Under Wraps

The rotten fur’s getting ready to fly, and we don’t just mean Eva Longoria Parker’s politically incorrect coat, girlfriends! Check out just how much further Britney Spears could potentially go, behavior-wise, and still hang on to those kiddies of hers. Plus, did Hillary Clinton’s bra affect her political standing?

Once the insanity around Britney’s attempt at restoring a saner existence clears—which those close to the popped tart are, ‘course, forcing on the broad (ain’t never gonna work that way, trust)—the question remains: Who gets the kids? After Spears’ wildly reckless behavior, as of late, will B.S. ever see her children on a normal basis again?

“The courts really do favor motherhood, no matter how terrible a mother might seem to be,” said a source close to the Spears/Federline custody showdown. “It is extremely hard for a mother to lose custody permanently. You really have to try hard to cause that to happen, although we know that [Britney] seems to be doing her very best.”

Is she? Is Britney really trying to eschew responsibility for her two boys? Or is she just not thinking, intentionally or otherwise, about how bathroom lockdowns and crotch struttings might affect a couple of young kids? Or should there even be a distinction on that last query? We say nope.

In case you think our law insider is entirely on the side of Mr. F, think again: “[Britney] will definitely get custody in some form—partial or more normal visitation,” surmises our courtroom mover ‘n’ shaker, before sighing with the following sum-up: “Can you imagine a world where Kevin Federline is the preferred parent?”Uh, at this gurney-gone-wild point, yes.

Gab tomorrow on the startling cancellation of the Vanity Fair Oscar party, but first, something slightly less surprising. 

What’s a heart-wrenched, Oscarless lad in search of testosterone-filled antics to do? Now, Leonardo DiCaprio ain’t the type to swig back a can of suds while watching the Super Bowl. Always thought he was kinda girlie that way. But hey, who the ef knows? Prolly has less to do with football than the fact that his ex Gisele was well spotted in the stands, clapping along absentmindedly like she had any idea what her Brady baby was doing with that silly shaped ball. And like a lotta good it did, eh? Poor Gisele. She’s the new Jessica—bad luck, lass-wise. (But listen, I’d take that over Paula Abdul being the new Janet Jackson, Super-Bowl-hot-bed-wise. At least Ms. J sang her own damn s--t before having that notorious breast malfunction. What’s Abdul up to, trying to become the next lip-synching Simpson sistah?)

But back to Leo, who did not opt to belch, strut and pretend to be so utterly ‘n’ massively heterosexually inclined, as did most of the rest of H-town last Sunday. Before L and B wend down Mexico way to sun their pretty bums, they got...smart. Indeed, Mr. D spent that par-tick football-frenzied afternoon with his current, fabulously named g-f, Bar Refaeli, and a fellow friend at Hell-Ay’s Museum of Contemporary Art. The unusual celeb showing was taking in the Murakami exhibit downtown. Leo and pals lingered in the galleries filled with vivid Japanese imagery, a sort of Warholian ode to commercial and crisp things, Asian style.

‘Course, everybody reading this missive cares as much about art as they do those Hillary Clinton bras I’ve been writing ‘bout (she likes ‘em tough, the better to really get in there and “have a good fight,” she’s told mutual friends), would be my guess. So, onto the more important deets: L.D. was feelin’ digitally daring amid all the culture, even had some major PDA goin’ down. The mindful museum folk paid them no mind, such fools.

No wonder Leo-love hit the museum! It’s the new last place the paps and salivating public expect our famous folk to flee, fer sure. After all, brains and breasts in the same institution? L.D. donned his traditional don’t-look-at-me garb of a blue baseball cap pulled down low while bundled up in a jacket, and Bar-barella looked unremarkable—for a model, anyway—in jeans and a sweater. Yuck. This cutie couple’s deffo not concerned with spending their quality time in the spotlight. Can’t say the same for Gis and Tom, who hopefully engaged in some major postgame coitus to cheer themselves up after the Pats' loss, poor dears.

Oh, and as long as we’re on those who were once hideously, notoriously famous and chased by the paps (but are no longer), let’s also check in on diminutive dear Calista Flockhart, who was just riding the Brentwood Gardens escalator with supercute son Liam. Cal was wearing jeans, comfy boots and a big jacket—no more miniskirts for Mama McBeal, it seems. Little Liam held on tight to his stuffed animal while Mommy clung to her mobile phone, ‘natch, though the wallpaper displayed C.F.’s cell was an adorable pic of her and her son—and no one else, if you catch my S.O.-less drift.

Sad note: No Harrison in sight. Grandpa Indiana was prolly already tucked into bed for the night.

Have you heard? Eva Longoria Parker’s the latest celeb to don real fur. Dennis Basso sable. The reps for the company that traps and kills the coat Eva paraded around New Yawk recently confirmed to moi that Eva’s pelts are, indeed, genuine. Hey, who knows, the bitch probably hunted the animals herself. Girl ain’t walkin’ around in anything fake except her marital vows. This is a joke, faithful E! legal department, so take me off speed dial, pronto.

Point being, I can’t think of a better battler to take on PETA and the like than Tony Parker’s put-upon missus. As if clawing models who say they’ve skinned your hubby alive in bed aren't enough of a public-relations nightmare to survive? In others words, look out, PETA. Eva will most likely eat you alive if you cut her, which I’m sure you all plan on doing momentarily?

Dear Ted:
You're being skewered on the E! message boards, but we have your back. If you take a peek, you'll see who the culprits are. Just wanted to let you know that "Fullmoon" is a Brangelina fan who also posts under "gapeach." If there is any way you could call her out, we would consider it a huge favor.
  Angela M.
  Madison, Wisconsin

Dear Confused:
Why on earth would I do that? Don’t you know ridicule is the finest form of flattery? You see, even these overzealous Brangelina crazies (I think they’re all just displaced Michael Jackson fans, or their offspring, or both) know Angie’s gonna break Brad’s heart in the end. But they’ll just keep on keepin’ on like that’s never gonna happen, God love ‘em.