Let's be honest: Given the way things work in Hollywood, there's a very real chance you're going to be fired by the end of the day. Why not seize control of your destiny by finding a new gig on the Defamer Job Board right now, denying either your mercurial boss or some faceless, cost-slashing corporate drone the opportunity to pinkslip you?

· Ladies and gentleman, we give you the next Snakes on a Plane. Coming soon from director Barry Sonnenfeld: Space Chimps. We'll say it again: Space Chimps. One more time? OK, if we must: Space Chimps. Begin erecting your unauthorized fan sites...now. (And make sure to tell the studio it's only going to work if they make it a live action film.) [Variety]
· A Tennessee projectionist is fired for telling Ain't It Cool News how shitty the new Fantastic Four movie is a week or two before Fox was ready to deal with the inevitable flood of negative reviews awaiting its superhero sequel. [THR]
· We care so little about this meaningless milestone that we're loathe to even note it, but Pirates 3: Whatever It's Called reaches the $500 million mark internationally in a record 20 days, a week faster than Spider-Man 3: We're Not Even Going To Bother Giving It A Real Title. Congratulations, winning multimedia conglomerate that released a successful movie-related project! [Variety]
· Ben Silverman renames NBC Universal Television Studios as Universal Media Studios, a move intended to demonstrate that he's not too busy partying to enact superficial changes at his new company. [THR]
· Hollywood Out of Ideas, Hollow Man Edition: Universal and Imagine hire David Goyer to write and direct a new take on H.G. Wells' Invisible Man. Brian Grazer to superproduce. (Note: The Grazerhead is too tied up by regrettable personal business to make an appearance at this time.) [Variety]

Keeping pace with the torrent of developments in the life of martyred socialite and pastry chef muse Paris Hilton has become next to impossible lately. We therefore offer the following compendium of the day's most noteworthy events:
· Transferred last night out of the Twin Towers medical ward in downtown L.A. (a place nicknamed "The Dings," where the 200 inmates are called "dingbats"), Paris is currently under observation in Lynwood's far cozier medical unit, where she'll stay until officials determine she's ready to return to her original, solitary confinement cell. Oh—and she's still "a mess." [TMZ]
· In order to determine if Hilton was serving a fair amount of time for her crime, the LAT analyzed 2 million cases (surely securing them next year's Pulitzer), and determined the heiress is serving a harsher sentence than 80% of those who had committed comparable offenses. [LAT]

All around town, producers whose often-fuzzy roles in bringing together the various elements necessary to get prestige projects before rolling cameras are throwing open their windows and offering up an exultant "Huzzah! to the Hollywood heavens, as the Academy has ever so slightly loosened its Draconian rules about the number of people allowed to storm the Kodak Theatre stage in the unlikely event of a Best Picture win. Reports the NY Times:

Having discovered that everyone she thought held her best interests at heart—manager Larry Rudolph, babydaddy Kevin Federline, even her own mother—were conspiring to sabotage her once promising career, Britney Spears has turned to the only people she can trust, her fans, to help shape the arc of her impending comeback. In the latest of a string of recent, marginally coherent announcements posted to her Official Placeholder Website, Spears asks fans to vote on their favorite of five proposed album titles, compiled from a much larger list of rejected lower-back-tattoo ideas. Results have yet to be made public, but our strong instinct is that option #1—a topical, eight-word homage to another fallen comrade-in-crotch -flashing-arms—will win in a landslide victory.

A vigilant reader (i.e., one who didn't get cross-eyed drunk to celebrate the return of Top Chef) noticed that the new round of commercials for upcoming Bravo offering Hey, Paula!, a serialized documentary on the effects of prescription painkillers on talent-show judges, went to air without adequate proofreading. We suppose that it's possible there is a better reason than mere carelessness for the mistake; at a network where deep budget cuts force their programming executives to assume second jobs generating their website copy, it's not inconceivable that the talent is required to write and edit promos themselves, and that Abdul—busy juggling the demands of self-medicating, dodging the pack of fluffy dogs constantly underfoot, and approving new storylines for her "character"—was simply too overwhelmed by her multiple responsibilities to catch the error.

Sad news: The marriage of superproducer Brian Grazer and novelist/screenwriter/grudging blogger Gigi Levangie, which provided the rich source material for parallel publishing and basic cable miniseries empires, is over (again), reports today's Page Six, a seismic development that is sure to crack the foundations of even the sturdiest of industry unions in sympathy, flooding the local dating scene with newly liberated Hollywood war brides. Publicists and anonymous sources agree that the split, which comes about a year after the couple's trial Cruising of last summer, was a friendly one:

· Minutes and minutes of fun (and a deepened appreciation for David Chase's genius) can be had with YouTube and the search query "Sopranos alternate ending."
· There's is definitely something a little perverse about a Luke/Vader Father's Day gift set.
· Angelina Jolie wears a $26 outfit (not including shoes) to the NY premiere of A Mighty Heart; if her candidacy for sainthood wasn't already a lock, it certainly is now.
· Catwoman money buys a pretty nice spread in Silver Lake.

While the Olsen Twins' passage into civically recognized womanhood three years ago was a cultural event so significant that countdown clocks ticking down the seconds until their shared 18th birthday were erected in every corner of the internet and Barely Legal magazine famously sponsored a three-week party in a handful of major American cities commemorating the occasion, today's ascent to drinking age is passing with little, if any, fanfare.

Irascible late night fixture David Letterman can breathe a little more easily tonight—well, as easily as someone who just accidentally broke his nose playing with his three-year-old son can be expected to—as Montana officials have announced the capture of the escaped convict who once plotted to kidnap the very same little junior Letterman:

As Isaiah Washington processes the complex feelings about his high-profile axing from Grey's Anatomy, downgrading himself from "mad as hell and not going to take it anymore," to the far more reasonable, "saddened, but will gladly work with the powers that be to see if there isn't some third solution out there that better suits everyone's interests," questions still linger as to who ordered the whacking and when. According to an AP report, it was not the decision of Grey's showrunner Shonda Rhimes—who "wept" when she made the call on Thursday—but rather a troika of high-ranking ABC studio and network execs:

· Music round-up: Hot Chip at the Henry Fonda; Datarock at the Troubadour; Roger Waters at the Hollywood Bowl.
· Governor Howard Dean, Chairman of the DNC and possessor of a barbaric yawp so formidable it once crushed his own presidential ambitions, invites you to a Democrat-recruiting party at the Camden House.
· Christian "Best Week Ever" Finnegan, Harland "Seven Minute Abs" Williams, and many, many others we're not listing here will fill out the roster at tonight's Comedy Juice show at the Hollywood Improv.

Clear your calendars, underemployed, musical-loving actors of Los Angeles, for you've been officially notified that the cattle-call that could deliver you the kind of Broadway superstardom you've always dreamed of is at hand. Next Wednesday, thousands upon thousands of singing-ogre hopefuls, their voices colored with the frustration of scores of commercial callbacks that never came, will descend upon Burbank, trying to demonstrate they can belt out rock lyrics through an impenetrable faux-Scottish accent. Please note that the producers have taken special care to invite performers "of all cultural backgrounds" to audition for both leading roles—the words "urban edge," "hip hop," and "R&B" are just fun little lawyer-approved suggestions about what they're looking for in their perfect Donkey.

The Defamer Special Correspondent on Cost-Conscious Summer Blockbuster Promotion just beamed us this cameraphone photo revealing the recent whereabouts of the Transformers BigFuckingRobotsMobile first spotted at the Burbank Staples on Monday morning. Dreamworks' economy-class rolling command center was parked outside of the Ca$h Plus near the corner of Alameda and Main (precise coordinates mapped here), where its conspicuous presence undoubtedly enticed dozens of potential ticket-buyers to squirrel away their freshly cashed paychecks until the movie's Fourth of July opening.

Following last year's Fanisode contest comes The L Word's latest foray into the arena of cutting-edge promotion: The series has teamed with cyber community Second Life to create a Virtual Lesbian World, where fans can dress up an avatar (Butch and Lipstick options not yet available), and mingle with other L-Word fans at the virtual The L-Word Club (pictured above, looking not unlike the virtual L-Word Women's Detention Facility), grab a coffee at The Planet café, or catch a lecture at the Amphitheater.

While we appreciate the City Bakery's attempt to use Paris Hilton's incarceration to drum up a little buzz (as illustrated in the above photo from Eater LA), they ultimately stand no chance against the more dedicated attention-whores of Mrs. Beasly's in our city's ongoing Cupcake Wars. Sticking nail files in some spice cakes and putting up a sign is definitely cute, but demonstrates that the Brentwood outfit lacks the dedication of rivals who have proven they're willing to fellate swarming news crews for coverage or slaughter a disloyal A-lister. Until they accost Rick and Kathy on one of their well-publicized visits to their jailed daughter and demand they deliver their "Visitation Cakes" in front of dozens of cameras, we have no choice but to dismiss them as lazy dilettantes lacking in killer instinct.

· Neither a second straight mind-scrambling week of screening its contestants' application films nor a renewed, audience-distracting focus on host Adrianna Costa's cleavage has increased interest in Fox's deeply fucked troubled On the Lot, which drew just 2.9 million viewers and now stands accused of poisoning people against perfectly good House reruns. If things don't turn around quickly (or if the show isn't mercy killed by the end of June), look for EP Steven Spielberg to withdraw the $1 million DreamWorks deal prize, leaving the scrambling network to replace it with a four-week intership as the guy in charge of getting hot extras' phone numbers for Week One judge Brett Ratner. [Variety]
· What's Jennifer Aniston up to these days, besides appearing on the cover of Us Weekly underneath headlines about her ongoing struggle to cope with her 2005 divorce from Brad Pitt? You know, this n' that, a little producing, a little acting. Just stuff! [THR]
· Tapping the same creative mother lode that yielded plans for a Ice Cube-led Welcome Back Kotter remake, Screen Gems is updating The Big Chill with an African-American cast. The full talent roster isn't set, but Terrence Howard is in early negotiations to reprise Kevin Costner's casket-filling role. [Variety]
· William Hurt joins Ed Norton and Tim Roth in Marvel Studios' Hulk project, which continues its curious obsession with collecting talented actors for a comic book movie. [THR]
· Rachel Weisz will star in the Peter Jackson-directed adaptation of The Lovely Bones, a fine choice for a movie we're actually looking forward to. [Variety]

Sean Stewart, the differently abled progeny of Rod Stewart and one-third of the Sons of Hollywood—A&E's attempt at packaging the lives, dreams, and chronic stupidity of second-generation showbiz overclass as reality entertainment—was quietly taken into custody yesterday, minus the accompanying news choppers and public outrage that have marked recent, similar events. His crime dates back to an incident from nearly two months ago, when Stewart, angry after being denied entry to a party in the Hills, attacked a couple in a passing car with "a rock, brick, bottle, metal, missile, and substance capable of doing serious bodily harm," according to the felony complaint for his arrest:

Dealing a death blow to once-trendy Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama's chances of landing the crucial entertainment industry endorsement that spurred Presidents Gore and Kerry on to historic White House tenures, show business deity Steven Spielberg has officially anointed Hillary Clinton Hollywood's Savior, releasing a statement today indicating he's "convinced that [she] is the most qualified candidate to lead us."

Politics makes for strange bedfellows, as reports have surfaced of a seismic shift of allegiances over at the House of Spears: As the (tabloid-generated) plot goes, mother Lynne—heartlessly cast aside after being deemed an impediment to her rogue daughter's various head-shaving and clubtrotting needs—now finds herself cozier than ever with former pimp-in-law Kevin Federline. (K-Fed offers Lynne full access to her grandchildren, in exchange for little more than grandma covering the Fatburger tab, and perhaps sneaking dad a little spending money for "the kids to have some fun at the Stratosphere, on me!") The estranged elder Spears, meanwhile, has taken all the expected steps towards mending fences with her troubled daughter: i.e., ambushing her at a birthday party in Beverly Hills, and offering her side of the story to Us as a cover exclusive. And despite Star Magazine's best efforts to further complicate matters by suggesting former babymama Shar Jackson was once again heavy with K-Fed child, Jackson—for whom any form of reconciliation might constitute a breach of contract that would put her Ex-Wives Club-hosting duties in jeopardy—squarely denies being knocked up by America's Most Hated, telling Us, "It is not even remotely true."