Providing further evidence we're marching inexorably toward a global economy based in the buying and selling of items once touched by Britney Spears, the banned eBay auction featuring Spears' wedding night boy shorts is back, and it's now a value-added sale that includes a matching bra! The wily entrepreneur has circumvented eBay's "used underwear" prohibition by claiming the items are a "brand new set," but we all know that if they're authentic, they're too used to foist off on even the Salvation Army. There's really no good way to get out those Cheeto smears.

As you've exited your preferred house of worship, have you ever thought that you'd like God to finally send the Big One to Los Angeles and dump the human crumbs that we call celebrities off the world's dinner plate? Well, that's not very charitable of you. Perhaps if you picked up a copy of a What Hollywood Believes, Mr. Bible-Thumper, you wouldn't consider Tinseltown so spiritually corrupt.

If you had any doubt about what the Kabbalah Centre's real mission is (besides the hilarious subjugation of weak-minded celebrities), consider this: Top Kabbalah brainwashing technician Yehuda Berg is throwing a party to celebrate the release of his evil-eye deflector's user's manual, The Red String Book, at the Kitson boutique on Robertson, the new Promised Land of Hollywood retail. (Presumably, the Centre's plans to hold the book party inside a gigantic Fred Segal bag full of cash fell through.). All things considered, there's no better place than Kitson for celebrating your freshly-discovered brand of spirituality among your bestest friends (usual suspects Paris, Demi-Ashton, and Lindsay will be there) and the ridiculous furry boots you'll soon be accessorizing with your red string bracelet.

Rodney Dangerfiled died today at 82 years old. Don't let the headline fool you—Dangerfield's Thornton Melon in Back to School and his work in Caddyshack are two of our favorite comedic performances ever. (As a matter of fact, our earlier remark that "the whole world is going to be there" is a clumsy reference to Melon's huge party in Back to School.)

We'd love to think that this photo of (now skinny, brunette) Renée Zellweger illustrates that celebrities aren't above the law after all. But we know that one phone call from Zellweger to the right person in Traffic Violations would result in an unlucky meter maid's family being drowned in the Pacific.

[Photo: lime-light.org]

While the Boston Globe's Alex Beam's one-night stay in the Britney Spears Foundation Room at Beantown's Onyx Hotel certainly sounded like a subpar hospitality-industry experience, he may have surrendered himself to Britney-smearing fervor a tad too fully in describing the room as the "fourth circle of Hell." Indeed, the failure of the room's audio-visual amenities left him with no entertainment options other than a Spears DVD, and that's not exactly our cup of tea, either. Yes, the room's "decorated by a syphilitic whore in a gold Rush mining town" aesthetic certainly didn't allow him to achieve comfort in his surroundings, and the minibar Cheetos offered no prospects for gastronomical relief for his otherwise affronted sensibilities. But unless Beam found himself repeatedly roused from sleep by a man in a color-coordinated, velour "Pimp" tracksuit attempting a forced impregnation by his demonically efficacious, background-dancing seed, perhaps he should refrain from the Alighierian hyperbole. Beam clearly has no idea what Hell is like.

AND ON THE SEVENTH DAY, God said, "Hey, Kilmer, maybe it's time you learned your motherfucking lines? People, can we please keep that bush lit? It's supposed to be my physical representation on Earth, OK? And what do I have to flood around here to get someone to write a song I can hum?" Producers of the disastrous The Ten Commandments have canceled their next three shows and have scaled back the number of weekly performances at the Kodak Theater in order to "retool" the musical. The show should be back in a couple of days, but we doubt they can teach Val Kilmer how to sing, burn down the theater in atonement for hosting an affront to God, and rebuild it again and still make Thursday's call time.

Perhaps we've been so lulled into complacency by the Payless crowd's mass adoption of the Ugg boots that we're not scared shitless by the advent of the Regina boot. The Regina might be part of the next wave of an utterly hideous invasion, but can we really be afraid of something this nonsensically furry? Certainly, there's something unnerving about taking the gayest thing in Elton John's closet and then Crazy-Gluing a mass of freshly-shorn Abominable Snowman pubic hair to it, but we imagine there's only going to be so many yeti pubes to go around; scarcity might slow the invasion from all but the vanguard of the fashion-retarded. We refuse to panic until we see a pair padding around Beverly Hills, accessorized with a unicorn-horn headband.

Because it wouldn't be a Monday (or a day that ends in "day") without Paris Hilton managing to insinuate her celebutante bones into the tabloids, Star mag reports that Hilton's friendship with pneumatic party-girls Tara Reid and Lindsay Lohan has her considering a visit to the surgeon for a breast augmentation. Even though a source says Paris wants to keep them in the B-cup range, we can see this quickly devolving into a silicone arms race. By early next year, Reid and Lohan might be rolling their competitive chests into Concorde in the child's seat of a shopping cart; by summer, Paris will be pushing her new girls in a sequin-covered wheelbarrow.

Recently fake-married pop star Britney Spears has dropped nearly $7 million dollars on a 9,000 square-foot Malibu dream house. It's unknown if the singer has moved in before a number of renovations are completed: The house's wet bar is being retrofitted so that Spears has cold Red Bull on tap, one of its beach-facing hot tubs will be filled with a self-replenishing supply of Cheetos, and a combination background-dancing studio/day care center for husband Kevin Federline and his children from a previous relationship is still under construction. (Plans to have the house's eight bathrooms replaced with public restrooms are still in the drafting stage.) These improvements should boost the house's resale value considerably once divorce proceedings begin in approximately seven months, shortly after the birth of their first child.

A reader offers her impression of the presentation of everyone's favorite fashion accessory from the savvy spiritual capitalists of the Kabbalah Centre:

As if Sunset Blvd. hadn't already suffered enough after hosting a billboard tribute to Jenna Jameson's chop-shop plastic surgeon and Vincent Gallo's towering monument to fellatio, Page Six reports that a Kabbalah Centre billboard promoting The Red String Book is going up today. We'd love to throw our hands up in the air and exhort God to help us all, but we forget which one of His 72 names should be invoked for spontaneous billboard combustion. (Also, there's got to be one that makes Madonna fall into a coma for 40 years, but we digress.) As always, sending us your guerrilla phonecam pictures of the enormous Kabbalah ad will buy you instant passage to the VIP section of Heaven, where the Saved get to throw empty beer bottles at the Centre's cultists as they bob in a pool of their magic water.

Sooner than you probably think, the capitalist exchange of items that have passed into and out of Britney Spears' possession will be the dominant mode of commerce in our society (an inevitability originally postulated by Adam Smith in an oft-overlooked section of The Wealth of Nations). It's in everyone's best interest to stockpile the easily available assets that will allow the Britney Economy to operate efficiently, before scarcity of these Spears-anointed goods drives their price to levels unseen since a post-WWII Germany, where it took a wheelbarrow full of devalued cash to buy a single loaf of bread. Below, we present the latest entry into our Britney Economy's Golden Age, as a Craiglist poster tries to sell off an invitation to the fancy, official wedding that was obviated by the quick-and-dirty ceremony held recently.

Open All Night attended last night's premiere of The Ten Commandments musical, which was summarily panned (albeit from a preview) in this space yesterday by an operative/critic. The good news? It seems that Val Kilmer's legendary on-set prickish behavior translates seamlessly to the stage:

Defamer is committed to bringing together established entertainment industry professionals and go-getters trying to get a foot in the door. Today, we lend a helping hand to a generous "film producer" who's trolling Craigslist for an elusive "mutually beneficial" relationship with an up-an-coming mactress trying to get her headshots into the right hands:

A reader reports from the USC School of Cinema-Television 75th anniversary gala, where not even Will Ferrell's trademark ass-baring antics could keep Very Important Director Steven Spielberg from hitting the CrackBerry in the middle of the ceremony. Also—and we're shocked—the event was incredibly boring:

The Defamer correspondent on biblically-inspired musicals starring actors that have previously portrayed troubled porn stars offers a brief review of Val Kilmer's The Ten Commandments. Maybe we're not the best ones to ask, but Long Dong Silver to Moses seems a perfectly logical progression to us.

Remember all of that existential angst we suffered over the box office results? Forget all that, because what could possibly be more soothing to a damaged soul than a picture of Britney Spears wearing an alien mask and hurling a milkshake at paparazzi? Anyone clinging to the hope that Spears' marriage was going to snap her back into normalcy has been officially disabused of that notion. If anything, next week she'll turn up in a gorilla mask, flinging her feces at a reporter for Entertainment Tonight.

Last night, LA.comfidential conducted an impromptu investigation into the timeless "Jeremy Sisto: cut or uncut?" debate (they think "Lil Sisto" is still wearing a turtleneck) during his full-frontal performance in the play Take Me Out, but missed an important ecclesiastical implication. Long before Jim Caviezel took up the cross for two hours of Mel Gibson-administered beatings, Sisto played Jesus in the matter-of-factly titled TV movie Jesus. The Gospels clearly tell us that Jesus was circumcised in accordance with tradition. Shame on us for foolishly assuming that Sisto was a Method actor; we hope that his limited dedication to craft doesn't ultimately hurt his career.

The Smoking Gun has the "unsanitized," 57-page version of Kobe Bryant's interview with police on the night after he was accused of rape. If you've ever wanted to know what one might expect should one ever find oneself entertaining Bryant during a lonely night on a road trip, well, you've got a lot of reading to do. Here's our tip, should he mention he's getting ready to do "his thing": Put on goggles. No wonder he ran the shot-blocking Shaq out of town—Bryant wanted everyone to know when it comes to facials, he's the man.