Oh, this is a tough one this week: Do we do the cable star who's pretending to have a stalker (she's sending herself all kinds of horrendous things at work, just so her contract-renewing bosses think the babe's got heat, as if package-sending retards, imagined or otherwise, are going to make a difference in their decisions, oh, please)?
Or the star who screws around like John McCain once did. Hey, it's political fever time out there, I vote for the latter! But first, gotta say something. You know, I really think a lot of you frisky folk out there are getting the wrong impression: That I think only gay guys pull the really self-hating, sleazy, deliciously kinky love crap. Hardly! You hets sure know how to get your skank on, too, hon-pies, of this, I am positive. Certainly, Gore-Me Garth proves this point excellently. A star of the screen's more, shall we say, gruesome tales, Garth-babe's been pulling some love exercises, off camera, that surely would make his wife's blood boil.
Zoom in on: A somewhat established Sunset Strip bar. It's empty, save the bartender (our source, like, duh), and Gore-Me and some chick he is not married to. She looks kind of exotic. GMG just looks horny. I think his pants are tenting, it's real under-the-bleachers kinda stuff. The couple who thinks they are so secretly flirting with each other orders buttloads of whiskey sours, which, perhaps—or not—explains why they then start acting like Toothy Tile in a West Hollywood parking lot, as they move to a couch and do what probably took John McCain at least a second date to do with Cindy. For hours. In front of the bartender!
Like, what, they thought booze-servers are priests or something? Did they think the uniformed type wouldn't blab? Now, I don't know how far, exactly, Gore-Me and his sultry lass went, but if we got another Reille Hunter type sitch in the works, wouldn't be at all surprised.
And It Ain't: Will Smith, Dylan Walsh, Josh Brolin