Preggers 'n' Plastic!

Who's cutting themselves up in Hollywood, and who's just plain cutting? We've got it all today, babycakes. Plus, if you hear Nicole Kidman screaming at us, don't say we didn't say it before, g-friend. And why are Ashlee and Jamie Lynn so free with their womb talk, already?

You know what day it is. You know what kind of mood we’re in (same as you, pal). So let’s get to it already: The weekly Pissed List, as welcome as a cold towel to Colin Farrell in the ayem!

Mom 'n' Popped:  There’s a new children’s book out called My Beautiful Mommy that explains plastic surgery to tykes scared of mama’s new mammoth mammaries or her nip/tucked tummy. Instead of sitting down with your offspring and explaining, “Mommy has to compete with Daddy’s new secretary,” all a truly desperate housewife’s gotta do is hand this tome off to her confused kids and she can go back to a midday martini and those Kegel exercises. What we’re peeved ‘bout is, if a book like this exists, where’s the one explaining mommy’s new reality show? With Denise Richards, Pam Anderson and Dina Lohan—not to mention the stage moms on I Know My Kid’s a Star—there’s definitely a demand.

High 'n' Flighty:  Were the producers of the newest pot romp Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantánamo Bay too stoned to realize their flick’s core demographic? The buddy-pic smokefest will be released in theaters April 25...five days after yesterday’s (literally) high holiday of 4/20, a perf opportunity to promote your huff-and-puff pic. Prolly woulda been their best bet to release the movie the weekend all their fans have the munchies. Then again, they shoulda just smacked the damn thing straight to DVD, since the less effort to crawl off the couch the better.

Move Over, Tommy:  Nicole Kidman’s Australia, the epic Baz Luhrmann flick Kidman did with Hugh Jackman and Ewan McGregor, looks as hot as our tempers after Nic-hon tried to sidestep what her bod-guard did to those poor paps. It’s actually going to work, isn’t it? Come premiere time in November, I’ll be the only one still talking about this bloodied sh-t, right? Sorta like I already do with Tom Cruise winning an Oscar one day?

Wombs for Rent?  What is it with gals like Ashlee Simpson and Jamie Lynn Spears using their reproductive potential to get mag covers—or so it would surely seem? Oh hell, I guess dudes like Ashton Kutcher do the same with their procreating gear, so what the ef do we know?

Julianne Moore can do no wrong, as far as we’re concerned, let’s just make this notion clear right up front. Got a prob with that, go worship at the altar of the pulled and surgeried gals her age (there are plenty). As the oft Oscar-nominated Moore transcends into the precarious Hollywood Netherland of more mature actress—the gorgeous redhead’s 47—she takes pains not to pull a Sharon Stone or even a more pathetic Priscilla Presley. No Basic Instinct 2-type desperate hangings on to a once sultrier past from this broad. Although to be fair, Moore was always in a class by herself as a looker and a major acting player combined.

So instead of injecting her body with such horrors as industrial-strength silicone, à la Presley, Moore saves the dangerous stuff for her career. Take Savage Grace, out next month, for ince. She plays Barbara Baekeland, a true-life, scheming socialite with nice curves and a borderline inappropriate knack for what to do with them (think Kathy Hilton with red hair and a little more money). What begins with hilariously grasping lashings out at her rich husband’s Stork Club set soon deteriorates into all-night boozing and a perfunctory romp-on-top with her own son, which has to be one of the most chilling scenes ever filmed.

Even Streep, I guarantee you, would not have had the cojones to take this one on. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya when you see it. Gruesome stuff. And I don’t just mean the inevitable gushing blood. But now that we’ve gotten you into a lovely mood for ghastly sights ‘n’ such, do read on, by all means.

The whole world, our nitpicky selves included, loves ripping apart over-the-Hills T-town females who forgo moving on gracefully, age-wise, in favor of voluntarily turning the visage into a botched needle experiment at the hands of a sex-obsessed scientist. Dolly Parton and P. Presley would be furious with all our face-hating bitchiness, if only they could muster a facial expression. Seriously, we’ve seen blow-up dolls with more emotional range than these ladies.

But lest we forget that it ain’t just the gals keeping mystery medical magicians happy and employed; men are just as misinformed about what’s appropriate for a growin'-old guy. Al Pacino's grotesqueness at the premiere of his latest flick, 88 Minutes, is too much for one Do-Me-Meter to handle. We’ve expanded it into its own irritable item. Our D.-M.-Meter simply doesn’t even approach the depths necessary to convey how horrible the once hot-'n'-sexy star has become now that he’s way past believably handling a hot bitch like Ellen Barkin.

A.P. resembles a Karl Lagerfeld rip-off who shares the same self-tanner as Lisa Rinna. The whole black ensemble—leather jacket thrown in for good measure, complete with a-hole shades indoors—makes us weep whenever we channel surf and see The Godfather on cable. Where’s that classy gent we’ve had daydreams about since Dog Day Afternoon? And worse, where’s his cinematic moral compass? 88 Minutes is getting worse reviews than Meet the Fockers, starring Robert DeNiro, another thesp in threat of losing his legendary star status. Let’s not even get started on Robert Redford, who must miss his coveted Sexiest Man title so much he’s glossied himself up within an inch of his life. Lay off the spray-tan and genre flicks, Al-babe. We barely recognize ya anymore.

Two websites are def worth lapping up, first up, the hysterically subversive shrine to all things unintentionally brilliant by the Lohan love of my life, Ms. Lindsay. Babe's a born comic, as www.lolhan.com overly snidely points out. L2 really should do an Apatow (darker) comedy next. Why should Heigl get all the bitchy-blonde success—and ink—from those babies?

And Rachael Ray, darling, are you reading? Of course, you are! I hear you scan the press freaks like moi just as much as Lindsay L. So brave of you. Listen, I just have to confess to you this one little thing: It’s a total devotion to the French Laundry at Home, a drolly irresistible food blog written by some chick named Carol Blymire. She’s basically cooking her way through every damn recipe in The French Laundry cookbook, often to highly readable, but uncomfortable, results.

While most of Blymire's humor and dishes are divinely delivered, a word to the equally squeamish: Cutting off live crab legs and dissecting bunny rabbits are just not my cup of blog-tea, but hey, maybe PETA will pick up and give Ms. B some real attention, eh?

Too late. Turns out my little guilty secret ain’t so secret. I hear the Food Network’s seriously considering giving this fierce gal a go, which would afford Rachael a run for her throaty-voice whisking. Not surprised, 'cause if C.B. handles the boob-tube anywhere nearly as deftly as she tortures the e-trade, she’s a natch. Just better be brave as hell to watch her.