Mouth-Watering Wowers!

It's that time of year again, sorry. Yep, means you're about to hear some pretty (but not entirely) sappy thanks for the more salty celeb sitches we’ve observed this past year. Some greasier breasts such as Brit-Brit are no surprise, but there are some delectable shockers, we promise, so dig in, already!

Crap, what's there to be grateful for this Thanksgiving? Jeez. Where do I start? Oh, I know, with Britney Spears, who the ef else? As I was just telling sass-addict A.J. Hammer on Showbiz Tonight, Ms. S is giving all us gonzo journos not just more but...all of it! She’s taking the bait, extraordinaire, hanging out with extreme visibility (she couldn’t stay in a bit?), driving over the feet of whomever she can. Like the bitch can’t use valet parking once in a while? No. She’s got to crack that paparazzi whip, along with a potential foot bone or two.  

When are the courts going to disallow this obviously askew-thinking broad from having access to her kids at all—and not just in the car? That is, until she cleans up her obviously pedal-to-the-metal moods. Other folks ‘n’ things I must confess I’m terribly happy—in one twisted way or another—to have in my life, in absolutely no particular order:

Lindsay Lohan:  The babe’s making Paris Hilton look downright legally sound. Eighty-six minutes in jail for gunning down shrubs and people while under the influence? Wonder if P-babe paid off some L.A. sheriff to release L2 early or somethin’, just so she’d look like the behind-bars martyr in all of this. After all, what with Ms. H off on her Saint Paris campaign, wouldn’t hurt, right? Nor did it.

Ben Affleck:  Hey, go with me here a bit on this one. Thought after Bennifer that was the only thing we’d ever hear from the Bostonian former-stripper hanger-on. Fab news, as the chillingly grimy Gone Baby Gone is evidence Ben’s much more than a reformed pasty (and more) aficionado. He’s got the directorial chops. Wish he’d come to this delightful realization before making us suffer through Gigli, but whatev.

No Country for Old Men and American Gangster:  Uh, this one isn’t mine, it happens to belong to one Josh Brolin, actor and supposed paramour to Diane Lane. We haven’t seen J ‘n’ D together, basically, since that 911call Diane made saying Mr. B wasn’t treating her too well. But with more prick par excellence roles like the ones J’s pulling off in the above two flicks, even I’ll (maybe) forget about all that nasty-ass domestic biz.

Angelina Jolie:  We all know the former blood-vial babe’s going to dump Brad; it’s only a matter of (yummy, minute-counting) time. I’m into karma as much as the next bitch, aren’t you? And gotta say, I adore Brad. He’s too sweet, really. If you meet him, he damn near melts you with seductive, beefcake-equipped chumminess—if you can imagine such a thing. Howev, the Pittster broke Jen’s heart and then rubbed it with Malibu sea salt before dragging it through the tabloids.

‘Course, remember, Gwyneth broke Brad’s heart (he bawled like Paris, prejail, when it happened), so perhaps this is all more cyclical than I’d care to go back and examine, ‘cause then we’d have to start remembering what Billy Bob did to Angie. So, let’s just leave it at the current two gorgeous procreators, shall we? And the sex between them is the best they’ve both ever had, of this I’m exceedingly aware. So, in all likelihood, we’ll be watching this breakup clock for a bit. Not that it won’t be a breathy blast!

George Clooney's Ego:  Uh, this one ain't mine, either. This Thanksgiving treat so belongs to Fabio, who's never been entirely grateful for some crusty 'tude in his big-boobed life. But yuck! Did we have to see all those new F pics to go along with the silly snafu story? Did we really need to know what Fab's natural hair color looks like? (The former semi-nudie-book model now resembles an AARP-card-carrying Ken Doll with a dye job.) But ya know what? Bottom line—the kind Clooney always admires—it’s good to know George ain’t perfect in all this. We were worried.

Benicio Del Toro:  Good to have you back where you Oscar-deserving belong, Benny-baby, thanks to your stellar addict-portraying job in Things We Lost in the Fire. Glad you got off your slutty-chicks-who-only-wear-stilettos diet long enough to turn this one in. Had forgotten how good you are.

Ang Lee:  His ultimate, doomed-romance story Lust, Caution is an absolute blessing. Brokeback Mountain was for the self-hating, pandering masses, as far as I’m concerned—Brokeback sent a message that we fruits, subliminally speaking, truly aren’t deserving of genuine love. Lust is able to convey somehow the same tale of bitterness and sex and keep it specific only to the characters involved (not Asians as a whole). Don’t ask me how he did it. Ask Ang.

New York City:  For having the grace to bear, not without great difficulty, certain presidential aspirants utilizing its past tragedy for political gain. I’ve never before felt such reverence for my old hometown. Shame on those who are trying to cash in on 9/11 victims for their own gain.

E! Online, E! TV and Cristina Gibson:  For putting up with my loudmouth, Texan-born, big-haired ass. Mucho merci.

Russell Crowe:  For reminding me that having a loud mouth and a big ass doesn’t always hurt; it sometimes simply gets the job done, as he so beautifully proved in American Gangster.

Viggo Mortensen:  Oh, darlin’, for your balls—both literally and figuratively! Took major cojones to show your stuff in David Cronenberg’s Eastern Promises. Hopefully, V-hon, you’re paving the way for future major movie-star peter exposure—such a double standard up until now, what with women’s every mammary, mole and muffin being shone off by male directors. How did it feel to be objectified for history? A bit chilly, eh? Too bad Eastern was such a yawn. But you certainly weren’t, Mr. M.

Jennifer Hudson:  A steady diet of chicken wings never looked so divine on an Oscar-winning star...or anybody, for that matter. Keep on truckin’ with the calories and the chutzpah, ma cherie!

John Travolta:  Drag has never looked so unconvincing on anybody in the history of entertainment (and, trust, with Gywneth Paltrow, that’s saying a lot). But doll-cookie, you play the fine line between real-life faux frolicking and make-believe like nobody’s business. Jake Gyllenhaal could learn a thang or two from you. Now, who’s next on your man-to-man smooch list? Fellow Scientology chum Tom Cruise? Oh, do it, boyfriend! Do you realize the photography hall of fame annals you’d achieve with that one? It’d beat T.C.’s couch-jumping hijinks, no prob.

Anna Nicole Smith:  My fellow Texas tornado wasn’t nearly as dumb, put upon, abused, used or demented as she’s being made out to be. She assured me she knew exactly what she was doing—and she did. She was just, like me, also an addict. That’s what did her in. Not these joker hangers-on who are so loving to take credit for such—either directly or indirectly. A.N. went out just like she wanted: in overdrive and talked about out the wazoo. I’m honored to have known her, and even happier that these folks who are still trading on her infamy couldn’t touch her sweet moxie.

Owen Wilson:  Glad you’re alive.

Ann Coulter:  Glad you’ll die eventually.

The Amateurs:  Fun film starring Jeff Bridges, Steven Weber, Lauren Graham, among others, coming out early December. It’s about a desperate small town of misfits who make a porno film and fire Isaiah Washington because his schlong is so unacceptably miniscule. Hallelujah! Thank heavens for small karmic favors!

Margo, Butch and Cleo Casablanca:  They’re a daily reminder to me that most rescue animals don’t usually have such happy endings (though life with me might make some pooches choose the needle, never know). Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell obviously had their reasons to let their adoptive doggie live only a week with them before putting him down. It’s a decision I’m most happy I don’t have in front of me today.

Gossip:  How else would we have the chance to gab, surreptitiously as it’s going down, ‘bout off-limit topics such as Laura’s abandoning of Dubya; or Austin Nichols’ romantic challenges; or Ellen DeGeneres’ real have-it-both-ways dynamic in her life with the very va-va-voomin’ Portia de Rossi, a gal who should found the Girlfriends Guild of America, she’s so expert in her endeavors, both domestic and otherwise? Anne Heche ain’t got nothin’ on this Aussie broad.

Hayden Panettiere:  Lying about love or whatever has never been so attractive. Nooky fibs positively make you glow, g-friend!

Scarlett Johansson:  You lie with such lithe abandon, too, hon-puss! You may not recall when you absolutely, positively denied our little breaking dish ‘bout that wisdom tooth of yours you had gold-plated and then presented to your beau Ryan Reynolds, (the story was then stolen by another heathen rag, but what else is friggin’ new?). Not only did you deny our exclusive, you also had the audacity to present the presh trinket to your man in the first place. Yo, there’s an opening for repulsive body regifting now that Angelina Jolie is squeaky boring and becoming the new American Di. I say, go for it!

Whitney Houston:  This is absolutely, positively, without a doubt, finally my last endorsement of your oh so scrumptious comeback watch, darlin’! Waiting for your diva delivery is starting to smack of that tell-all final novel Truman Capote always gabbed ‘bout but never produced—or that death-knell Tommy Cruise bio Andrew Morton keeps promising but will prolly actually end up essentially being some kind of coffee-table job, thanks to legal maneuverings (nothing I’d know anything about). We’ll see, huh? That goes for both Andy and Whit-babe.

Remote Control:  Just the most darling gadget in the world whenever I find Heather Mills on the telly. What a disgusting reference to suicide she’s made, especially when this Princess Di wannabe will consider offing herself as the last PR-seeking move in her media arsenal. Too bad.

Hate Mail:  Maybe some are harder to read than others, but at least they care enough to detest me. Always an honor. And you know what all you bitchers can bite, doncha?

Jon:  For your love. Thank you.

Happy T-day, everybody! Don’t eat like Posh, do it like Jennifer, smooch-pies, and enjoy! We’ll see ya stuffed and back up and bitchin’ Nov. 27!