Scary Fairy

Like a pooftah poltergeist...I'm ba-a-ack! Marriage is just too fab—I highly recommend it, particularly the sweaty stuff—but after my honeymoon, Rachel, Mariah, Paris and all the usual ninnies have me in a helluva mood. Not to mention what that darling divorcée with the mostest, Jen Aniston, is pulling down South Beach way. Ready to roll your Botoxed brows, everybody?

I’m back. Didn't Becky B do a fab job while I was away? But don’t think for a sec marriage has sweetened me a bit (well, maybe just a bit, for this installment only!). Let’s get to our regular Monday Pissed List, pronto:

Work It Out:  We get it—it's basically summer, hence the frenzy to get into badass bikini shape. If the scorchin' 90-degree weather here in Hell-Ay isn't a reminder to keep our bums at the gym, then the pics of Mischa Barton's cellulite plastered all over every rag and blog serves as a decent reminder. But please, everyone, get over it. It's been a long winter, and I would say the majority of us ain't too proud of what we've got stored down there. Maybe if M.B.’s imperfections weren't considered so "newsworthy," we wouldn't have gals like Kate Bosworth looking like she's about to keel over. Again.

Where's the love?  Gossip Girl (my guilty pleasure and yours) is the new OC. After mourning the breakup of Rachel Bilson and Adam Brody, I am ready to rebound 'n' root for a new onscreen (and offscreen) couple: GG's Blake Lively and Penn Badgley. Shots surfaced of the young lovers getting PG-frisky in Puerto Morelos, Mexico, ‘course. Nothing makes me happier than my fave TV couple blossoming into a non-reality based, real-life romance, and nothing pisses me off more than when celebs attempt to deny the obvious.

Gotcha Hitchings:  Mariah ‘n’  Beyoncé, (and s'pose Ashlee, too) yeah, it’s sweet and terrific you actually pulled off the sorta-secret ceremonies you did, but, darlings, there is something called reverse attention seeking, when the surreptitiousness becomes all-encompassing. It’s really the same thing as glitzy, all-out-there marrying, à la, Star Jones and her girlie man. Message being: The effort put into accommodating/avoiding the media becomes more important than the union itself. And look where Star ended up, babes.

Mad Hatters:  I don't consider myself a Victoria Beckham-level fashionista, but I do like to think I can fiddle in the latest trends. But what the ef is up with these hideous hats? First it was Sarah Jessica Parker at the Sex and the City premiere looking like the Chiquita Banana Lady, and now Paris has been photographed with some piece of unfortunate millinery that looks like she's wearing a massacred Maltese on her head. The only thing that gives me hope is that both these ladies wore these "things" around London...so that trend had better stay on the other side of the pond. I do not tip my hat to SJP or Pare-Poo.

Seconds back from Hawaii, where my partner, Jon Powell, and I were married (pics soon, promise!), it was announced the California Supreme Court lifted the state's ban on gay marriage. As I told you several weeks ago, it was a female justice who split the deciding vote. Could have gone either way, and to tell ya the truth, I thought it was beginning to smell like Hillary’s stink-o campaign, as far as the ban being nixed. But how very lovely that it was indeed lifted. I’m still thrilled to have married for love...though, not for the law. After all, you hets don’t seem to have done a bang-up job with the legally sanctioned version of shacking up; can’t say I’m inspired by your efforts:

Shania, natch, is just joining the divorcée set Kate Hudson entered before deciding she wanted to get back out there again, missus-style, this time with Owen—so inspiring you breeders are! And let’s lift a drive-through Frappuccino to Britney-baby, for all her efforts to make marriage respectable in the very best opposite-sex tradition. How could I ever embark on married-lady life without her inescapable stamp on all things domestic? Perish the bitchy thought. Again, must say I’m honored to be allowed to join the will-they/won’t-they courtroom club myself. I do love to gamble, after all. You?

Jen Aniston doesn’t. Like to gamble, that is...in love, at least. Are you seeing a pattern to her man trail here, hon-pies? Makes perfect sense, too, what with her being the most famous dumpee in history, thanks to one B Pitt. Jennifer’s been playin’ it safe ever since with dudes like Vince Vaughn, who’s gonna makes Jen nervous with a marriage proposal (and possible second divorce) about as fast as Hayden Christensen’s gonna do the same with Rachel Bilson. Ain’t gonna happen. In any of these starry, supposed scenarios.

And that’s the way Jen likes it. It’s the reason she hooked up with John Mayer, who answers everything for Ms. A right now, including (1) fab opportunities to show off her lovely figure—a particular weakness of Ms. A’s, ever since Brad went va-va-vooming with sperm-sucking Angelina; (2) Mayer, mostly, only dates babes, making Jen look vibrant, wanted; and (3) he’ll be gone in a poof, just the way J.A. likes it, no fuss, and just a little bit of mess, as most gals who date Mr. M discover. And even though my crack Desk Follicle, which sticks thisclose to Jennifer-love, insists it’s only her coiffure and her fagolas that Jen is ever going to be anything close to serious about—at least for the time being—happier reports are coming in from those who hang with Aniston in Ef-Hell-Ay, where she’s currently filming:

“I hope Jennifer and John make it work for a while. Everyone here seems to have loved her, so I'd say she deserves it. I hope [Mayer] doesn't go all himbo on her, though. That guy has more 'credits' to his name than he should—J.Love, Sheryl, Jessica, Perez, ew!”

I won’t venture as to what the last upchuck sentiment refers to, as I, of course, think Frenching a man is divine.

Trust me here, though. Stick with Desk Follicle, which ends with, “Jennifer’s smart. She’s using John by letting him think he’s using her.”

Hey, maybe you hets do know something about love and survival, after all!

Move over Sid and Nancy, Mickey and Mallory, Lindsay and Samantha, there’s a new dirty duo bound to get in all sorts of trubs together. No, not new British besties Amy Winehouse and Pete Doherty—we know their real friend till the end is the sniff 'n' snort kinda stuff, not each other.

Remember when Mel Gibson wined (in the figurative sense) and dined Britney Spears a few weeks back? Guess the movie star and popped tart had such a delish time at dinner that now they’re spending spring break together in Costa Rica at Gibby’s C.R. pad. Brit's dad, Jamie, is tagging along as chaperone, so don’t think this is an Aniston-Mayer-type rendezvous/train-wreck edition.

M.G. might try his darndest to get B-babe out of Hell-Ay and the pap spotlight, but without a serious facility helping him out, gal ain’t gonna get any better lying on a beach for a few days. Par-tick when she just won some more face time with her kiddos...That’s when she decides it’s the best time to flee stateside and catch some sun away from her sons? Everyday is opposite day in Spearsy’s world.

More befuddling than Brit-Brit’s intentions for skipping town and movin’ south with Mad Max—or than Melbie’s reasons for wanting to fix the girl’s probs in the first place: What in the hell do these two terribles talk about? It’s only so long you can dish about your Malibu mansions or your rehab experiences before the conversation runs dry. Hmmm. Must go something like this:

Mel:  [Floating in and out of an Australian accent] As I was saying, Britney, Christ’s teachings really opened up my eyes...

Britney:  What’s wrong with this no-fat latte? Tastes like Jayden James' baby milk all foamed up!

Mel:  That’s a virgin piña colada. It doesn’t have alcohol in it. As I was saying, Jesus...

Britney:  No booze? What’s the damn point in drinking it?

Mel:  Have you seen my film The Passion of the Christ?

Britney:  Hells yeah! I play it for my boys all the time. Freeeedoooom!

Mel:  No, that was Braveheart. Passion of the Christ has subtitles...

Britney:  Oh my god, did you watch Rock of Love last night?

Mel:  I don’t know what that is.

Britney:  It’s my favorite TV show! Besides How I Made Out With Your Mother. Doogie Howser’s on it. He’s so cute! I wish I could remember meeting him, daddy made me take my pills while shooting so everything’s a blur.

Mel:  Do you want to go take a serenity walk on the beach? We can meditate...

Britney:  It’s been three hours! I need a new weave! This one’s all itchy.

Dear Ted:
Please use your media power to get someone, anyone, to try to save Amy Winehouse's life. There is plenty of opportunity for bashing her, with all the kids on this site, but this girl isn't going to make it if someone doesn't intervene forcefully. I'm not necessarily a fan, but I am a fan of life.
  Barb Wire
  Woodland Hills, Calif.

Dear Malibuite Misplaced:
Darling, Amy’s gonna be the last one to go down. She knows what she’s doing. For now, at least. ‘Course, Heath knew, too—up to a point. Anyway, it’s up to Amy, not me. And I’m not her mother. If I were, she’d never go blond again. Now that was effed up, forget snorting half the crack in Britain.