· A tip from chapter 5 of Britney Spears' forthcoming book on child-rearing, Lookit Me, I'm A Moms, Y'all!: To make sure that your second child feels special, go on the record saying that he or she was just an accident.
A tip from chapter 3 of Lindsay Lohan's book on how to succeed in the movie business, Fuck You, I'll Show Up On Set Just As Soon As I'm Good And Ready And My Body Is Done Rejecting The Shit I Don't Remember Drinking Last Night, Mr. Bossy Asshole A.D., And Who The Fuck Do You Think You Are, My Father?: Once your spotty attendance record and overall lack of professional courtesy become an issue, bring in some cupcakes!
You know what, now that you mention it, it does seem weird that Tom Cruise is always rescuing people. He's just a lucky guy, we guess.
Probably not a day goes by where we don't look down at our What Would Stephen Baldwin Do? bracelet while contemplating an important life decision and then make the right choice—especially when deciding whether or not to have a three-way with God.

Frustrated that her publicist's immediate denial of Us Weekly's cover story about her alleged, mile-high engagement to suspiciously convenient companion Vince Vaughn, Jennifer Aniston did what a famous person who finds that her Approved Message isn't getting traction must do: She gave Her Side of the Story, Guys to a glossy competitor. But in the middle of whining to People about the cruel lies perpetuated by a hostile faction of the Celebrity Weekly Industrial Complex, Aniston apparently decided to take down the whole fucking system:

Project Runway audiences will not soon forget Vincent Libretti, the middle-aged crackpot who at any moment is capable of exploding into a doggie outfit-induced fit of hysterical laughter, as fellow contestants inch cautiously away. Thanks to YouTube, we now have a glimpse of what Libretti had been up to in the pre-Runway years: He stars in Are You In?, a short film, seemingly custom-fitted to his particular brand of fruitcake talents. Playing, as one commenter aptly puts it, "a technofaggotronic Woody Allen," Libretti sputters nonsense into a headset on a city street before walking into a laundromat and stripping down for an unobstructed, rear view shot. Yes, Libretti goes full-assal, revealing a taut set of mancakes, the very sight of which would surely turn Tim Gunn five shades of red before mumbling something about the Macy's accessories wall and scurrying towards the nearest exit.

· We haven't checked the language in our Official Blogger Snakes on a Plane Hype Contract, but we're sure that putting a link to tonight's soundtrack party at Key Club featuring imaginatively named title-track performers Cobra Starship is a prerequisite to eventually getting paid by New Line.
· Music round-up: The 88 at the Troubadour; The Neville Brothers, The Original Meters, and Brass Monkey Brass Band at the Hollywood Bowl; Mates of State do it for free at Ameoba.
· This one's just for the ladies...or the guys horny enough to dress in convincing enough drag to penetrate their perimeter defenses: LAist's Jen Sincero teaches a workshop on breaking down your resistance to girl-on-girl experimentation at the Pleasure Chest.

Not since May's Good Housekeeping story revealing that Tom Cruise's adopted daughter Isabella masterminded the kidnapping and eventual enslavement of Scientology war bride Katie Holmes have we read Cruise news fraught with such inescapable menace, but here we sit, gape-mouthed with horror over this item on The Scoop hinting at the ruthless way the actor deals with dissent within his family:

PrivacyWatch celebrity sightings are submitted by our readers, and are now posted several times a week—so start sending them in more often! Send yours to tips[AT]defamer.com (please put "sighting" or "PrivacyWatch" in the subject line) and let everyone know about the time you shared an elevator ride with a verrry flirtatious former Friends star.

Bruno Kirby's sudden death was certainly a shock to the Hollywood community yesterday, especially to those on the red carpet at the Pantages Theater for last night's opening of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels who were ambushed with the news by a KCAL news crew. Especially effective was their reporter's flawless set-up of Jennifer Tilly, who was allowed to get a couple of seconds into a cheerful account of her work with Kirby on Stuart Little before being cut off with the news of the actor's death, inducing an initial look (pictured) of equal parts confusion and hope she'd be beset by a high-fiving Ashton Kutcher and her still-living pal having a good laugh at the expense of her gullibility. The video is here, which makes a fine first installment for KCAL's planned running series of reports on What Famous People's Faces Look Like When They've Unexpectedly Received Word of a Colleague's
Passing.

Perhaps you've recently had the opportunity to sample the new Justin Timberlake single as it thumped out of an H3 idling nearby—a C+C Music Factory-inspired slice of suckiness entitled "SexyBack." You'll be hearing a lot more from Timberlake as we near the September 12 release date of his not-at-all pretentiously titled record, "FutureSex/LoveSounds," such as a recent interview with Vanity Fair in which he shared some uncensored thoughts on American Idol winner Taylor Hicks:

The National Enquirer has slapped a Breaking News banner over its discovery that Mel Gibson is not, as previously believed, battling his demons in the comfort of a luxury resort-hab facility like Promises Malibu (where as the owner of the beachside community, he would be entitled to a 15 percent discount), but is instead participating in an outpatient, "ongoing program of recovery," presumably based out of his own living room. We're not entirely sure anyone from his camp definitively claimed that Gibson had checked into an inpatient facility (if we're wrong about this, please correct us), we just assumed that if he wanted to seem serious about pretending to manage his problem, he'd do so hiding out a place where he could sip virgin mai-tais during a daily poolside massage while waiting for Ari Emanuel to tire of throwing rocks at his house. Then again, if that same level of treatment is available at home, why would he want to bother enduring an awkward couple of weeks haggling over shuffleboard scores with a cranky, jonesing cokehead just to keep up appearances?

· CBS announces that it will stream episodes of its shows (at least the ones it fully owns) on its broadband Innertube channel the day after they initially air on the "real" network. The online shows will still be ad-supported, so those looking to destabilize CBS's business model should still watch on DVR and blast through the commercials. [Variety]
Naturally, no plan to use a new platform for the delivery of creative content would be complete without an attempt to fuck the various Guilds in the ass. [Variety]
Fox Searchlight lands Wes Anderson's next project, Dajeerling Limited, which will employ Anderson regulars Owen Wilson and Jason Schwartzman, and, we hope, trusty safecracker/manservant Kumar Pallana. [THR]
Declining XM and Sirius stock prices have investors saying that the two satellite radio providers should merge, raising the tantalizing possibility that Howard Stern could one day browbeat new co-host Oprah Winfrey into riding the Sybian. [THR]
In what could be an epic brood-off, Focus Features signs up Mark Ruffalo and Joaquin Phoenix to star in the adaptation of the novel Reservation Road, with Ruffalo playing a character who flees the scene after running over Phoenix's son. [Variety]

The What I'm Watching blog has video of the notorious, Emmy-nominated role in HBO's Mrs. Harris that ignited the growing EllenBurstyngate controversy we first noted last month. In it, the seated actress delivers exactly two lines of dialogue directly to the camera, in a vaguely Eastern European accent. Total running time of the performance the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences deemed worthy of singling out for excellence? Nine seconds—or roughly double the amount of time it took voters too lazy to watch the screeners delivered directly into their hands to glance at names on a list and pick the only one they recognized.

We blame Andy Dick's wandering tongue for making us miss yesterday's Variety story on Rachel Dratch's new role—or roles, as the case may be—on NBC's upcoming series for those who'll find Aaron Sorkin's 60-minute treatment of the behind-the-scenes zaniness at SNL too demanding, the comparatively bite-sized 30 Rock, but we still think it's worth pointing out even in its unacceptably stale, day-old form. (The internet news cycle is a cruel, unfeeling bitch.) Reports Variety:

Bravo executive Andy Cohen updates his blog with such inspiring passion and prolificacy that we're amazed he has any time left over for his primary duties, such as submitting himself to star in his own series. We were relieved today to see that, after a brief sojourn into more sober territory with his recent call for a Jessica Simpson jihad, Cohen is back to what he does best: unzipping and overturning his manclutch, allowing the celebrity names within to tumble to his flip-flopped feet with a reverberating clunk.

If you're anything like us, the recent announcement that actress Kate Hudson separated from physically undesirable rocker husband Chris Robinson plunged you into the blackest depths of celebrity break-up despair, in which you smashed all the mirrors in your home with your bare fists and used the jagged shards to carve appropriately melancholy Black Crowes lyrics into the fleshy, vein-laced underside of your forearm. This morning, Us Weekly rolls itself into a glossy cudgel and bludgeons you while you're still weak from the massive, sympathetic blood loss, claiming that Hudson's secret! affair! with You, Me, and Dupree co-star Owen "The Butterscotch Stallion" Wilson was the "main catalyst for the split." According to Us, Wilson's attorney has already offered a lawyerly evasion of, "[Anything] that suggests that the separation of Ms. Hudson was caused by Mr. Wilson...is absolutely false," which seems too preoccupied with causality to dispute that the two might be a couple. We're sure the day will bring more news once the publicists involved decide if it's better for Wilson's image to completely deny a relationship or portray him as the gallant Stallion who galloped into Hudson's home to save her from an unhappy marriage, then trotted off with his new off-screen love while the cuckolded Robinson was distracted with trying to teach their son how to convert his Fisher-Price Rock-a-Stack into a bong.

Say what you will about Samuel L. Jackson, but he's really committed himself to selling Snakes on a Plane. While many members of his trade would now have a dead-eyed, faraway look after weeks of being on the messy end of countless press junket bukkake sessions, Jackson brought what seemed like genuine enthusiasm to his Daily Show appearance last night in pimping his airborne reptilian wares, even inducing a giddy stream of "motherfuckers" from Jon Stewart. But easily our favorite part of the interview comes toward the end of the above clip, in which [SPOILER ALERT] Jackson, who's never met a paycheck he didn't like, reveals he doesn't die in the movie, then nearly defecates with glee at the thought of the negotiations for his sequel contract—he knows he's going to get paid when New Line comes calling on Sunday to sign him up for Snakes on Two Planes and Snakes on a Space Shuttle in 3D.

The breakup of James Woods and Ashley Madison (his kicky girlfriend 1/3 his age) is more in the sphere of our westward ho, and rightly so. Madison's naked opportunism and Woods's tendency to photograph like a naked mole rat are par for the course in traditional Hollywood couples that celebrate the gap of several generations. However, we happened to spot Woods and Madison near the very beginning of their romance in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in New York.

David Copperfield claims that he's found the Fountain of Youth in the Bahamas, meaning that not even the normal human birth-death cycle can now free us from an eternity of TV specials centered around lame illusions involving the "disappearance" of various landmarks. Just don't let anyone tell David Blaine, OK? Nobody wants to see how long he can hold his breath while submerged in that shit.
There is perhaps no better footwear for kicking your friends in the balls than Converse's new Jackass model sneaker Unless you're trying to sterilize your buddies, in which case some steel-toed Timberlands will do a pretty nice job.
The Daily Gut makes the bold prediction that by December, Ashlee Simpson will have had enough plastic surgery to finally release the inner camel she's been trying to free for years.
Maybe Paris Hilton's vagina is only going for $10 on eBay because she announced she's not going to use it for a year.

• Popular Film Sidekick, Bruno Kirby, Dead At 57 [AP]

We wrap up People Licked By Andy Dick and Golfing Buddies' 20-Year-Old Daughters Whom James Woods Has Slept With Day on Defamer with a quick trip over to the MySpace profile of Ashley Myrick/Madison, the aspiring actress whose recurring role as Woods' disturbingly young girlfriend was eliminated after a regrettable display of poor graveside etiquette. (The part will be recast as soon as Woods can convince one of his pals to let him drop off his little princess for her first day at USC.) Madison's profile still claims that she's "In a Relationship," either indicating a desire to be on her own following the all-too-public break-up, or an unwillingness to let go of the good times she spent with Woods once California's repressive sexual consent statutes no longer kept the onetime soulmates apart. But don't be too heartbroken for our ex-lovers; in a town brimming with both actresses willing to overlook some wrinkles and a dependence on Viagra for a guy with a good agent and fiftysomething men more than happy to advance their careers in exchange for some affection, both of the star-crossed ex-lovers should find companionship soon enough. We're so optimistic about Woods' chances that we're willing to bet that the next time he goes on vacation with the Quaids, he won't be joking when he says, "Hey, Dennis! My girlfriend's young enough to be your 34-year-old wife's daughter! How do ya like them apples?"

The Tristar Autograph Pavillion, at the annual National Sports Collectors Convention in Anaheim last week, was a temple to stars so over, they wouldn't even score a bunk on The Surreal Life. (But who were happy to exchange a personalized headshot in exchange for a couple bucks towards that month's rent.) According to FishbowlLA, however, tucked in among the usual suspects—your Catherine Bachs and Erin Morans, your Jeff Conaways and Ruth Buzzis—were two actors getting a head start cashing in on their has-been status: