Recently BoingBoing filled its readers in on how to tap a phone line. It's not too hard! All you need are a lineman's handset, some recording equipment, and a free stretch of time to spend in jail. But incarceration isn't necessary if you're a real (amateur) investigative reporter; there are plenty of legal and semi-legal ways to gather info. After the jump, a complete guide to everything you need to set yourself up as a DIY spy. Only to be used for a righteous cause:

Recording Phone Calls

Federal law allows recording of phone calls with the consent of one party on the call, meaning you can legally record any phone calls you're a part of. State laws vary, however: in some states you must have the consent of both parties (not New York, though). See here for a full guide.

You can record phone calls on normal handsets with a cheap recorder hookup, like this one from Radio Shack. You can also record calls onto your PC, either with an adapter, or, more simply, by using Skype. There are also services that will record your cell phone calls for you, and allow you to access them when you want.

Other Recording

A simple little digital recorder is a great device that can be slipped into a pocket or left in a corner and record ambient conversations for hours. For long-distance audio recording, you'll need something more powerful, like a parabolic microphone that can amplify sounds 300 yards away. Works great for hearing bird calls; if you're using it to listen in on people, you may be a creep.

For visuals, there are plenty of discreet, handheld digital camcorders that should meet most video recording needs. To secretly record what's happening in a room, you can buy camcorders that are hidden in everything from plants to smoke alarms. Again—if you are using these to be a creep, you will and should be locked up.

Researching People

Google! It's a wonderful tool. Nexis People search is a quick and efficient way to categorize your searching by what the person does, where they're from, their company name, etc. Paid search services like Intellius can take small bits of information about people and search for public records and contact info for a nominal fee. Names can be parlayed into phone numbers and email addresses, and vice versa.

Public records from these and other similar sources are broader than you think. Recent Nexis upgrades, for example, can give you everything from a person's cell phone number to info on their gun licenses. You never know what you might find.

The Freedom of Information Act is designed to give you access to government records that don't have a good reason to be private. This is largely political; under the current administration, lots of stupid things are private. Obama should be more open (one would think). Get your FBI file, why don't you? Better yet, get someone else's! A government guide to FOIA is here, and a citizen's guide to the process is here.

Also legal: searching through someone's trash, if it has been placed out for disposal in a public area. Although this may get your ass kicked.

Tracking Movement

A small GPS device like this placed in someone's car can help you track them for days. If you're not in law enforcement, this is probably illegal, so never do it.

Modern cell phones have built-in GPS devices, which would theoretically make them a great way to track the movement of individuals. But that's generally impossible without the assistance of the carrier, unless the person is using an opt-in tracker and posting their movements themselves on Dodgeball or something. So this one requires great hacking skills or a mole at the phone company, and is illegal besides. A useful overview to cell phone tracking is here.

For observation purposes, digital binoculars combine a camera, video recorder, and binoculars in one product.

Final Thoughts

Are you spying for a righteous cause? If not, give the world some privacy, why don't you? Either way, you might consider learning Krav Maga or carrying a Taser. Those being spied upon tend to object.

Chris Kattan made people laugh on Saturday Night Live. But the most recent news regarding his marriage to model Sunshine Tutt is nothing but downer.

The couple has separated after eight weekd of marriage, though a rep for Kattan says there are "no plans for divorce at this time."

Kattan and Tutt got hitched on June 28 in Yosemite Valley, California. Let's hope Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi have a union that lasts a bit longer than these two did!

We wonder if Chris Kattan and Sunshie Tutt can get a refund on their wedding photos.

How many, how many articles have been written about the semi-colon in the last six months? A brief history of 2008: the media can't stop writing about semicolons. The New York Times notably got excited in February when they saw some MTA signage properly punctuated; of course, there were also articles bemoaning the decline of the semicolon; there's also a hoo-ha in France about the mightiest form of punctuation. Last week's Boston Globe piece—possibly the nadir of the genre—is titled, "Sex and the Semicolon." Let's chronicle the semicolon trend piece in 2008:

April 4, the Guardian: "An elegant pause - or merely a 'pretentious comma'?: For and against the semicolon: The end of the line?"

April 6, Sunday Telegraph: "Punctuation is not a political issue; or is it?"

April 25, the Guardian Weekly: "Jon Henley examines claims that the French semicolon has been rubbed out by Anglo influences"

May 2008, in Corporate Writer & Editor: "Why writers need the semicolon; The semicolon is mysterious, but it provides a much needed wink, pause and reflection."

May 12 in New York Mag: "Anarchy and Semicolons; A novel in which a punctuation mark could almost be called destiny."

June 20, in Slate: " ; ( "

June 27 in Slate: "A Punctuation Nation Speaks Out"

And finally:

August 10, Boston Globe: "Sex and the Semicolon"

It looks like the smart money is on Delaware Senator Joe Biden for Obama's running mate. Mark Halperin's already announced it in his typical cryptic way (after erasing his "if I don't know the selection it hasn't happened yet" post from last night): "Bo knows," he says, which probably refers to Biden's son, Beau, though why Beau would know is unknown. Why would Obama choose Biden? Our theory is that Obama just likes Biden. He's a funny guy. But is it a terrible choice? We think it is! But we'd love to be wrong! Pros and cons (mostly cons), below.

The official line is age, experience, and foreign policy expertise—Biden matches up well against McCain by outdoing him on most of his strengths besides the "tortured for five years by homos" thing. But with Biden comes the history of saying insane and inappropriate things and, you know, the plagiarism. (We said he matched up well with McCain!) And hey, let's look at some of our favorite moments of Biden saying something insane—taken entirely from his recent run for the presidency!

July, 2006:

Biden: goes to a 7/-11.
And says: "You CANNOT go into a 7-11 or a Dunkin Donuts without an Indian accent."
Which he meant as: some sort of comment on how Indian-Americans are a fast-growing and terribly productive group whose support he's always welcomed!

August 27, 2006:
Biden: goes on "Fox News Sunday."
And says: "You don’t know my state. My state was a slave state. My state is a border state. My state has the eighth-largest black population in the country. My state is anything from a Northeast liberal state."
Which he meant as: reassurance that he was not an out-of-touch liberal coastal elitist!

December, 2006:
Biden: goes before the South Carolina Rotary Club.
And says: Delaware, he noted, was a “slave state that fought beside the North. That’s only because we couldn’t figure out how to get to the South. There were a couple of states in the way.”
Which he meant as: a joke.

January, 2007:
Biden: is interviewed by the New York Observer.
And says: "I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy. I mean, that’s a storybook, man."
Which he meant as: a compliment to Barack Obama, whom he actually seems to like, and also an astute observation on the way Americans and the media represent Black-ness couched in cringe-inducing language.

October, 2007:
Biden: is interviewed by the Washington Post editorial board.
And says (when asked why Iowa schools perform better than DC schools): "There's less than 1 percent of the population of Iowa that is African American. There is probably less than 4 or 5 percent that are minorities. What is in Washington? So look, it goes back to what you start off with, what you're dealing with...."
Which he meant as: look, who knows now? Maybe he meant, as his campaign said, that "the disadvantages were based on economic status, not race." But that is not what he meant because it is not what he said. The most charitable possible explanation for this is that by "it goes back to what you start off with, what you're dealing with" he does mean that minorities are born with far fewer advantages in life than whites out in Iowa. But at this point the man's tone-deaf inability to discus race in any sane way—despite no evidence that he, you know, dislikes black people or anything—is actually stunning, like watching an acrobat repeatedly fall to his death over and over and over again.

BUT. The Biden penchant for saying dumb shit is tied to his charm for saying whatever the hell is on his mind. His extemporaneous monologuing produces both gaffes and gems. Like at the Democratic debate where he just up and called a gun nut a dangerous crazy person:

See? Also when, more recently, he asked if the Vice President had been kissed, in Iraq. Why? Who knows. Maybe because he knows he's in the running for the job.

Politically, Biden is probably a terrible choice. Another two Senators for the Dems. And he's from Delaware. And he makes Obama look even less experienced. And honestly he has nothing compelling to say on domestic issues, at all, which is still what the voters care about. And he doesn't help to win any swing states, at all.

But, you know, the guy is also a hilarious blowhard. So we win.

It looks like the smart money is on Delaware Senator Joe Biden for Obama's running mate. Mark Halperin's already announced it in his typical cryptic way (after erasing his "if I don't know the selection it hasn't happened yet" post from last night): "Bo knows," he says, which probably refers to Biden's son, Beau, though why Beau would know is unknown. Why would Obama choose Biden? Our theory is that Obama just likes Biden. He's a funny guy. But is it a terrible choice? We think it is! But we'd love to be wrong! Pros and cons (mostly cons), below.

The official line is age, experience, and foreign policy expertise—Biden matches up well against McCain by outdoing him on most of his strengths besides the "tortured for five years by homos" thing. But with Biden comes the history of saying insane and inappropriate things and, you know, the plagiarism. (We said he matched up well with McCain!) And hey, let's look at some of our favorite moments of Biden saying something insane—taken entirely from his recent run for the presidency!

July, 2006:
Biden: goes to a 7/-11.
And says: "You CANNOT go into a 7-11 or a Dunkin Donuts without an Indian accent."
Which he meant as: some sort of comment on how Indian-Americans are a fast-growing and terribly productive group whose support he's always welcomed!

August 27, 2006:
Biden: goes on "Fox News Sunday."
And says: "You don’t know my state. My state was a slave state. My state is a border state. My state has the eighth-largest black population in the country. My state is anything from a Northeast liberal state."
Which he meant as: reassurance that he was not an out-of-touch liberal coastal elitist!

December, 2006:
Biden: goes before the South Carolina Rotary Club.
And says: Delaware, he noted, was a “slave state that fought beside the North. That’s only because we couldn’t figure out how to get to the South. There were a couple of states in the way.”
Which he meant as: a joke.

January, 2007:
Biden: is interviewed by the New York Observer.
And says: "I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy. I mean, that’s a storybook, man."
Which he meant as: a compliment to Barack Obama, whom he actually seems to like, and also an astute observation on the way Americans and the media represent Black-ness couched in cringe-inducing language.

October, 2007:
Biden: is interviewed by the Washington Post editorial board.
And says (when asked why Iowa schools perform better than DC schools): "There's less than 1 percent of the population of Iowa that is African American. There is probably less than 4 or 5 percent that are minorities. What is in Washington? So look, it goes back to what you start off with, what you're dealing with...."
Which he meant as: look, who knows now? Maybe he meant, as his campaign said, that "the disadvantages were based on economic status, not race." But that is not what he meant because it is not what he said. The most charitable possible explanation for this is that by "it goes back to what you start off with, what you're dealing with" he does mean that minorities are born with far fewer advantages in life than whites out in Iowa. But at this point the man's tone-deaf inability to discus race in any sane way—despite no evidence that he, you know, dislikes black people or anything—is actually stunning, like watching an acrobat repeatedly fall to his death over and over and over again.

BUT. The Biden penchant for saying dumb shit is tied to his charm for saying whatever the hell is on his mind. His extemporaneous monologuing produces both gaffes and gems. Like at the Democratic debate where he just up and called a gun nut a dangerous crazy person:

See? Also when, more recently, he asked if the Vice President had been kissed, in Iraq. Why? Who knows. Maybe because he knows he's in the running for the job.

Politically, Biden is probably a terrible choice. Another two Senators for the Dems. And he's from Delaware. And he makes Obama look even less experienced. And honestly he has nothing compelling to say on domestic issues, at all, which is still what the voters care about. And he doesn't help to win any swing states, at all.

But, you know, the guy is also a hilarious blowhard. So we win.

This Schweppes ad became a YouTube hit. Why? Because its photography is beautiful. It shows something stunning and naturally draws people in. What it decidedly isn't is a crass attempt to "go viral" with some sort of shocking riff on a pop culture moment aimed a specific demographic group. Which is why we picked this clip to illustrate our foolproof theory of "Viral Reality" (not pertaining to disease):

The internet is the most meritocratic communications medium invented yet. The bar to entry is low—basic internet skills and the cost of an internet hookup. Distribution is immediate and global. And, as many large corporations have learned, putting absurd amounts of money behind a web project is no guarantee of success.

What is guaranteed is that, in the long run, quality things on the internet will become popular. Take our own stories, for example. Sure, we can promote them to a certain extent on Digg, and put them on the top deck. But if they're not engaging enough they're never going to take off. On the other hand, lots of things we toss up and then forget about catch on all by themselves.

Quality is the common denominator for things that become popular. The hard part is determining what "quality" means online. If I knew, I would be a rich man, like Richard Blakeley. Sometimes, the big hits are very random. But they rarely are the product of a deliberate attempt to game the system; they usually happen organically.

Which is a long way of saying to advertisers: stop making "viral" ads and just make good ads.

This Schweppes ad became a YouTube hit. Why? Because its photography is beautiful. It shows something stunning and naturally draws people in. What it decidedly isn't is a crass attempt to "go viral" with some sort of shocking riff on a pop culture moment aimed a specific demographic group. Which is why we picked this clip to illustrate our foolproof theory of "Viral Reality" (not pertaining to disease):

The internet is the most meritocratic communications medium invented yet. The bar to entry is low—basic internet skills and the cost of an internet hookup. Distribution is immediate and global. And, as many large corporations have learned, putting absurd amounts of money behind a web project is no guarantee of success.

What is guaranteed is that, in the long run, quality things on the internet will become popular. Take our own stories, for example. Sure, we can promote them to a certain extent on Digg, and put them on the top deck. But if they're not engaging enough they're never going to take off. On the other hand, lots of things we toss up and then forget about catch on all by themselves.

Quality is the common denominator for things that become popular. The hard part is determining what "quality" means online. If I knew, I would be a rich man, like Richard Blakeley. Sometimes, the big hits are very random. But they rarely are the product of a deliberate attempt to game the system; they usually happen organically.

Which is a long way of saying to advertisers: stop making "viral" ads and just make good ads.

Ellen Pompeo is best known the wife of Chris Ivery.

Or as troubled Dr. Meredith Grey on Grey's Anatomy.

Katherine Heigl may dominate celebrity gossip as far as that show's cast is concerned, but Pompeo is proving she's no slouch.

Despite frequent criticism that she's too thin, the actress looks pretty darn attractive in the naked photo after the jump ...

Ellen Pompeo nude in an European edition of Vanity Fair a fear years back.

The image associated with this post is best viewed using a browser.[A strange cult celebration for the premiere of "The Hills" on a beach in Malibu last night; image via Bauer-Griffin]

Now that we've heard the nightmarish story of NBC's pooping intern, we're looking for other true stories of workplace humiliation. Have you seen any firsthand, or experienced one yourself? Email us immediately. Names of the humiliated are not necessary, but details are.

Suri Cruise makes her first Scientology pitch ...

So who is, like, winning all the medals this Olympics? Besides Michael Phelps I mean. It's a tricky question!

If you're watching at home in U.S. America, you're probably inclined to think "America!" because not only does your capacity for snack food consumption mean NBC is raking in the most ad revenue in broadcasting the games, US media outlets conveniently ranks the countries in terms of "medals won," whereby the U.S. wins (by a hair!) and sits atop the official Medal Count, whereas over in China — and Hong Kong — they're ranking the countries in terms of gold medals scored, and China's winning that race by like 96. (Okay, 17.) In search of true journalistic objectivity we decided to consult some news sites representing countries without a proverbial "horse" in this race. Al-Jazeera!

And guess what, Osama Bin Laden's mouthpiece says we won. They know what side of the balance of superpower their anti-hegemonic crusade is buttered (guns-ed?) on!

Al Jazeera
China Daily (Please note the awesome animated flame on this site!)
Related: Did Bush Really Want To Bomb Al Jazeera? [The Nation]

Gay is the new black.

With online searches for Courtenay Semel and Samantha Ronson soaring - following news that they're dating fellow women Tila Tequila and Lindsay Lohan, respectively - it's now hip to be a lesbian.

Or at least an easy way to garner attention for celebrities that offer little else to the world.

Enter Aubrey O'Day and her recent revelation:

"At this point in my life I wouldn't say one way or another what my preference is sexually. The only thing I'm looking for in life is incredible passion and honest love, and if that's with a girl, a guy, a guy that dresses like a girl, a girl that dresses like a guy, whatever the options are on the table, all I really operate on is the way I feel in my heart when it comes to love."

Great news, ladies: You can se Aubrey O'Day nude, too! She's pretending to be a lesbian this week!

[Images: Big Pictures/Mr Paparazzi]

Rhys Ifans is so scrubby it’s unbelievable. Seriously, we thought it was bad enough when we spotted the shaggy haired Welshman last night dining at posh London restaurant Nobu wearing exceptionally filthy clothes, but to wear the same grimy appendages two days in a row – that is UNBELIEVABLE…

We bumped into Rhys having a lunchtime meal with Kimberley Stewart earlier today, and to our surprise he was sporting almost exactly the same soiled clothes as the night before. Just look at the state of his trousers!! We’re shocked his luncheon companions could stomach eating their food sitting next to him. Do you even think he bothered to shower?

New York used to be the the richest, biggest, and baddest state in the union. But new stats from the IRS will contribute to New Yorkers' inferiority complex—we've dropped from second to third for millionaires, behind those tofu-eating Californians and aged Jews down in Florida. (The stats are actually based on those making $1.5 million or more, and are from 2004.) But don't get too worried: we'll smugly mention that Florida has no state income tax, so it's sure to host plenty of tax-avoiding New Yorkers. [WSJ]

I say we start a petition right here and now.  Demand for Eva Longoria to be replaced with Sofia Vergara on Desperate Housewives contractually obligate Sofia to have at least one 15:00 minute scene...

[[ This is a content summary only. Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! ]]

I say we start a petition right here and now.  Demand for Eva Longoria to be replaced with Sofia Vergara on Desperate Housewives contractually obligate Sofia to have at least one 15:00 minute scene...

[[ This is a content summary only. Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! ]]

Elitot Spitzer’s wife might hate Ashley Alexandra Dupré for the public humiliation, but that hasn’t stopped others from catering to the escort. Rush & Malloy reports Ashley and her...

[[ This is a content summary only. Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! ]]

Oh my, Michael Phelps, what have we here? I am guessing it was a local purchase? Perhaps from a small boutique in one of those labyrinthine Chinese megamalls that you could never actually find again in the case you discovered their elaborate certification that you were buying a genuine limited-edition Bathing Ape was a forgery? Here is a hint: Bathing Ape doesn't manufacture hoodies with short sleeves! I don't think so anyway. No one should! But also: I know you are down with G-Unit or whatever but you are a vaguely dorky-looking 6'5 white swimmer. The "whimsical self-mocking hip-hop internationalist" aesthetic was not meant for you. Your shorter whimsical less-white friend knows this. Call us when you win some gold medals that look as as cool as Mark Spitz's! [Guest of a Guest]

[Images: Big Pictures/Mr Paparazzi]

Oh dear, we’ve all been there haven’t we? Yes, we’ve all had to do the inevitable walk of shame after a grotty night out partying. Though we hope we managed to look less fragile and shell-shocked than Miquita did this morning when we spotted her on the doorstep of Lily Allen’s house. Then again she did get up to THIS last night…

We bumped into a rather dishevelled looking Miquita Oliver scuttling out of Lily’s house earlier today in last night’s clothes. We bet she reeked of cigarettes, booze and Donner Kebabs. Grim…

Last week we floated an absolutely delicious rumor—the sort of inside media gossip that we hope to be known for when future generations are considering our legacy. Specifically, it was the story of the crazy pooping intern. A summer intern at one of the networks, we heard, went on an on-the-job pooping spree, but somehow stayed on and continued her internship through the rest of the summer. Tips have poured in, and it's become clear this is the story of your worst at-work nightmare come to life. Here's how one locked toilet at NBC caused a disaster:

The intern was at NBC in New York, at the famous 30 Rock (NBC has not responded to our request for comment). Our tipsters diverge a tiny bit in their details, but all agree that this intern did exist, and she did have quite an accident. They say it all happened on the intern's first day on the job, in June. Apparently, she tried to make a run to the bathroom, but didn't quite get there. One account:

Said intern did in fact shit all over the 18th and 25th floors of 30 Rock. She did it in the hallway, on the floor, on a pile of FedEx boxes, on the way between floors… pretty much everywhere but the bathroom or (hey, sometimes you’re desperate) a garbage can. Or a cup. Or a napkin. Or in her hands. No, just streaking through the hallways. And then she took it into that room where she locked herself in and proceeded to wipe (sorry, I couldn’t come up with a better word) it on the walls, on the computer, on those same FedEx boxes. It was a shitshow (pun absolutely intended).

One tipster even said that the intern was in a meeting with her boss when the drama occurred. News of it spread quickly throughout the building. What was the reason for the treason? We hear that bad foreign water was blamed:

The intern blamed the mess on bad water that she drank in Israel (although she had been back from her vacation more than 2 weeks before she started). The rumor at NBC is that it was some kind of laxative induced disaster.

The cleaning staff reportedly took care of the mess. But the biggest mystery of all: Why, and how, did said intern get to stay on for the rest of the summer? For one thing, it wasn't her fault: the bathrooms were locked, and she didn't yet have a key. And a general sense of mortification kept everyone quiet:

The bosses did want to fire her but were so shocked that she came back that they were a little scared because, what kind of person does something so gross and then shows up the next day like nothing happened? No one wanted to bring it up again, so she got to stay by default.

This poop story is truly nightmarish. Deep inside, we all harbor a fear that something like this might befall us on the first day at a new job. Nevertheless, this person was able to hold her head up high and continue in what must have been the most snicker-inducing environment imaginable. And with little hope of a good recommendation.

Pooping intern: We salute your courage.

All right, fine. Everyone and their mother went to the Gossip Girl premiere party in the Hamptons and made fun videos and gurgled at Chace Crawford and I didn't get invited. Josh Schwartz, if you're reading this... you've broken my heart.

Yesterday, we introduced you to the leaked chick-lit manuscript of mogul wife Leslie Zemeckis, who is married to Forrest Gump director Robert Zemeckis. Our publishing elf dubbed in "exhausting" as well as "derivative... clichéd and unpolished" in a reader's report. When we last left off, 24-year-old heiress/divorcee Natalie was sitting on the floor of her condo wearing a Juicy couture tracksuit, watching Entertainment Tonight and reading tabloids while spilling marinana sauce on herself. Now, we're introduced to Finn, the hottest young actor in town who lives with his elderly Irish mother: "Finn took a swig from a 1992 bottle of Beaujolais and washed his mouth out as the blonde with the killer fake tits strolled by his bed..."

"...Her naked, muscular body glistened with the almond oil that he had been rubbing between her every nook and cranny for the past several hours.

He lit his 3rd cigarette of the day and checked the Rolex strapped to his hairy wrist. 8:30. Damn but it was early and it had been a late night and he felt like fuck-shit, even though he’d been blown from kingdom cum and back. It was a typical Tuesday night troll through Hollywood with his friends, all of them but him desperate to get laid. He’d found the blonde at the second bar. Like the rest of them she was easy for Finn Collins, the hottest young actor in town, to get into bed.

Finn rolled out of bed, off the wrinkled, stained sheets, still damp from two bodies being entangled between them all night. He disappeared into the bathroom as the blonde started dressing.

He turned on the shower, stood under the hot stream, and rubbed soap on his limp penis. It was actually sore. The blonde had given him some workout. Since “arriving” in Hollywood three years before he’d slept with countless starlets, fathered a child out of wedlock and shot no less than seven medium-budget action films, as well as a few historical dramas. He was perceived to be the ruthless bachelor no woman in town could tie down but the truth was he hadn’t found anyone worth staying with much longer than a night. He wasn’t about to lose his heart to some silicone-injected Hollywood whore. Not one of them – and he couldn’t count how many there had been – was good enough to bring home to his ma, figuratively at least. Literally he didn’t have much of a choice.

His mother lived in the bottom half of his two-story house perched above Sunset Boulevard with a spectacular view – babe magnet view – a pool and not much else for the money...Mother Collins was a saint, she was. Dublin born, a gal who liked her pint and could hold it too, she was proud of her son’s success. She’d raised him like a prince, even on a housekeeper’s wage. She never let him forget he was special. Better than all the rest. She sacrificed everything for him when he was growing up. He played in the streets while she worked as many jobs as she could find. She never bought a new dress that wasn’t from a thrift store and she practically prostituted herself to a distant relative to send Finn to school in London, where he’d studied Shakespeare and gotten his break treading the boards on the West End in a big important drama she didn’t much understand but didn’t care, because all the critics wrote about what a marvel her lad was.

When Hollywood had called, of course he’d packed her up and taken her with him. Now she lived like the Queen. Drivers to take her whereever she wanted to go, not that she ever wanted to go anywhere other than a dicey Chinese restaurant downtown called Mrs. Foo’s. She’d become fast friends with Mrs. Foo, an eighty-two year old bird who gave out advice along with the city’s best take-out. Mrs. Foo held court six nights a week. Many an afternoon Ma Collins had sat at Mrs. Foo’s tiny restaurant on a gang-ridden street downtown, eating wonton soup and pouring her heart out about her son and the “tramps” he was bringing home.

“My lad’s going to catch something from them,” she would say, sake in hand. “I don’t know why he can’t find a nice girl to settle down with.”

Mrs. Foo would squint her eyes, set her wrinkled face and tell Ma Collins not to worry. “Wild oats. Let him sow and he’ll always be yours. If you stop him now he will marry someone wrong and she will cut you out of his life.” Ma Collins lived in fear of someone taking her boy from her. For twenty-four years she’d poured every ounce of her being into making sure he’d had the opportunities she never did. Wild oats or not, she’d be damned if some clap-ridden skank was going to get hold of her son and ruin everything.
Ma Collins spent most of her time watching the telly, her skinny feet propped up on an ottoman, resting after forty years of slaving away, washing stains out of other peoples’ clothes.

“Morning ma,” said and kissed the old woman on her cheek. She smelled of lemon and baby powder and sat on a barstool at the lime green breakfast counter sipping tea, not saying anything, her mouth a silent gash in a caved in face.

“Do you have your teeth in ma?” She hated the expensive new teeth he’d bought her.

Silently she reached into a drawer and slid them in.

Finn stood looking at his mother with love, a towel draped around his waist. His muscles on his chest were hard and white.

“Ma?” he said. “Aren’t you going to at least say ‘Good morning’?”

“That whore forgot her underclothes.” She held up a tiny triangle of cotton nothing. There was nothing to cover the bottom with. No more than a piece of string. This is a crazy country, the old woman thought. It was a good thing she was here to protect her poor vulnerable boy from the likes of these girls all looking for a rich husband so they could sit on their skinny behinds all day and kick her into an old age home.

“Forgot? Where is she? You didn’t kick her out? Not another, ma? I told you. Let me do that, it’s not polite.”

“Are you wearing protection son? Already one child, ya don’t need another,” she warned.

Yesterday, we introduced you to the leaked chick-lit manuscript of mogul wife Leslie Zemeckis, who is married to Forrest Gump director Robert Zemeckis. Our publishing elf dubbed in "exhausting" as well as "derivative... clichéd and unpolished" in a reader's report. When we last left off, 24-year-old heiress/divorcee Natalie was sitting on the floor of her condo wearing a Juicy couture tracksuit, watching Entertainment Tonight and reading tabloids while spilling marinana sauce on herself. Now, we're introduced to Finn, the hottest young actor in town, who lives with his elderly Irish mother: "Finn took a swig from a 1992 bottle of Beaujolais and washed his mouth out as the blonde with the killer fake tits strolled by his bed..."

"...Her naked, muscular body glistened with the almond oil that he had been rubbing between her every nook and cranny for the past several hours.

He lit his 3rd cigarette of the day and checked the Rolex strapped to his hairy wrist. 8:30. Damn but it was early and it had been a late night and he felt like fuck-shit, even though he’d been blown from kingdom cum and back. It was a typical Tuesday night troll through Hollywood with his friends, all of them but him desperate to get laid. He’d found the blonde at the second bar. Like the rest of them she was easy for Finn Collins, the hottest young actor in town, to get into bed.

Finn rolled out of bed, off the wrinkled, stained sheets, still damp from two bodies being entangled between them all night. He disappeared into the bathroom as the blonde started dressing.

He turned on the shower, stood under the hot stream, and rubbed soap on his limp penis. It was actually sore. The blonde had given him some workout. Since “arriving” in Hollywood three years before he’d slept with countless starlets, fathered a child out of wedlock and shot no less than seven medium-budget action films, as well as a few historical dramas. He was perceived to be the ruthless bachelor no woman in town could tie down but the truth was he hadn’t found anyone worth staying with much longer than a night. He wasn’t about to lose his heart to some silicone-injected Hollywood whore. Not one of them – and he couldn’t count how many there had been – was good enough to bring home to his ma, figuratively at least. Literally he didn’t have much of a choice.

His mother lived in the bottom half of his two-story house perched above Sunset Boulevard with a spectacular view – babe magnet view – a pool and not much else for the money...Mother Collins was a saint, she was. Dublin born, a gal who liked her pint and could hold it too, she was proud of her son’s success. She’d raised him like a prince, even on a housekeeper’s wage. She never let him forget he was special. Better than all the rest. She sacrificed everything for him when he was growing up. He played in the streets while she worked as many jobs as she could find. She never bought a new dress that wasn’t from a thrift store and she practically prostituted herself to a distant relative to send Finn to school in London, where he’d studied Shakespeare and gotten his break treading the boards on the West End in a big important drama she didn’t much understand but didn’t care, because all the critics wrote about what a marvel her lad was.

When Hollywood had called, of course he’d packed her up and taken her with him. Now she lived like the Queen. Drivers to take her whereever she wanted to go, not that she ever wanted to go anywhere other than a dicey Chinese restaurant downtown called Mrs. Foo’s. She’d become fast friends with Mrs. Foo, an eighty-two year old bird who gave out advice along with the city’s best take-out. Mrs. Foo held court six nights a week. Many an afternoon Ma Collins had sat at Mrs. Foo’s tiny restaurant on a gang-ridden street downtown, eating wonton soup and pouring her heart out about her son and the “tramps” he was bringing home.

“My lad’s going to catch something from them,” she would say, sake in hand. “I don’t know why he can’t find a nice girl to settle down with.”

Mrs. Foo would squint her eyes, set her wrinkled face and tell Ma Collins not to worry. “Wild oats. Let him sow and he’ll always be yours. If you stop him now he will marry someone wrong and she will cut you out of his life.” Ma Collins lived in fear of someone taking her boy from her. For twenty-four years she’d poured every ounce of her being into making sure he’d had the opportunities she never did. Wild oats or not, she’d be damned if some clap-ridden skank was going to get hold of her son and ruin everything.
Ma Collins spent most of her time watching the telly, her skinny feet propped up on an ottoman, resting after forty years of slaving away, washing stains out of other peoples’ clothes.

“Morning ma,” said and kissed the old woman on her cheek. She smelled of lemon and baby powder and sat on a barstool at the lime green breakfast counter sipping tea, not saying anything, her mouth a silent gash in a caved in face.

“Do you have your teeth in ma?” She hated the expensive new teeth he’d bought her.

Silently she reached into a drawer and slid them in.

Finn stood looking at his mother with love, a towel draped around his waist. His muscles on his chest were hard and white.

“Ma?” he said. “Aren’t you going to at least say ‘Good morning’?”

“That whore forgot her underclothes.” She held up a tiny triangle of cotton nothing. There was nothing to cover the bottom with. No more than a piece of string. This is a crazy country, the old woman thought. It was a good thing she was here to protect her poor vulnerable boy from the likes of these girls all looking for a rich husband so they could sit on their skinny behinds all day and kick her into an old age home.

“Forgot? Where is she? You didn’t kick her out? Not another, ma? I told you. Let me do that, it’s not polite.”

“Are you wearing protection son? Already one child, ya don’t need another,” she warned.

Warning: the following pictures reveal a couple High School Musical 3 spoilers.

Specifically, a few make the outcome of the Wildcats' championship basketball game rather obvious.

Enlarge them at your own risk, but also keep in mind that they all feature Zac Efron in the role of Troy Bolton. In other words: they may spoil a story line, but they're freakin' gorgeous! For example:

Zac Efron: The ultmate (cute!!!!) close-up.

We'll give you a few minutes to stare at the photo above and then get your heart rate back to normal...

Once you've recovered from the image of Efron sweaty and intense, check out the following High School Muscial 3 pics. They feature Efron and real-life girlfriend Vanessa Hudgens in the roles that made them famous: