Pity the poor employees of Fox. They're routinely made to suffer the indignities of themed, promotional meals at their cafes, occasionally made to chomp on carb-heavy breakfast foods that are somehow supposed to remind them of burying their syrup-slicked heads between Pamela Anderson's enormous breasts, and once in a while, mysterious body parts supposedly belonging to long-disposed-of assistants are rumored to turn up on their lot. Haven't they suffered enough? They have not, say the smooth-brained imagineers of Fox's vaunted promotional department, for now they're being asked to become complicit in one of the lamest viral-marketing ideas we've ever heard of—attaching Family Guy signatures (OMG the baby does a widdle dance!) to their outgoing e-mail to publicize the relaunch of their dysfunctional relationship with the oft-canceled show.

Your guesses arrived in a timely fashion, were immediately forwarded to an independent blind-item accounting firm in Bangalore for tabulation, and are now ready for your reading pleasure. Before moving on, sit on One Cheap-Ass Blind Vice until it pops like a balloon in a fetish video:

Our latest Defamer Party Report reinforces one of the most important of all Hollywood partygoing rules: You only need the vaguest sense of whom the party's being thrown for to guiltlessly gobble down as much free food and booze as your body type will allow. An operative files this report from Monday's fête for Ron Howard spouse/author Cheryl Howard Crew's new novel at Imagine pal Brian Grazer's house (the Variety VPage report is available here, if you'd like some pretty pictures to illustrate):

Between this morning's report of publicist Ken Sunshine's Jerry Maguire-esque indictment of his flacky brethren and fellow celebrity mouthpiece Dan Klores' side-career as Important Documentary Filmmaker, we think we may be witnessing the beginnings of an era that we will one day refer to as the Risorgimento Pubblicità (loosely translated as the "Publicist Renaissance"). Witness Klores using his publicity-attracting superpowers to induce Reuters to discuss the sociopolitcal/psychosexual issues at play in his documentary, Ring of Fire: The Emile Griffith Story:

Are you gay and looking for trouble, but don't have the entertainment industry standing to stomp in a breeder film executive's head and break into the ranks with the Velvet Mafia? If so, you're in luck, as an anonymous Craigslist poster is assembling a band of toughs to raid David Geffen's Malibu stronghold and break some rattan:

· Long since having abandoned all hopes of catching Fox's American Idol in the ratings, ABC is instead planning a "potentially explosive exposé" of the juggernaut on Primetime Live. Among the shocking revelations: Sensitive, soft-spoken (and recently de-Idoled) contestant Anwar Robinson is gay, Simon Cowell had undifferentiated genitalia at birth, and talent-free crowd favorite Scott Savol looks like a cross between a giant, scary baby and Vincent D'Onofrio in Full Metal Jacket. [Variety]
· Time Warner and Comcast have agreed to buy cable-provider Adelphia, assuring that we will have no idea whom to call and scream at during our weekly internet service outage. [THR]
· Tobey Maguire signs on to star with George Clooney and Cate Blanchett in The Good German, in which Maguire will conveniently portray a movie star who really lets himself go while frittering away his Hollywood fortunes in poker tournaments. [Variety]
· Sarah Jessica Parker is in talks to star in the the "dark comedy" Slammer, in which she'd play a jailed publicist that organizes an inmate musical. The script marks a new (and potentially much better) direction for backer Revolution Studios, which is now generating movie plots with an old book of Mad-Libs. [THR]
· Nicolas Cage will star in the film Electric God, a development that provides so many potential punchlines that we decline to offer even one. [Variety]

Wherein we invite our readers to solve for n (where n=the identity of a naughty celebrity) the weekly blind item calculus equation scrawled on the dirty office window of gossip-mathematician Ted Casablanca. In this week's tale of tacky Hollywood penny-pinching, sex is the appetizer, not the main course. Bury your face in the hot blueberry pie of One Cheap-Ass Blind Vice:

[File under: "Stories We'd Hoped Would Go Away If We Ignored Them, But Still Wind Up In the Inbox A Dozen Or More Times"]

Frustrated with the increasingly invasive techniques that paparazzi use to snap pictures of his clients shopping at high-end boutiques, patronizing pricey restaurants, and idling at stoplights in luxury automobiles, celebrity superflack Ken Sunshine removes the shotgun barrel from his own mouth and turns it on the "no comment" crowd:

Nicole Kidman is proving herself to be quite the spiritual wanderer. Raised Catholic (why has there been no official statement about the new Pope?) and nominally a Scientologist during her marriage to Tom Cruise (it seemed like a better idea at the time than being locked in a trunk and drowned at the Celebrity Centre's pool—she wouldn't make that same mistake again), Kidman has apparently exhausted all other theological options and gone back to the Old Book:

· Here's a Solomonic dilemma for you: If you buy a ticket to Ashton Kutcher's crappy movie this weekend (not Guess Who, the other one), he's going to model underwear; if you don't, he's likely to continue to say mindless shit in interviews to promote the movie. Which half of the baby do you want, the crying, snotty half, or the part that soils the diapers?
· We thought that the guy who spit in Jane Fonda's face at a book singing was engaging in some kind of misguided Vietnam protest, but as it turns out, he's just seen a rough cut of Monster in Law.
· We've got the feeling that this eBay item (or one like it) is going to come into play in the Michael Jackson trial at some point. [via BoingBoing]
· 4-20 Day revelers, you've been warned: Do NOT click on this link. Don't do it. Really. Not even a little. And if you do, a bag of Fritos will definitely not pop out of your monitor, as if by magic.

· We're not exactly sure what surprises tonight's reading of the anthology The Cocaine Chronicles at the Velvet Margarita might hold, but we wouldn't be shocked if half the club-hopping starlets in town showed up, you know, just in case they're handing out eight-balls. Which they're totally not doing...right?
· Bust out your flannel, your dreadlocks, and your vaginas for an ArcLight screening of Don’t Need You, a documentary about the riot grrrl movement of the 90s in the Pacific Northwest. Really, don't forget the vaginas; you'll be mortified if you show up without yours.
· Hey, did you know that today is Artivist Day? Yeah, we didn't either. But there's a film festival for it at the Egyptian. It's also 4-20, but you don't need a movie for that, especially since your Blockbuster gave up on ever getting back that egregiously overdue copy of Half Baked.

We're not going to dwell on the details of how sister site Gawker came to attend the "Time 100 Party" (oral) and breathe the same gold particle-infused oxygen specially imported for the respirating pleasure of their Most Influential Whatevers. We're going to skip to the good part, when our colleague accosted Viacom co-president Les Moonves, the man who will one day enslave us all, and enjoined him in idle chit-chat about the world-famous smile that makes hungry crocodiles weep with inadequacy:

A reader suggested that there might be some kind of relationship between Tobey Maguire's rapidly-deteriorating physique and his participation in poker tournaments, submitting as evidence this photo from the in-progress WPT Championship, where Maguire is in 140th place. It should be easy enough for the folks at Sony to add a gambling component to its inevitable, billion-dollar-superhero-franchise-saving intervention, but if that doesn't work, maybe they could just push a StairMaster up to the table.

It seems that our plans to use time-travel to prevent Ryan Seacrest from getting a star and further tainting the Walk of Fame were utterly unsuccessful, for the American Idol host did indeed receive his little slice of soon-to-be-urine-soaked immortality earlier today. Seacrest was apparently so overcome with emotion that he immediately dropped to his knees and offered himself up for repeated "displays of gratitude" in an attempt repay the people who shelled out for the honor.

Hollywood PrivacyWatch celebrity sightings are sent in by our readers. Send yours to tips@defamer.com and let the world know that you would fuck Denzel Washington if the proper situation presented itself.

They infest the industry's hottest parties, hang with the town's most rarefied crowds, they're rich, and they often wear lovely suits while trying to siphon millions from celebrity bank accounts. We know what you're thinking: It's another post about agents. Well, you're half-right! Welcome to another fascinating, enormous commission-generating part of the high-level service sector, the world of real estate agents. Peruse in gape-mouthed horror these excerpts from a Details profile of Hollywood's Century-21-but-with-better-blow set:

· The Agent Dance Mini: CAA agent Michael Wimer is getting ready to bolt to form a production company with Roland Emmerich at Columbia, where the two will attempt to make movies where lots of shit blows up; to maintain a proper agent-equilibrium, Endeavor's Spencer Baumgarten fills a spot a CAA. [Variety, Variety ]
· Ed Burns will write, direct, and star in The Groomsmen, and somehow wrangles a cast of Brittany Murphy, John Leguizamo, Matthew Lillard, Jay Mohr, Jessica Capshaw, and Donal Logue, an ensemble who clearly haven't seen Sidewalks of New York (and that includes Murphy, who was in the movie). [THR]
· NBC signs Fear Factor executive producer Matt Kunitz to a two-year development deal; Kunitz will spend the pact's duration trying to figure out even more ways for desperate actors and actresses to devour the genitalia of animals. [Variety]
· Sun rises, sun sets, American Idol crushes its competition in the ratings. How far can we be from an all-Idol, all-the-time Fox schedule? More importantly, when is America going to vote off the off-key singing fat guy who looks like a giant, scary baby? [THR]
· Superhero villains Ian "Magneto" McKellan and Alfred "Doctor Octopus" Molina score roles in The Da
Vinci Code adaptation, which is apparently undergoing a slow transformation into a comic-book movie. [Variety]

It seems that it took months of gleeful flatulence and prominently-displayed boners on the Meet the Fockers set to get there, but the hard-working Dustin Hoffman finally may have gotten stone-faced party-pooper Robert De Niro to lighten up at a tribute to Hoffman's career:

The This is 14th Street blog has a fascinating account of lame duck Disney CEO Michael Eisner's recent hotel stay in NY. He paid cash, had no visitors, and never left the room (unless he was smuggled in and out in someone else's Louis Vuitton luggage). The stage seemed to be set for a final boat ride down the "It's A Small World" Styx with a mouse-eared Charon, but Eisner cheerily reappeared the next day, leaving only a mystery behind: