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Why else would he do a publicity campaign with the voting already done? But Clooney is smooth, so very smooth: he goes to dinner at Time writer Joel Stein's house and actually starts doing home repairs on the guy's house after a couple bottles of wine. He's also got the fame game completely figured out, hates Bill O'Reilly, and he knows that all the work he does in Darfur isn't really helping.

Clooney, not a man of inaction, especially in a moment of crisis like this, stands on my dining-room table, unscrews a panel in the ceiling and, finding nothing, makes me go outside and carry a huge ladder with him up two flights to my garage upstairs—where he climbs into an area I've never dared go, crawling along the beams with a screwdriver between his teeth. Finding nothing, he climbs down, knocks the dirt off his jeans, blows the dust out of his nose, rinses his hands and returns to the table. The shriek starts again, and Clooney thinks for a few seconds, ducks down and yanks the carbon monoxide detector out of the outlet. "Either it needs a battery," he says, "or we have six seconds to live."

Well-played, sir! However:

One person Clooney will mess with—the thing he keeps coming back to the more we drink—is what a massive loser Bill O'Reilly is. It's an irrational feud because every time O'Reilly gets to be as important as Clooney, O'Reilly comes out way ahead. But Clooney can't help himself. He keeps talking about O'Reilly, and the little traps he's set for him and how thrilled he is when he falls into them. It's as if Clooney loves O'Reilly because he gives him permission to be an irrational 8-year-old. Maybe that's why anyone loves O'Reilly. [Time]

The enemy of our enemy is our friend!