Welcome to Midweek Madness, our weekly orgy of celebrity dysfunction, botched romances and weight fluctuations. In which we "read" the Wednesday tabloids. So you don't "have" to.
This week's glossies are a testament to the fact that we don't actually care about celebrities because we know or care who they are; we care about them for the same reason we care about Amy Fisher, or the diaper-wearing astronaut: because they they're hot crazy messes, which may be why the beleaguered hot crazy mess of a magazine Star wins this week's newsstand smackdown despite its lame attempt to pull the old "WALKS OUT!" — ha ha! of the house, silly! — trick on us poor consumers again. And the reason is someone we have never cared and will never care about, Paula Abdul:
Just after noon on March 25, Paula Abdul and a guy who looked a lot like beau Tony Schiena "were carrying on so much I thought they should get a room," says an eyewitness who spotted the duo. "She was rubbing his chest and kissing him," and whispering so loudly that"people were moving away from then because they were so much of a distraction." what's even more shocking is where this make-out episode took place: inside St. Cyril of Jerusalem Roman Catholic Church in Encino, Calif., during High Mass!
After the jump, Paula passes out, then regains consciousness and stumbles out of church in about the same amount of time we spent tabulating our preliminary, completely superficial assessment of the Wednesday tabs.
Later on, Paula gives new meaning to the term "High Mass" (Ed: If this is actually a term. We are Catholic, and we just called it "mass") by passing out in the arms of her South African beau, sleeping for awhile, then waking up, mid-sex dream we can only imagine, and stumbling out of church. Weirdest fact: it was the second time the pair has been spotted groping in the church. Freaks.
Also, this week's Star:
- Quotes Linds: "My motto is: Live Every Day to its fullest — in moderation!" (Just because she is not large doesn't mean she can't contain multitudes, folks!)
- Reports from the frontlines of Brangelina day care facility, where Angie is — surprise, surprise — not the other overprivileged kiddies' fave play date mom, thanks to her supposed decrees that other parents (and their two year olds, we can only presume) not "look" at Angelina or anyway, bring cameraphones. In the same package, an intriguing sidebar asks: "Is Maddox Mad At Pax?" We can think of a lot of demeaning jobs, but writing 300 words about whether a five-year-old stranger is jealous of a three-year-old stranger is, um, up there.
Meanwhile in other magazines:
Life & Style:
- profiles Howie Day, the supposed "beau" Brit met at Promises, is profiled in a piece headed 'Britney falls for another Bad-Boy Musician' — uh... like Jason Alexander? Howie has some sort of police record and allegedly had a hit single in 2005. Yawn. That goes for the rest of the magazine. But it's only $1.99!
- Puts Tori Spelling and puny Spelling spawn on cover. Now there's a newsstand winner. The (fawning, but duh) story is penned by NYT Sunday Styles scribe Monica Corcoran, and it uses the word "frenetic" in the lede.
- Boycotts Brangelina — almost, relegating news (Of The World news, so it's sort of like "hearsay", but yeah, whatever) of a fourth "race balancing" Pitt Jolie adoption from Chad to a page 53 "Hot Stuff" item. That'll show em!
- Asks the question "So how did Spears transform herself so quickly?" Uh, transform? Apparently, 50% of readers think Britney has "bounced back."
- To be sure paragraph: Brit annoyed the fuck out of her partners in rehab.
- Reports Angelina has been losing weight and feeling "asexual," and restless, according to a "friend," by which we mean "frenemy," who also does a good job selling us on the idea that Angie is a bad mom: "She wants to be able to take off when she wants, where she wants, but she can't."
- Pronounces "Jen's Hotter Than Angie!" in a sidebar that further suggests that "it appears that she and her ex-husband's partner, Angelina Jolie, have switched places." (Mannn, the Brangelina beat writer ennui is practically beaming off the nine-point serif font of this story.)