Legally Blah

Who needs the ho-hum Oscars when we've got more hairy-bitchy badass blabbin' here at the Awful Truth with our inaugural Margo Awards! (Paris, don't look, nor you, Brangelina.) Plus, guess which gay director type's gettin' lawyerly with it? That's right, it's Blind Vice Friday!

It’s Oscar weekend, are you so excited? We’re not. Come on. Gift suites, when myriad writers—despite the strike being over—are well into their homes being repossessed by the banks? Add to that pall, every network worth its prime-time ass trying to get rid of scribes altogether (in the great name of “reality” boob-tube fare), and we’ve got one serious downer time goin’ on in H-town. Even the Vanity Fair party givers had the good sense to haul butt outta town while this desultory biz gets worse, not better—though the mag’s respectful reasoning in canceling the mucho pricey soiree may have been less than genuine, more cost cutting, but whatev.

And while all lamenting eyes are on how Daniel Day-Lewis and other Oscar vets will handle “the Heath situation,” as it’s being called by several types involved in Sunday’s broadcast, we have a better idea: Let’s have our own party! We’re barking out our very own virtual Awful Truth statues, and we’re calling them the Margos, after the über-bitchy Margo Casablanca.

Why not? After all, if Bette Davis (M’s namesake à la All About Eve) could coin the Academy Awards the Oscars—after her hubby Harmon Oscar Nelson’s ass, no joke—we see no reason whatsoever why we can’t go off-keister kilter too, and take what looks to be the most dog year evuh and have a little not necessarily movie-oriented fun. Growl if you agree, and read on for the inaugural Margos!

Best Bitch-Slap:  It’s a tie between Lindsay to Paris and Paris to Lindsay. The sisters in sunset tanning were caught fighting over Timbaland’s affections, or rather, his prime beats for their upcoming albums, heaven help us all. Then Paris macked on Lindsay’s ex Jared Leto at Sundance, while LiLo stole Pare’s slutty thunder by sleeping with everyone under the sun. Why don’t they just lez it up together and call it even? This is probably a joke, E! lawyers, so lay off right now, 'kay? I think L and P can take it—and then some.

Honorary Nominee:  Aretha Franklin to Beyoncé, who got riled up 'cause Bey called Tina Turner “the queen” at the Grammys, even though the title of Queen of Soul usually goes to 'Retha. I’d tell her to get off her high horse, but she’d need at least five people helping her down.

Best Slacker:  Mary-Kate Olsen, for not taking responsibility for her questionable actions in the Heath hysteria.

Honorary Nominee:  Bill Clinton, for letting his woman, Hillary Rodham, take the fall for his lying, whoring fat ass.

Best Threesome:  Tilda Swinton and her many lovahs of all ages.

Honorary Nominee:  Randy, Paula and Simon. The only thing Cowell’s big mouth is good for.

Best Letdown:  Andrew Morton’s Tom Cruise “tell-all” was a big yawn-nothing. Need we say more? Well, yes. Like how 'bout something along the lines of: Should Princess Di, the goss-loving (trust me) royal whose “unauthorized” bio put Morton on the loose-lip map, have read this feeble tome, she’d rise from the dead and puke on Morton right now.

Honorary Nominee:  Ashlee Simpson’s nose job. Girl still looks like trash, and her voice certainly didn’t get any better.

Best Rebound:  John Mayer, who took the higher road after his relaysh with Jessica Simpson by rebounding with his wacky sense of humor...and a revealing green thong. More folks should get in touch with their inner Borat, doncha think? Becks, you interested?

Honorary Nominee:  Joel Madden, who bounced from talented teen-pop trollop Hilary Duff to good-for-nothin’ socialite Nicole Richie, making him a bona fide rag-mag regular. Welcome to the club, Joel.

Best Mother:  Britney Spears, for keeping Sean Preston and Jayden James out of harm’s way—by handing 'em over to K-Fed. Smartest (and safest) thing she’ll ever do for her kids, no merde.

Honorary Nominee:  Denise Richards, who’s running her own personal Kid Nation, finagling her kids to costar in a reality show. Hey, it could be The Osbournes. Then again...

Best Rebel:  Barack Obama, because what’s more rebellious than a black man running for the highest office in a country full of backward-minded white racist folk?

Honorary Nominee:  Amy Winehouse, just because we love her. And her beehive. And her unapologetic fearlessness. Just don’t lose any of it, dear.

Best Heartbreaker:  Oprah Winfrey. Poor Stedman. Whose heart are you concentrating on breaking into a million little pieces next, my media goddess of love? Besides Hillary’s, that is.

Honorary Nominee:  George Clooney. A get-out-of-tabloid-jail-free card should come with every chick unlucky enough to hook up with this joker.

Best Performance by a Couple Supposedly Driven by Benevolence but in Reality Just Want Their Damn Oscars:  Brad and Angie, 'course. Brad’s been nominated and Angie’s got one already, but you think that curbs their globular appetites? Hell no! Her AA is only supporting, 'member. And Brangie may be UN ambassadors and volunteers, but they’re also actors, and we all know an actor’s own ego is more important to them than any Darfur benefit.

Honorary Nominee:  Madonna and Guy. No, make that just Madonna. Guy, the director, doesn’t exist anymore, does he? No wonder they’re lasting so long!

Holly Madison, sans Hef, shopping at the Beverly Center’s Victoria’s Secret. H.M., which could also stand for high maintenance, kept it low-key, looking for lingerie in couture casual wear and a baseball cap. Deffo a big change in demeanor, says our Vicky’s source, since the last time the Playboy babe came in with co-Hugh g-f Bridget, they were made up and on display like divas. Holl-hon was a sweetheart to the Secret staff, and bought a sexy 34D demi push-up bra for a measly 40 bucks—tho' does she really need her girls to be even more prevalent? And ain’t H.M.'s sugar-gramps giving her enough moolah to afford a more pricey push-up? Partaking in less uppy, more downy, activities was...

Adrian Grenier, honoring our nation’s leaders from George W to George W. (weird how that worked out, huh?) imbibing the Monday night away at the Other Room in Venice. Think he had any idea he was frequenting one of Venice’s more popular under-the-radar gay bars? Not like it matters much—A.G. arrived at the upscale lounge with a bevy of buds, spending most of the eve on the comfy couches, eye-locked with a cute hipsterette. The Entourage dreamboat almost never seems to have a prob picking up pretty babes of all types, from the indie-cred set all the way to posh princesses like Paris. Howevs, the usual chick-magnet peaced out of the bar alone at midnight. Somebody said no to Vinnie Chase? Musta been the massive mop hair and strike beard that Ad’s been sporting around town. Guess Gren tired of the too-late pub scene, since the next night the 'Fro’d fella sported his more serious side with a blah white blouse at...

Arianna Huffington’s Brentwood mansh, for a fancy-tush cocktail party for Jacob Weisberg’s new tome, The Bush Tragedy. No better way to celebrate Presidents Day than by criticizing our current one, right? Hostess Huffington graciously shook everyone’s hands while caterers served Chambord with champagne, topped off with pomegranate and rosemary. The only thing better than the refined refreshments was the on-display framed photo of Huffy and Michael Moore on her mantel. Got equal billing to her own damn fam, how Hollywood.

Cress Finesse is one of those multitalented, multitasking gay dudes at one of the studios that's known for making classy flicks. But C.F.'s personal life is slightly less, uh, classy. Result: Dude got fired! But hold on, HR department, Mr. F's threatening suit—and boy, did it pay off in this week's Blind Vice.