The closeted megastar Fey Oiled-Tush just can’t get no gay icon satisfaction in Friday’s Blind Vice, hooray for homo-helping Hollywood! Plus, are Scully, Mulder & Co. going overboard with the cryptic X-Files contracts, and why is Idol’s David Cook so not nervous?

“We all had to sign confidentiality contracts. Everybody. Each of us was operating in a vacuum.”

—X-Files sequel castmember, regarding the overzealous security that's been applied to the Chris Carter affair, which I hear is pretty much done filming

Jeez, a bit much, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like they’re filming something really important, like what Britney Spears does in her Mulholland Drive bathroom after one of her pals makes it past Daddy Jamie. The hills of Studio City, see, are far more tough than UCLA Medical was for the imprisoned pop tart. At least when she wants to have fun (naked), like she still likes to.

But on second intrepid thought, I think levitating-Martian expert Carter is just the man to write and direct the movie version of what really went down between Tom and Nicole, don’t you? Can’t think of a better dude for the job.

‘Cause, babes, that’s still the best story around, forget whatever Katie drank to become Cruise wife-unit No. 3. (Hello, it’s called better than devoting the rest of one’s natural life to Dawson’s Creek reunions.)

And if I hear anybody ask, Why not just adapt Andrew Morton’s book? I swear, I’ll stuff copies of Tori Spelling’s new revenge job right up their butt. Morton’s tome is so not chilling enough for this weirder-than-H.G. Wells tale.

Oh, and on the spooky subject of Ms. Spelling’s prose attempts, must tell you that Mama Candy’s amigos are undertaking the sweetest little effort for their good chum: They’re all taking great pains to try and make certain Candy doesn’t read the silly thing, but they’re making sure to read it themselves, just so they’ll “know what’s said.”

Reminds me of Lindsay Lohan insisting on reading every trashy thing about her (which she does). Oh, what’s the point? ‘Course, Tore-babe would say that’s exactly the point. Score one for Team Daughter Dearest!

We went to a screening of Chapter 27, the flick about pretty-boy Jared Leto gaining 67 pounds. Technically, it’s about Mark David Chapman, the guy who killed John Lennon, but even after the movie was long over, all we kept thinking about was that even under several folds of chins and blubber covering his mug, Leto-babe’s baby blues are still damn dreamy.

But the flick’s pointless trash, and Jare’s Southern accent sounded like Forrest Gump taking a diction class. Jared was far more interesting and jovial in person than we expected him to be—his put-upon persona as frontman to emo band 30 Seconds to Mars makes him seem as personable as a school bully.

Mascara man talked at length about the difficulty of balancing a film and a music career, when out of the audience, someone screamed, “What’s your band’s name?” Ouch. Betcha Pete Wentz never gets that one anymore. Somebody in the crowd answered, “30 Seconds from Mars!” to which someone else shot back, “It’s 30 Seconds to Mars!” “Same thing!” screamed back the first incorrect know-it-all.

You can drink milkshakes like water and develop gout all you want for a subpar pic, Leto-love, but it’s not gonna win your band any new fans, clearly.

And what’s with all these so-called rockers and their health problemos? Idol’s David Cook was sent to the hospital room postperformance show for high blood pressure and heart palpitations. Don’t worry, D.C. fans, he was just copycatting some unheard-of indie band that was copycatting a time the Beatles went in for medical care.

Nice spin control on that unright slight, Idol producers, for having Cooksie give props to all those bands he’s been “borrowing” arrangements from. If you’re all about tackling controversies head-on, then hey, why doncha discuss what the ef has been up with Paula since day one?

Actress Zoe Saldana, who is simply drop-dead g, in our opinion, prolly gets a whole lotta compliments from scoring roles in flicks like Vantage Point and Pirates of the Caribbean, not to mention the upcoming Star Trek franchise and James Cameron’s Avatar. Her résumé’s chock-full of some serious stuff no one can sneeze at, fer sure (well, besides costarring with Spears in Crossroads).

Our Bev Hillz source, tho, saw a perhaps sad side to the beautiful babe’s usually ultraglam life. Zoe-hon, we're told, was perusing Tiffany's on Rodeo Drive, eyeing all the shiny diamonds and such on display. Guess the gal’s fame, along with the plastic in her pocket, wasn’t enough to get on the radar, really, of one par-tick Tiffany employee, who our bauble-eyein’ snooper says was ridiculously snobby to the Dominican-American actress.

And just what the ef’s up with retail workers sticking their noses in the air like they’re better than the walk-ins whose wallets keep ‘em employed? Hope Z.S. was able to recoup after her Pretty Woman reenactment and head over to Bulgari, where there aren’t so many snooty salespeeps sneering at you. (Say that five times, very fast, now.) They’re just very smart workers trying to make a little moola in a hideous economy—like, wake up, you idiot Tiffsters.

By the by, can remember my mama, Mariah, complaining to her mother about the same clerk crap happening at Neiman's in Dallas.

“Just remember, dear,” Grandmother Casablanca snit-shot right back, “they’re behind the counter, you’re in front.” Touché, eh, Zoe?

For once, we've got a gay-friendly powerful figure in Hollywood who does not suffer closeted movie-star fools lightly—or inexpensively. It's not too often that Fey Oiled-Tush doesn’t get his spoiled, luxe-lovin’ way, but he sure as hell didn’t this time in Bel Air, in One Bisexual Bejeweled Blind Vice!