Blind Vice Friday is bitchier than ever! So much so, supervain Sheila Muff-Driver's stupidly driving herself into money-grabbing oblivion. Plus, Brendan Fraser's pounds puzzle us while Will Ferrell laments a lost career in hot-oil body pumping, check it out!
You know how such nasty little anything’s just come out from everywhere when two famous folk get divorced, right? And no, we aren't gabbin’ Guy and Madonna here, hons. Afraid we’re going to goss about the once utterly doable hunk known as Brendan Fraser, who just divorced from his wife, Afton Smith, of nine years (just a few months short of Tom and Nicole's near decade!). Witnesses claiming to have firsthand knowledge of purchases made by Fraser may help to explain, at least partially, what the ef went wrong with that marriage. And if you’re thinking along the lines of negligees for Maria Bello—who was rumored to be rather snuggly with Fraser—you’re quite wrong, darlin’s. Conjure up something far greasier; then you’ll be close.
According to our most inside Fraser source, the Mummy man hauled out his wallet recently for, among other things:
•Seven trips to Wendy’s in one day
•Six boxes of Ho Ho’s from Wal-Mart
•$120 bucks worth of cold yumminess at Ben & Jerry’s
Well, gosh. At least now we know what the hell’s wrong with Brendan’s physical appearance these days, as anybody with a decent set of eyes—not to mention memory for when Bren’s tits were the hardest, most de-lish thing about George of the Jungle, save Holland Taylor’s wit—is cognizant of the fact that Fraser looks weirder than Meg Ryan’s current face. A steady diet of sugar, fried square-cut meat and corn syrup sure would explain a lot. Only prob being Bren’s press rep says none of it is true, at least, not exactly:
“[Brendan] doesn't recall having Wendy’s recently,” replied B.F.’s tough rep gal. “Maybe with one of his children at some point? [He’s] not a consistent patron.”
The sweet-as-fast-food-pie repper went on to edify us that her client hasn't had a Ho (the edible kind, and otherwise, one assumes) since he was a kid and that Brendan has not enjoyed ice cream “in quite a while.”
Hmmm. Perhaps, our Brendan insider observed these purchases (she did not actually witness Brendan swallowing the goods, this must be stated, I feel, here in the Court of Calories) on behalf of Fraser’s three kids? One wonders. Just so easy to assume, what with Daddy F’s new figure. Maybe he rifled some of the not exactly healthy fare for himself?
I mean, we’re absolutely reduced to thinking such stupid things when it’s virtually impossible to enjoy B.F.’s fab acting chops (Gods and Monsters, anybody?), even in something light like Journey to the Center of the Earth, thanks to Ben-babe’s bod softly hovering somewhere beneath billowing singlets and gauzy fabrics that belong in SoBe, circa 1990.
About-Time P.S.: Anybody who thinks Brendan, one of the nicest dudes in town, doesn’t deserve such an eagle-eyed examination of his bod is naive. Women have been enduring far more heinous dissections of their bodies for years. Way past time to even things up.
Ab-Flab P.S.: Sources who tinkered meticulously on George of the Jungle now tell me those abs weren't exactly all Brendan's, after all—apparently, the digital computers were doing sit-ups just as much as B.F. was, so who the ef knows, maybe the real Mr. Fraser is a bit less cut than we're used to ever seeing, anyway. Damn reality.
Feelin’ a little sillier than a stashed Ding Dong in Brendan Fraser’s trunk, we hit the Step Brothers premiere in Westwood, where we saw all sorts of celebs feeling slighted. 30 Rock's Jack McBrayer, Napoleon Dynamite's Jon Heder and Harold and Kumar's David Krumholtz got yelled at by the police for trying to cross the street and enter the theater to watch the flick. “Can you believe those f--king cops?” Krumholtz complained loudly. Turns out comedians get even less respect in that part of Hell-Ay than they do at the Oscars.
John C. Reilly and Will Ferrell might be at odds onscreen as stepsiblings, but on the carpet they weren't afraid to show off their blossoming bromance. The two mop-topped men posed for photos together, did interviews together—they’re one adoring blog post away from being in love.
Jokester W.F. waxed weird about some other possible careers he coulda gone for in place of comedy: “I was training to be a bodybuilder, but I just got lazy...There was so much pressure.” Hell, ya play an athlete in just about every film you put out, Willy. Bodybuilding wouldn’t be too far off.
What’s JCR’s advice to real men out there who are still living at home with their folks? “Sit tight. You’ve got a good thing going on. If you haven’t been evicted by your parents, eat as much free food as you can, and wait it out.” That’s some sound advice—we hear a conservatorship is also a sweet way to avoid all responsibilities.
Also on the Step carpet, we caught up with Corey Feldman, one half of the Corey reality-show catastrophe. Feldman’s face was seriously Pan-Caked—guess the guy was über-prepared to get his photo taken at the fete. Either that, or he wanted to look good for B-day buddy Ferrell:
“[Will and I] both share a birthday. I thought it would be great if I could find him and tackle him on the red carpet and get him to sing happy birthday to each other.” Sounds like a super idea, dude—why not get Johnny C. to help pin Will down? “Then we might lose our moment.”
C.F. seemed way out of sorts, makin’ way little sense of every query we threw at him. “He can’t give a straight answer right now!” said Susie Sprague, Core’s wife—the same one who got hitched to her hubby with MC Hammer officiating the ceremony. Does anything make much sense in this surreal couple’s life?
Feld-hon showed off some logic when we brought up infamous sib of the mo, Christopher Ciccone and his tattling tell-all about sis Madonna’s secrets. “I thought she’s already done that,” C said, referencing Madgie’s Sex book in the early '90s. “What’s left? I don’t think there’s anything that could be shocking at this point. ‘She was with a rhinoceros! I can’t believe it! How did that happen?’ ” C joked (we think). And didya hear the rhino’s wife left him for Lenny Kravitz? Absolutely crazy.
Two hilarious hotties whom you all should be watching: costars and creators of FX’s It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Rob McElhenney and Glenn Howerton were also at the Step do. We asked if they ever fight like siblings on the set, since they’re stuck together all the time. “I don’t wanna hang out with him anymore,” said Robbie. “I can’t get away from him.”
“We punch each other in the face now and then,” added Glenn. “I unleash my rage all over everyone at all times. And it’s usually not justified at all. It’s usually because I’m angry about the past.” Sounds perfect for a reality show—maybe we should hook you two up with the Coreys' agent?
So if you’re sick of each other, what other famous face would ya want to have as a sibling? R.M. pondered—“Can it be anyone? Benjamin Franklin.”
G.H.’s pick? “John Wayne Gacy. He was the cowboy, right?”
“No. He was the clown that murdered people,” corrected Rob.
“Oh. I meant John Wayne.”
Hey, at least the dude’s honest about his screwups, as it were.
Thank homo heavens No Regret, the Korean flick about some of the more unpleasant avenues of gay life in modern-day Seoul, is coming out (pardon the joke worse than the one right above by Howerton) June 25. Just in time, too, with such colossally disturbing flicks as National Lampoon’s Homo Erectus, which shows a gay cave man, played by Tom Arnold, getting clubbed to death for expressing himself. Where, oh where, was Isaiah Washington when that gratuitous part was cast?
But Regret, directed by Hee-il Leesong, owns its gratuity, unapologetically. It’s a no-holds-barred look at selling your soul to get ahead, or just to stay alive, in an exquisitely unhelpful society that regards gays just as Simon Cowell would a badly attired, moderately talented singer. But disturbing as it is, the flick still has a heart, which is pretty essential, since what you’re getting is a tough glimpse at how gays are often internationally treated.
Not just in Hollywood by racist rageaholics and homophobic movies veiling their vitriol behind derivative, unfunny skits.
Age, not to mention rage, ain't such a wonderful thing for former Hollywood golden vamp Sheila Muff-Driver, onetime femme fatale and perhaps a half-decent actress, too. Prob being, Ms. Muff-Driver's so stupidly avaricious now, she's demanding herself right into oblivion.