The Awful Truth

Is Nikki Blonsky headed to Broadway, and is Katie Holmes on her shameful way out? Why does Harry Potter's peter have us so pissed? And who can you really believe on The Hills? (Now, that's a trick question.) Click into this week's Truth, Lies & Ted video and find out!

Michael Bezjian / Getty Images

Looks like Hugh Hefner might be doing some early spring cleaning at the Playboy Mansion now that his three blonde babes have become bored bangin' an 82-year-old. Meanwhile, Hef might be ushering in some brand-new girlfriends in the form of 19-year-olds Karissa and Kristina Shannon. As if having a BF almost 58 years your senior isn't absurd enough, you're gonna share him with your sister?

Now, if H2 and the sisters K become an item, how do other May/December H'wood romances throughout history stack up? And enough with the jokes about Demi Moore—she's hardly the worst age offender. Grab your vibrators 'n' Viagra and take a peek:

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Anthony Jacobs/Getty Images

As the Awful Truth has made clear, we have über-high-up connections to the current White House administration. These sources, our beloved Desk DeeCee, have repeatedly proved to be most reliable (certainly we're still hearing back from Republicans we deal with less often on how accurate it was that Laura Bush did, indeed, move outta 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. for a time, though these insiders claim it wasn't just Dubya's return to boozing that caused the first lady to take a break, how interesting). And don't think for a sec Desk D.C. didn't catch wind of our newest politically savvy spies, the counterpart Desk Donkey, an equally know-it-all team, only with the Obama/Biden side of things. Of course, Desk Donkey just bitched about McCain's lacking debate performance in their eyes, and, in particular, critiqued the injured former prisoner of war's "Frankenstein" body appeal, due to the fact that he has limited upper-body movement.

"That was a low blow," fumed our highest-ranking member of Desk DeeCee, who, for the record, is in close proximity to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where injured vets from Iraq and Afghanistan are taken for care. "I see these veterans who are so, so young," explained our Potomac pooper, "every day in wheelchairs, using crutches, with their prosthetic legs and arms on full display, and it is just heartbreaking to think that anyone would refer to any veteran's injuries as 'Frankenstein-like'—presidential candidate or not."

Do you feel ashamed Desk Donkey? Are vets' mangled bods off limits or not? Or just the ones of those seeking the highest office in the land? Now, I adore my Desk Dee like you wouldn't believe, but gotta say it's one thing to poke fun at a wounded officer who's a private figure and one who parlayed the very actions that turned him into a "Frankenstein" to help garner him votes (via books, tours, speaking engagements, etc). My father was shot at in the Korean War and wouldn't say bupkes about it. On self-promotional sitches like that, I say it's hands-off, prosthetic or otherwise. Same principle, really, with Angelina Jolie breast-feeding babies in photo ops, and then she turns around and wants privacy out the wazoo for her and her babies, once they're behind those big French walls.

But I hear DDC's cry, and we respect that, too.

Frank Micelotta/Getty Images, Jon Kopaloff / Getty Images

Let's take a moment to walk away from Audrina and Lauren's Justin Bobby smackdown for a mention of another Hills-ite, shall we? We could all stand a break from the babe bitchfest. Brody Jenner told In Touch that he's "found the right one" in Playboy Playmate Jayde Nicole.

A rich guy famous for doing nothing, and a Playmate—match made in H'wood heaven, right? Not entirely.

At a fète held at celeb-fave shopping spot Kitson last month, B.J. told us he and his now-honey were "just friends," totally downplaying the whole thing. Very "ehh" on the mere mention of Miss Nicole. Dude showed much more of a genuine spark when we brought up ex L.C. and if the two of them would ever rekindle things. Much. "Sure," he said. This sound like a guy totally head over heels with his hottie GF? Wonder what changed, from being so indifferent to making press announcements about his amour? We say Brody's reality romance days ain't done yet. Not even.

—Additional sass by Becky Bain

Istockphoto.com

First, gotta say how much I’m lovin’ these cranky-ass comments everybody’s leaving. You all make sinister voice-mailing Alec Baldwin seem like some sort of friggin’ pansy, by comparison. Particularly intrigued by all the Queen Latifah remarks that claim I’m the one who’s ultimately being antigay by writing Blind Vices about closeted celebs, making it seem like their actions are sinister and bad, therefore I’m the one promoting self-hating activities by gay people, and therefore I’m part of the problem. Screw that crap. Just the messenger here, babes. I mean, by that warped thinking, half the White House press team is responsible for the war in Iraq, just by virtue of reporting it, what a crock of BS.

And just to prove my point, here we go again—and babes, is it ever an evil delish one! Dimpled Drew is a most successful performer. He’s got it all, good wife at home, a family who adores him, looks, bucks, nice bod, cute face, what could possibly be missing? Uh, well, for starters, certain activities that involve the type of person Eddie Murphy’s infamous for transporting in the middle of the night: trannies. Transvestites, to be exact, i.e., men who dress in women’s clothing, often for the purpose of sexual pleasure and to perform lustful exercises for seemingly straight men.

You know the type these pretty hons hook up with: dudes who pretend they’re all happy and het in their other life, all the while they’re getting down with male-male sex on the sly and convincing themselves it’s OK, ‘cause the dudes wear lipstick and a wig. You straight men just crack me up, particularly when they’re as stupid as Dimpled Drew.

See, D2 always deftly used an anonymous email account to set up his rendezvous with his fave tranny; let’s call her Maxi Knee-Pad. So Maxi was always given strict instructions: Leave the front door to her apartment open, lights out, candles only, then Dimpled would creep on in at the appointed hour and get serviced (a lot, and all the hell over, babes, pretty horny dude here we’re talkin’ about, hardly just a homo-curious lad, he’s an all-out slut!) and then slip away into the night, D.D.’s true identity undetected.

And it worked. Until one day the handsome dumbass made a date with Maxi from his regular email account, which had his real name on it. Hmmm. Wonder how the fan base you’re, like, totally effing with by lying to them would feel about this, Mr. Drew? Shall we find out?

And It Ain't: Keith Urban, Tom Cruise, Ryan Reynolds

Elisabetta A. Villa/Getty Images; Cosima Scavolini/Lapresse/ZUMApress.com

Here are two completely contrasting outfits donned by Carmen Electra, cheap nookie goddess, while in Rome promoting her latest masterpiece, Disaster Movie. As for the flick itself, the title says all you need to know. We kinda love it when movies come out later in the rest of the world than in the States—it’s like we can stare into the future and know which movies aren’t worth the plane fare to Europe to promote.

Anyway, at the film’s photo call, Carm almost looks elegant in a high-waisted pencil skirt and ruffly halter. She could be the sexy substitute teacher at a prep school, fer sure; would she do ya after class? Duh!

But at the premiere, gal’s far more obviously whored herself out in Barbie pink and barely any clothing on her knockers. So CE ain’t known to be the most conservative gal in H'wood, we get it, but we prefer her displaying her sexuality a lot more subtly than giving the goods to everyone who crosses her path; is that so wrong?

Although you still look fab at 36, you’re not getting any younger, hon. Dress with some grace—ya did it once, we’re certain you can do it again. Then again, what do ya have to lose? You’re starring in Disaster Movie. Forget everything we said—dress up in all the hooker-type gear ya want!

—Additional sass by Becky Bain

Jean-Paul Aussenard/Getty Images, Sipa via AP Images

It’s no wonder Angelina Jolie does her own PR—she’s a genius at it! Knowing full well what short memories the public has and how gullible they are, Ms. J., former lesbyterian and blood-vial wearer, is now peddling her apparent heterosexual domesticity (and then some) to such softball outlets as Parade and W.

Could it be she has a movie out? Oh, yes, she does! Changeling, and obviously she’s bitter about not being nominated last year for A Mighty Heart, so she’s making sure her puss gets out there for this flick—but only with safe media institutions. Nothing edgy or provocative, which is apparently an adjective held on reserve for Brad Pitt’s nookie partner only, and by her design, always.

Would a sit-down with a rebellious interviewer have been so difficult? Oh, wait, there are none in this country anymore; who am I kidding? I just can’t wait for all of Jolie’s currently slobbering fans to get the earth-mother wool pulled over their eyes and watch, gasping, whichever AJ chooses for her next chameleonic existence.

I vote for ditching Brad already (which she’s so eventually going to do, poor thing) and moving to Harlem, next door to Bill Clinton’s office, with her latest sex slave, Queen Latifah. They can open up a homeless shelter for bisexual, lesbian and transgender mothers with free public-relations services!

Platon

"Oliver who?”

—High-level Dubya confidante, when I inquired if any of the Bush cronies, family included, would be viewing politico director Oliver Stone’s upcoming W.

Ramey

Britney sure looks confused here in Hell-Ay with her striped-shirt pal—is this a new assistant? Another cousin using BS to score some popularity points with the press and then launch a singing career of her own?

Whoever she is, she looks utterly exhausted, and we would be too if we had to follow around B-babe all day. Girl looks like the walking dead—maybe a quick stop at a Starbucks for a skinny vanilla latte wouldn’t kill ya, tho' we aren’t sure we completely trust Brit in full view of frappuccinos.

So what’s with Brit-Brit’s puzzled expression? Is she wondering who the hell her companion is, like we are? Or is she perplexed why the paps keep following her even when she’s not throwing umbrella tantrums or running over people’s feet?

Guess the photogs have every reason to believe B’s a ticking time bomb when it comes to unannounced and unprecedented debauchery. For Brit’s sake, we hope she remains boring. But for gossip’s sake, we hope that pink wig is still somewhere in Spearsy’s closet.   

—Additional sass by Becky Bain

Warner Bros. Pictures

Earlier this week, we ran a preview of the fall’s best upcoming flicks for goss, moola and gold. We put Guy Ritchie’s new one, RocknRolla, under the gossip category, which really peeved some of you, judging by your cranky-ass comments.

We screened the movie ourselves and must admit it was pretty good—Ritchie’s back, who the ef knew? We were a little nerv when the film first started, though. It was hard to keep track of all the characters (trademark Guy stuff, but pretty understandable considering his wife has 14 names and twice as many personalities) while trying to figure out what the hell it was about. But 20 minutes into it we stopped trying. Had the best time! It’s basically a mob flick, but instead of arguing over drugs it’s all real estate...just in time for the world meltdown, deftly done, Mr. R.

Also, it was cast perfectly. “Guy handpicked everyone,” producer Joel Silver blabbed to us. “Everyone he wanted, he got.” Gerard Butler, Toby Kebbell, Thandie Newton included.

Which brings us to a major beef-bitch: Rock def could have had more sex. There’s about a three-sec nooky scene between Butler and Thandie. Talk about a waste of beautiful flesh. Interesting thing is Thandie dished to us how she and Butler actually filmed the scene separately. “He was sick, so I wouldn’t shoot it with him,” she laughed. Hmmm. Ironic, or just reflective of how it is in reality with the director and his missus? Just wondering.

—With additional sass by Taryn Ryder

AP Photo/ Matt Sayles

Still slightly irritated about Queen Latifah pooh-poohing about her privacy. If you’re not swinging in the lady-lovin’ direction, Q, what’s your hang-up? If you were running around town with some male amigos on your arm, we’d still inquire if something was up, romantically speaking. However, you can’t ask to be gabbed about, written up and adored, and—clang!—have the public-interest door to what’s up with you, love-wise, shut like some sort of rusty chastity belt the sec you scream hands-off.

What say you, A.T. readers? Should reluctant celebs (and those who refuse to announce their sexuality either way) receive fair and equal questioning from the press about their love life as do breeders, or should we just leave 'em the ef alone?

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Andrew Shawaf, PacificCoastNews.com

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