teri Hatcher has a lot of nerve dissing Cristina Gibson. She has obviously forgotten that before she was lucky enough to land her role on Desperate Housewives, not one soul was interested in anything she had to say. I think she had better count her lucky stars and be a little more gracious. And if Housewives doesn't get better soon, she could certainly end up back on the D-list in a heartbeat.
Dear Ratings Ranter:
Life could be worse for our bitchy little Tare-bear. George could have told Vanity Fair, and not just a few select amigos, how he really felt about the broad.
Okay, I so totally know who Pussy Gabor is! It just has to be Guy Ritchie. Madge, as everyone knows, wears the pants in that family. And she's into her religion—like it's really going to get her somewhere. It is totally them!
Dear Kabbalah Kiss-off:
Ta-riff guess, doll-puss, but not really that A-list, as far as the tabs go. Think younger—at least the male half of the unusual union.
I can't believe you were left out of the Women In Hollywood event. My husband is the publisher of Premiere, and I can assure you he had no idea. He knows I read you all the time and am a huge fan. (Who else can keep my handsome suit updated with the latest gossip?!) Anyway, heads will roll...LOL.
Dear Power Spouse:
Oh, thank you, crumb-kiss, but I don't want any heads to roll over at Premiere (where I launched this column over two billion years ago)—just an index finger or two will do.
You hired a Republican intern? I love you now more than ever.
Dear GOP Type:
Just don't expect it to become a habit, darling. But ain't Kristin Ornelas grand? Love how she's so not retiring and Laura Bush-esque.
You make me laugh in a world that makes me want to stab myself with a pitchfork. You rock; George Bush, I wanna clock. When I read your column, the insanity of it takes me away from the reality of the insanity Bush has unleashed in the Middle East—what a beast! How does one cope? Tequila and Ted...
Dear Hideously Bummed:
Thanks, hon, but you really sound like you need to get schtupped, already! Where's the hub-unit?
The new Website design is terrible! Your column is the smallest thing on the page now. Tell those Webmasters at E! they're going to lose readers by making the content we come for the hardest to read.
Ann Arbor, Michigan
Dear Size Queen:
Thanks, girl, but don't you know it's what we do with our columns that matters the most—not the measurements? Give us a chance, already!
Dear Goosey Guesser:
Ya mean Jennifer? Not a bad idea, hon-pie, as J. 'n' V. had the most fakeola thang goin' down in ages—but, alas, Vince ain't the Toothster. Think far more doable, slightly (okay, a lot) less talented.