Snits Stink!

Oh, merde, in today's frightening appearance Blind Vice, which middle-aged hon is makin' 'em weep in H-town (it ain't me). Plus, which cretin wants to take credit for Brit-Brit being such a wacky badass—not Lynne, for a change—and Jessica Simpson, worst snob evuh!

The Britster spent the better part of this week surprising us all by forgoing her iced Frappuccinos and Petco purchases, and instead sweatin' it up at the Millennium Dance Complex in No-Ho (more from there in moments), picking up fresh steps for her new music vid and teaching mind-blown kids. (Hope they didn’t pick up any fashion tips or airborne illnesses while they were stuck in that windowless studio.) The psych-ward survivor, still in denial, convinced herself she knew how to be a respectable supervisor over young children—that, and that she still has any idea how to dance herself. Girl’s trailed way too closely nowadays for anyone to actually fall for any of that well-behaved PR biz, prolly orchestrated by better-late-than-never chaperone Lynne.

But what about back in the less pitiful day, when Britney was still just a fab diva with bad taste? We can’t stop ourselves from speculating how everything turned to merde in this “Lucky” girl’s existence...some say it was her split with J.T. and the jealousy of him going on to bigger and better labels and ladies. Others insist she inherited the crazy gene from her Spears ancestors. But one of our knowledgeable, bubble-gum prone sources claims it’s all a matter of other schmucky dudes who pushed their meal tickets onto the wrong track (don't think the obvs here, hons, and you'll be red-hot close).

“Britney used to be just a mild pot smoker when she’d come into clubs before hanging out with [insert sundry schmuck names]” contests our insider, a frequenter of one of the many scenes a hot-and-on-top then-Brit would frequent. He’s ultra-adamant that it was these baddie boys who got the popped tart hooked on much nastier bad habits, perhaps in an attempt to get her hooked on them, as well.

Jeez. Seems like every single thing under the sun is to cause for Spearsy's downfall. Lessee...mental diseases, bad genetics, bad choices in boyfriends, poor mothering, postpartum depression, drug use, the media...How about puttin' some of the blame on aliens, global warming, witches, Voldemort, Marilyn Manson and violent videogames? Guess we all should share a li'l bit of the credit for turnin' the girl cuckoo, each and every last one of us. Oh, besides Brit, herself, 'course.

Carey Hart, rockin’ his bod at Sin City nightspot Tabu's Monday eve Rok Box and swinging back Patrón shots with his personal accoutrement of partygoers. The motocross hon was in no mood to keep it a low-key night—he gladly put his tattooed self fully on parade, pleased to sign autographs and pose for photos with a gushin’ gal or two (or three). While the tequila ran like water, Hart’s ball-and-chain...

Pink was absolutely nowhere to be seen. Bustup chatter has been following this tatted-up twosome for quite some time, par-tick after their talk of an open relaysh ('cause those always work out so well, right?). The butch blonde spent the weekend before in Hell-Ay, pimping herself out on pre-Grammy party carpets all by her lonesome. Pink-babe had better keep an eye on her happy-go-clubby hubbie, 'cause her leash ain’t long enough to extend to Las Vegas, trust. Free from his ball 'n' studio chains, once again, was...

Steven Spielberg, racin’ his gleaming new silver Ranger Rover down Beverly Boulevard, chattin’ on the cellie, smilin’, beamin’, bearded little liberated fox he be. Flying even faster were...

Jessica Simpson, in a smock, and Pete Wentz, eyeliner-free, onboard American, en route from Hell-Ay to Dallas, where the b-f, Tony Romo, picked them up curbside in his improperly parked SUV. Perhaps Tony-doll took the ticket-potential chance 'cause he knew Jessy was not exactly in the best of moods. Now, she was at least somewhat chipper about it, but still: J.S. had spent a portion of the flight joking—sorta, sorta not—that they had had to suffer the slings 'n' arrows of business class. Horrors! Good thing Ashlee wasn’t around to also snit at the subprime seats, sure she would have simply forgone the half-assed sense of humor in favor of turning up what’s left of her nose.

Uh-oh, have Death-Mint Myrtle's hideous dieting ways gotten her into a prime-time sitch that's causing her hit show's worker bees an alarming amount of cover-up time? Certainly seems so, check it out in this week's Blind Vice, calorie counters!

Note to Readers:  We'll resume our gossin' 'n' gabbin' on Tuesday—taking a break for Prez Day. Hope you are, too.