"I feel incredibly honored to have been invited to the Marine Corps Ball by Sgt. Dustin L. Williams. Not only does Sgt. Williams deserve recognition for his bravery, selflessness and dedication to the United States and its people, but he also displays a cheeky talent for film making.Sgt. Williams, unfortunately due to prior commitments I will not be able to attend the Ball with you this year but I am sending you a case of Moet and Chandon with gratitude. In my absence, I raise a glass to you and all the men and women of the U.S. Marine Corps, past and present, in thanks for your continued commitment to preserving the safety of our nation."
Oooh, her agent has a way with words. It's nice that ScarJo wants to raise a glass in salute, though she's too busy to dance with a guy who's risked his life for her. And that little nugget about the case of champagne, well, that's a nice touch.
Um, except.......
ScarJo is paid to represent Moet and Chandon, and didn't even pay for the champagne. Thanks for your service, here's some free stuff I get because I'm a movie star.
Dee-va.
Madonna, still sitting in her London manse and wondering how to get her career back from Lady Gag, is once again obsessing over the thing she loves more than anything in the world: herself.
She used to have her own personal trainer, that she carried around with her in a special Louis Vuitton bag whenever she traveled, and the trainer, Tracy Anderson, is the one credited with Madonna's Scary Veiny Arms. And all was well in the land of Madge.
But then Tracy broke free from the luxury confines of the LV bag, and wanted to open a gym, using her ability to create Scary Veiny Arms as an advertisement, Madonna wasn't playing.
Nobody makes money off Madonna, except for Madonna.
So, Tracy left. And, not so coincidentally, opened up her gym with former, FORMER, Madonna BFF, and media whore know it all, Gwyneth Paltrow. All caught up? Madonna loves herself? She has Scary Veiny Arms?
But what frightens Madonna even more than her SVA's?
The number 53, which she will become this August. And, ALLEGEDLY, she will pay whatever it costs not to age. So, she’s purchased a Cellupulse anti-cellulite acoustic wave therapy machine for $75,000, and uses it as religiously as she uses Kabbalah, and then obsessively measure her thighs and buttocks, and fly into a rage in their is even the smallest increase in flab.
According to an insider--and I think it's Lourdes--Tracy Anderson is not the only victim of Madonna's anti-age obsession: “The measuring and ranting used to drive her ex-husband crazy. Guy Ritchie would mock her and joke that he noticed a few new dimples, which he thought was tremendously funny, but she obviously didn’t. [She] wants the body of an 18-year-old dancer and believes she can maintain her youth if she works hard enough in her gym, which is covered from floor to ceiling with mirrors. She scrutinizes her body in every position, looking for fat like an FBI detective.”
And apparently her obsession has caused her to drive away more than trainers and husbands. The boy-toys are not exempt from the Cottage Cheese Rages: “Those wishing to stay in her good graces have learned to stay mum on the subject, especially her young male companions.”
Young male companions? This causes me to giggle, because every time I see a photo of Madonna with some fresh-from-puberty boy toy, my minds eye goes straight to Hugh Hefner; you know, the old geezer who surrounds himself with young girls to make himself feel desired and hot. How long before Madge starts sporting the sea captains hat in public/
Madonna and Hef. Po-Tay-Toe, Po-Tah-Toe.
Let's see, you used to be one of the stars of the hottest shows on TV, and then, on your hiatus, you made a movie that proved successful, so you thought you were the new It Girl. And so there was trouble and strife on the TV show. You were on, you were off. You were on, then you were really off, and your movie career is headed In Direct-to-DVD status.
It seems La Heigl was in New York and wanted to see The Book of Mormon, so she took along her mother and her husband, Josh Kelly. It all sounds so civilized, unless you think you're better than everyone else. Which is Method Heigl.
See, Katherine and her mother showed up at the theater twenty minutes late, and were allowed to stomp down the aisle and disrupt the show for people who probably don't have agents who got them free tickets. And, as if that isn't the Height of Heigl, her trained puppy of a husband showed up ten minutes after that and proceeded to whimper and purr as he prowled the aisles looking for Mama Meal Ticket.
Who was sitting quietly, wearing ginormous sunglasses so the actors onstage wouldn't recognize her and stop the show to ask for an autograph, I guess, and smoking one of those electronic cigarettes.
All she needed was a white cat sitting her lap and she'd be a Bond villain.
AND a hasbeen.
I am not much of a Beyonce fan. I mean, she's an okay singer, and a pretty good dancer, and she has great hair and a fabulous twenty-four hour wind machine to move said hair.
But I get sort of annoyed by all these entertainers who want to hyphenate themselves beyond reason. I mean, I can see singer/actor. or actor/director. That's okay. But Beyonce is singer/dancer/actor/producer/fashion-designer/perfume-maker/and so on.
Yes. She is.
This comes as interesting news because Beyonce is a self-described "disaster in the kitchen” and, when she gives dinner parties, she “order[s] from the best restaurants and [has] the food delivered.” But her new BFF, who apparently traded in an old Madge for a New Beyonce, Gwyneth Paltrow, also "wrote" a cookbook, and if she can do it, Beyonce can too.
Beyonce says her new cookbook will show her fans, I guess through cooking, how she stays so bootylicious. And her cookbook will feature old family recipes from her Mama, like collard greens, cornbread, mac ’n’ cheese and fried chicken.
Not Beyonce's recipes, mind you, but someone else's recipes with her name, face, booty and wind-driven hair on the cover.
I ain't buyin' it.
She goes out nearly every night, jetting back and forth between LA and NYC, and rents a $7,000-a-month Venice beach condo, but Lindsay Lohan is saying she's actually broke.
I mean, we all knows she's busted.....
She can't pay her bills. This from the girl who wear $1200 shoes to court and then claims she can pay for therapy because her insurance has lapsed. So she couldn't pay the sound guy his $1,180 bill, either. I mean shoes and drugs and vodka, yes. Therapy and menial laborers, no.
And now she's in a court of a different color.
Stephen Clark is claiming he is owed money after selling her speakers, and installing audio and video equipment at her house in Venice Beach, California. He is demanding $1,180 in his small claims court lawsuit for the equipment and work he missed out on.
The only saving grace, in Lohan's eyes at least, is that if she loses this case, it doesn't come with jail time.
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