Psst List!

Dolls, we're goin from the jaded-butt biz (Wesley Snipes) to the shockingly innocent patrol (David Archuleta)—it's a veritable goons-to-ga-ga gamut! Plus, we've got that nasty new what's-eatin'-us department, not to mention which Gossip Girl's a little too ga-ga for Brit-Brit.

It’s Monday. You’re pissy; we’re less so (I’m getting married in less than a week, and Becky’s gonna be free of my pushy ass for a whole two, woo-friggin’-hoo!). But hell, let’s get to it, already: the Pissed List!

Gripes with Snipes:  Tax season just passed, thank girlie gods, and it looks as though Wesley Snipes finally felt the pressure of mid-April just like the rest of us. Understatement of the week. W.S. owes the U.S. gov roughly $3 million in back taxes from years of evading Uncle Sam’s hand. Hey, Snipey, no one likes forking over their hard-earned moolah (especially when it goes to that Bush freak's warmongering). But what makes you think you’re better than the rest of us? Don’t tell me starring in the Blade franchise puts you above everybody else besides Leona Helmsley and Martha Stewart, other filthy rich-types who, it would appear, thought and think their golden-celeb status makes ‘em invincible to the law. What we’re even more peeved about in this sitch is the sight of Wes praying outside the courthouse before his sentencing, trying to look all moral while speaking to the almighty. You were more convincing as a woman in To Wong Foo.

Fey Fallout:  Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama just plain stink. They so just want it both ways: gunning for domestic partnerships, but at the same time, proclaiming gays and lesbians shouldn’t be allowed the right to marry. Get some cojones, you idiots. The people who are voting against you already know what you’re up to by participating in such a not-sly dance. Say what you mean and mean what you don’t say, you antigay loudmouths.

He Got Lame:  What is with all these reports that Shia LaBeouf and Daniel Radcliffe can’t snag a snog from celeb-starved gals? Sure, no one has the slickest moves while still so young (how many dates did you have in college that didn't consist of diner food and a keg stand at the frat house for dessert?), but then again, most guys don’t have millions in the bank before they hit legal age. Indy Jr. and Harry P. should be experts at excelling in amour at this point—all they have to do is let the ladies either try on the famous fedora or wave the magic wand (not to mention the one that had audience’s eyes popping out during Equus) and a match should be magic. Just how flawed are these fellas at getting, and keeping, females? As bad as Gerard Butler’s laughable attempts? Remember those from Friday’s column? I mean, it’s almost as if Gerry-babe’s been studying at the Matthew McConaughey School of Dubious Dating. Guess no amount of money (or scholarly endeavor) can curb a lame pickup line.

Hit Us With Your Best Shots:  Star Jones and Nicole Kidman still aren’t owning up to their actions and the infamous results they brought. The latter continues on as UN ambassador against violence toward women, la-di-make-me-puke-da, as if her employees haven’t assaulted human beings themselves. And the former? Never a word about why she and her joke of a husband broke up. Meanwhile, she made her fortune as a straight shooter, as it were—her mouth everywhere and anywhere she could. You married a man who makes Richard Simmons look butch.

While Michelle Trachtenberg snuck into the DJ booth at New Yawk’s Tenjune last week not to stalk, à la Lindsay Ronson's fans, but to request Britney Spears’ “Piece of Me,” do you know the Gossip Girl would not leave until the DJ relented for that trashy girl's selection (I mean Brit, natch, not darling Michelle). Too funny. Always knew there was something...toxic about M.T. Less demanding, far more sly was American Idol teen-tart David Archuleta and his stage pops, Jeff, checking out some reading material at the Barnes & Noble at Hell-Ay’s the Grove. Last Wednesday night.

The talented (OK, I admit it, just think he mugs too damn much) demidude sported some jeans and a jacket—whaddya expect? Style isn’t exactly second nature to li'l David the way singing is. D.A. and his dad were relaxed while reading, since the day’s elimination had already been taped earlier and he knew he was safe. Well, not safe from fans of course, since the Grove is honey to celeb-hungry tourist bees, trust. The wispy-voiced Arch-babe was all sorts of adorable, totally down to earth and grateful for the good vibes, and his supposedly scary stage dad was sweet and polite. Guess Dina Lohan he is not, good news for Daviekins’ sanity.

Must mention one thing: A couple of gay guys walked past David. The dudes, tall, and in their 40s (ancient to Davey-poo, I’m sure!), were unaware of the commotion and walked right on by, holding hands, whispering sweet whatevers into each other's unpierced ears. But get this: Archuleta senior eyed the two men like they were about to launch into their best Simon Cowell bitch imitations at any moment, but the younger Mr. A.?

I’m tellin’ ya, the boy could not take his eyes off the two guys in love. It was something. Come on, David, don’t they have fruits in Utah?

Some celebs aren’t satisfied being merely the thing they’re famous for, whether they’re musicians, actors or “personalities” (aka people without talent whose names we would not know had reality television and sex tapes never come into existence). Now, it’s not enough to be seen in T-town...You’re nobody unless you can be worn. Ashlee Simpson is the latest to hop on the brand-wagon with her Wet Seal clothing line. We don’t expect a busy celeb like Ash with a hectic sched of dodging pregnancy questions to be sewing and hemming the clothes she’s schilling, obvs. But we kinda expect some more involvement than stamping her name on a product and calling it a day. Then again, A.S. pretty much did that with all her albums.

Franchising herself must seem like second nature to Ash-hon, since everyone from her fiancé to her sister is doing the same damn thing. Let’s take a look at how everyone’s self-branding in Ash’s (very small) bittersweet world stacks up against each other:

Ashlee Simpson
What:  Wet Seal, targeted for 12-year-olds whose allowance can’t cover Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Lovers line.

How much Ashlee?  Her face splashed across almost every shirt. The one with the new nose, duh—tho I hope they make a few collector’s items with her old one emblazoned on a tank top.

Worth it?  Personally, we wouldn’t use these shirts to wash our cars. The material looks cheap; the patterns, uninspired. The designs are more suited to a Trapper Keeper than a wardrobe. And in a few more months, even Ash won’t fit into her own superthin garments.

Pete Wentz
What:  Clandestine line. It was mostly tween fans who had their parents pay for their bat-'n'-diamond-decorated hoodies, but now people outside of high school and mosh pits are donning his duds.

How much Pete?  Only the odd P.W. or Fall Out Boy mention, typically tongue in cheek (“Make Love Not Wentz” is smirked across a shirt). His pup, Hemingway, is more prominent on his clothes than he is. And cuter, too. Who knew Petey had some humility?

Worth it?  Looks like a real fashionable effort, and not a case of vanity, to promote your pompous celeb self. We approve.

Jessica Simpson
What:  Hair extensions with constant coif companion Ken Paves. Jessie also has an edible beauty-product line, Dessert. Didn’t this girl used to sing or something?

How much Jessica:  Thankfully, Jessica’s brain doesn’t come attached with the hair extensions, so once you clip them in your noggin, you’ll still know the difference between chicken and fish.

Worth it:  We thankfully have all the hair we need.

Tomorrow? Sell-Your-Ass Part 2, and it smells somethin’ awful!