A Little of the Old In and Out



Above: Guber, Grinder of Celebrity Bologna

In: My Three Girls. There was an interesting -- telling? -- moment on AMC's Sunday Morning Shoot Out (Okay, how embarrassed is The Corsair that he TiVo's that program) where Ashton Kutcher referred to Rumor, Scout Larue, and Tallulah Belle as "... My three girls."

Hollywood veteran and vigilant anti-bullshitter Peter Guber quickly called him on it, and Ashton backtracked, correcting himself, " ... Demi's three girls."

Hm. Is there something you aren't telling us, Ash? Aside from driving the porcelain bus to pukesville, we mean.

Out: Kevin Federline. Take this with a grain of salt, as it does come from that culturally significant, but oftentimes factually-challenged Star Magazine:

"Things have gotten mighty icy around the Malibu mansion Britney Spears shares with her husband of six months, Kevin Federline. The baby-desperate Brit has frozen her hubby out of the bedroom with nagging and demands for attention, says a source

" ... Kevin's pals say that less than a year into their marriage, the pair just can't sleep together anymore. 'They're fighting like cats and dogs,' says a source close to Kevin."

And, let us guess, in this scenario Kevin is the smelly but affable mutt rescued from the Carvel Ice Cream parlor dumpster (Averted Gaze) rummaging through Cookie O Puss excess:

"... Kevin's getting really ticked off. He told his friends, 'I don't even sleep in the same room as Britney anymore. I stay in a whole other side of the house. I just can't stand her b**ching.'

"... He says that they fight all the time because she is constantly whining and complaining about everything he does. He told his pals, 'The b**ch even started whining at me that I smoke too many cigarettes, and I should give them up. She b**ches at me for spending time with my friends. She b**ches about me going riding on my chopper. She b**ches at me if I leave her alone for a minute.'"

If Britney spoke to The Corsair in all those asterisks, dammit, we'd ... slowly .... count to ten, breathe deep cleansing breaths, and ... lovingly, fondle the latest bank statement.

More. Or, in deference to Shar Jackson (we try to "keep it real" here), Kevy's babymomma drama, 'Mo.

In: Tarkovsky. The Corsair is a big Tarkovsky fan and while, yes, one must have a mighty attention span to get what is going on, we didn't particularly find this Indiewire review, coming from alleged film connoisseurs, a boatful of chuckles:

"A conflicted intellectual is the main protagonist in 'Distant,' Turkish director Nuri Bilge Ceylan's third feature, winner of both the grand jury prize and best actor accolades for its two leads at this past Cannes Film Festival. In one of the few funny scenes in this otherwise earnest film, he puts on a tape of a Tarkovsky film. 'He loses patience in the middle,' says Ceylan. 'So he puts on porno.'"

Hardy-har-har. Everyone knows the magic secret formula is: Porny before Tarkovsky and you'll never go wrongsky; Pornography after and there's no laughter. Get with the program, Indiewire.

Out: Mariah Carey. Sure she paraded with maniacal glee on TRL, in front of a visibly horrified Carson Daly (which is a feat, as Daly's facial expressions range within the narrow gamut between constipated and bewildered), in some sort of t-shirt-nightie improvised devising which revealed disturbing amounts of what can only be properly construed as "golden flank steak." (Averted Gaze)

One learns to not be surprised by Mariah "pulling a Mariah," as the music industry adage goes. She's become a verb for godsakes. But this TheSun report kind of threw us:

"MARIAH CAREY has surely claimed the queen diva title with her latest demand.

"An aide for the US singer called a London hotel at 1.30am to order a red carpet lined with 3ft candles for her imminent arrival."

WTF?