This is why parrots make bad pets: Last week, a man was reportedly busted for drunk driving after his pet parrot told police, "he's drunk."

Police in Mexico stopped Guillermo Reyes at a routine checkpoint last week. When he rolled down his window, officers heard someone—or something—shout, "he's drunk, he's drunk," according to Spanish-language paper El Universal.

Expecting to find another person, the officers found the talkative parrot instead.

Not willing to take the parrot's word for it, police gave Reyes a road-side sobriety test, which he failed. He was quickly arrested on charges of drunken driving.

But there's at least some good news: The parrot, who Reyes said suffered from separation-induced anxiety issues, was allowed to go with him to jail.

[Image via AP]

If you want to really fuck with a bunch of college students, all you have to do is tell them they're participating in a "study." Publish your findings in a peer-reviewed journal for maximum laffs!

Here is an accurate summary the "study" that was actually carried out by real "professional" "academics" and published in an academic journal: they took a bunch of college kids out to a dangerous neighborhood and dropped them off there. For fun/ science! Time summarizes:

The study took 50 students, sent half of them to a low income, high crime neighborhood and the other half to an affluent neighborhood with little crime..

The students in the study were not from either neighborhood, and did not know what the study was about. They were were dropped off by a taxi and told to deliver envelopes containing a packet of questions to a list of residential addresses.

Hahahaha. *SCREECHING OF TIRES* "Here we are kid, South Central. Go 'deliver' these 'envelopes.'" *DOOR SLAMS, CAR PULLS OFF*

The scientist/ pranksters found that "those who went to the more dangerous neighborhood scored higher on measures of paranoia and lower on measures of trust." I bet!

[Photographic depiction of typical bad neighborhood: Shutterstock]

Earlier this week we introduced you to terrifying Cubs mascot Clark The Cub and invited you to do horrible things to him. We started you off with Jim Cooke's full-frontal rendition, which is exactly what Comcast SportsNet Mid-Atlantic aired to viewers across the Washington, D.C. area tonight.

Oops!

Meanwhile Chicago's Fox affiliate WFLD is simply disgusted by you.

[CSN-MA/WFLD]

Every year, Americans are treated to a long procession of assemblies in which Hollywood's most creative minds boldly suggest there is intrinsic entertainment value in watching people give prizes to themselves. On Sunday, we passed the first of these. And yet, for the 71st straight year, the most deserving martyrs of all—the actors pretending to be humans on our favorite reality shows—went uncanonized.

Since 2001, television's other major awards show—the Emmys—has given out an award for Outstanding Reality Program¹. There is no Emmy award recognizing the contribution of individual cast members.

The Golden Globes takes the reality snub even further, and simply treats this sort of programming as if it doesn't exist at all. It does, on the other hand, acknowledge the existence Mini-Series and Motion Pictures Made for Television.

"People are intimidated by my success."

But: Let's talk numbers. Behind the Candelabra, the HBO film² which rendered the love affair between Liberace and actor Matt Damon in glittering sequins when it aired last May—and on Sunday night earned the Golden Globe for "Best Mini-Series or Motion Picture Made for Television"—drew 2.4 million viewers to its debut showing.

By contrast, A&E's Duck Dynasty pulled in an audience of 11.8 million viewers for its season 4 premiere last August.

This is not to say that Duck Dynasty is necessarily better television than Behind the Candelabra; just that Mini-Series and Motion Pictures Made for Television are sort of like bean bag chairs (a cool thing to have around if you want, but not as relevant to your everyday life as, say, a refrigerator or a front door or a chair not made of beans).

"I won Miss USA, not Miss Congeniality."

Ignoring the contributions of reality TV to the television landscape, at this point, is churlish snobbery.³ Reality TV stars ruin their lives for our entertainment, and make a lot less money than Leonardo DiCaprio doing it.

Here are some things reality TV does:

• Prompts siblings stop speaking to one another, making for some truly compelling footage of people feeling awkward at charity auction events.
• Invents, then makes real, then tears asunder intimate friendships (often on relaxing trips to the Virgin Islands).
• Captures a moment of someone's poor decision-making, invites all of that person's coworkers ("co-stars") to comment on that moment individually, and then spins that moment into a season-long plot arc.

A couple years ago, the husband of one of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills killed himself at the conclusion of filming. HIS WIDOW RETURNED THE NEXT SEASON WITH A NEW CATCHPHRASE⁴.

These dazzling monsters deserve to have their sacrifices recognized at an awards show. And not at the Teen Choice Awards. Not at an awards show that features categories like "Wackest Web Hottie." Not an awards show that exists only as a live stream.

At a real one.

“I may be a princess, but I’m not a drama queen.”

Of course, to receive an acting award, a person must be caught acting. In order to legitimize itself, reality TV will have to cast aside the "reality" myth—that last tattered scrap of (fake) legitimacy barely covering its buttocks, like a too-small bikini bottom purchased on-camera before what will hopefully but probably not be a really fun drama-free trip to Cabo with six frenemies.

The producers of these shows will be forced to acknowledge openly, once and for all, that the genre we now know as "reality" could perhaps better be described as "moderately scripted improv."

The players already acknowledge this. They acknowledge it every time they breathlessly promise a talk show host "There's going to be a lot of drama coming up!" which is not a normal way to answer the question "How are things between you and Jill?" They acknowledge it on post-season reunion specials, when they complain that their show was edited to portray them in a negative light. They acknowledge it when they talk about their lives in terms of "seasons," rather than "years."

"Having it all is easy...if you’re willing to work for it."

Detractors claim that reality TV makes stars of the worst kind of people: bonkers egomaniacs with no marketable skills. They're right. Welcome to Hollywood. Did you watch the Golden Globes? Because it is celebrated with frequent, televised awards shows, acting sometimes gives off the mistaken impression that it is a noble profession. It is not. Veterinary nurses don't have televised awards shows.

Though they all play essentially the same role ("a version of yourself that is capable of achieving and sustaining fame"), not all reality television participants tackle it with equal skill. (That's why you give out awards.) As with other acting hopefuls, long-term success is rare.

Camille Grammer as Meryl Streep

During one season of one incarnation of The Real Housewives, it became fairly evident that one woman had decided that her plot line for that season would be that she was becoming an alcoholic. She didn't really sell it—probably because the alcoholic she dreamed of becoming was the kind whose friends hold lots of "We're worried about you!" alcohol-soaked brunches, rather than the kind who goes to rehab—but it was a bold gambit that was fascinating to watch play out on television. She deserved a nomination, but not a win.

Enter Camille Grammer. Now ex- (then: current) wife of Kelsey, Camille burst onto the reality scene in season one of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and quickly established herself as one of the greatest television villains of all time. She conducted herself in ways so outlandishly evil that they would have had to tone down her behavior in order to make her into a plausible Disney villain. (She brought a psychic to dinner to tell another woman that her husband was cheating on her.) That psychotic performance deserved a Golden Globe, not unlike the one Meryl Streep won in 2006 for playing a mean bitch in The Devil Wears Prada. The next season, against all odds, Camille made the audience fall in love with her by appearing humble and kind. That psychotic performance deserved a Golden Globe. Then Camille left the show of her own volition. That deserved a round of applause.

"Life in Beverly Hills is a game and I make the rules"

Some possible guidelines for a hypothetical award that might eventually maybe be given, hopefully, in theory:

1. Only cast members of documentary-style character-driven reality TV programs (including competitions) are eligible.

No legal (like Judge Judy or Cops), renovation (This Old House), hidden camera (Punk'd), or supernatural (Ghost Hunters) programming.

2. Lead cast members must appear in a minimum of six episodes in a calendar year.

This stipulation, in keeping with the Hollywood Foreign Press Association® Golden Globe® award consideration guidelines, means that one-episode stars are not eligible for recognition⁵.

3. Lead cast members must appear in the opening credits of the show.

Since, in their attempt to ape real life, these shows often feature the same tangential and background characters over and over again (rather than drawing from a bottomless pool of extras), it can sometimes be difficult to determine who is a character on the show and who just happens to live in the same apartment as one of the characters on the show⁶.

4. Already extant celebrities are eligible.

This rule was created to honor Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston, who should have received awards for their alarming work on 2005's Being Bobby Brown.

When a network drama television actor steps in front of a camera, he is given ample tools, from an airtight script to professional costuming, to create something entertaining. You know what a reality star has to create something entertaining out of? Their boring lives. And what's the fastest way to transform a boring life into watchable television?

To destroy it.

Reality TV actors have earned a thing with a round thing on top of it as much as anyone.

¹To give you a sense of who's invited to that party: Antiques Roadshow has been nominated for nine straight years, but has never won.

²Incidentally, HBO's snide former slogan, "It's not TV. It's HBO." should probably have disqualified the network from receiving any Golden Globes or Emmys from 1996-2009. These ceremonies are not designed to recognize excellence in the mediums of television...and HBO.

³(One major explanation for the perpetual snub: the medium's low production costs, high profitability, and largely freelance labor force have long made it a thorn in the side of entertainment guilds. Read more about the struggle to unionize reality TV workers here.)

⁴"I fought too hard for this zip code to go home now."

⁵So, captivating demon Makenzie from Toddlers & Tiaras would not be eligible, while Alana "Honey Boo Boo" Thompson—who parlayed her time on that show into her own spin-off series—would. (Alana would never win though.) (No offense to Alana.)

⁶Unsure about whether Tom "Schwartz" Schwartz is a principal cast member of Bravo's Vanderpump Rules? Check out the opening credits.

There's Stassi, there's Scheana, there's Jax, there's the other Tom—but no Schwartz. He is not a lead cast member. But he is a DICK.

[Image by Jim Cooke / Source photos via Getty]

Jack Dorsey, Twitter co-founder and internet poet laureate, has officially been high off the fumes of his own shit for too long. Today he took the stage at the National Retail Federation expo in New York, and preached nutso visions about sales receipts.

BuzzFeed stopped by the thrilling trade convention, and captured Dorsey's latest proton stream of nonsense, as it relates to his booming commerce startup Square:

"What if we see the receipt more as a publishing medium — a product unto itself that people actually want to take home, that they want to engage with, be fully interactive with?" Dorsey asked a room of people at the Javits Center today during the National Retail Federation's annual expo.

"What can we do with this everyday tool?" he said. "What can we build into this canvas that's actually valuable, that's independent of the product you just sold? What can you give in this communication channel, this publishing medium, that people want to engage with?

[...]

Another way retailers could better use receipts is by adding their Twitter handle to them, he said.

Man, that is serious, visionary stuff.

#nrf14 Jack Dorsey: What if the receipt becomes an application? What could you do?

— Tim Tang (@TimTang4Retail) January 15, 2014

Dorsey didn't actually explain how any of this makes any sense at all, or is not a poor caricature of startup fever dreaming, so I'll offer an idea: receipts are dumb and annoying, and we should just have them archived in our email somewhere in case we need them for taxes. No one should be trying to make receipts interesting. They're receipts.

This quick thinking Home Depot employee saved a baby from serious injury, or worse, when it caught the falling tot as it tumbled from a shopping cart.

The employee—identified as Chris Strickland, a pro loader in Anchorage, Alaska—received an Angel Award from Home Depot for the good deed, according to Mashable.

[h/t Daily Picks and Flicks]

Late last year, print readers of The New York Times discovered a full-page color ad, signed by a group called “Appreciative New Yorkers,” touting former mayor Michael Bloomberg’s policy achievements. “Thank you, Mayor Bloomberg and your administration, for all that you have done for New York City,” it read in large lettering. Who are these thankful New Yorkers with a spare $70,000 to spend on praising a politician? Not even the Times knows.

Usually the Times will disclose the names of advertisers when asked, even if the ads themselves are unclear—for example, when a PR firm owned by the personal flack of Roger Ailes purchased two Times Book Review ads for Zev Chafets’ 2013 Ailes biography, in an effort to distract from Gabriel Sherman’s unauthorized biography of the Fox News chief.

Whoever wanted to thank Mayor Bloomberg, however, took unusual steps to make sure they couldn’t be identified. According to a Times executive briefed on the matter, the business side agreed to an arrangement in which the buyer needed only to submit an alias and a billing address, which the buyer supplied only after Times personnel promised not to divulge it. Payment was made with an untraceable traveler’s check.

The business side never determined the buyer’s identity. “The entire process was extremely secretive,” the executive said.

Citing the secrecy agreement, the executive would not reveal the billing address or even its general location. The executive did disclose that the address was not on East 79th Street or Lexington Avenue—the locations, respectively, of Michael Bloomberg’s Upper East Side townhouse and the glassy headquarters of Bloomberg LP.

Searches of various databases for businesses and charities did not turn up any groups called Appreciative New Yorkers. The only clearly identifying information contained in the ad itself was an email address, appreciativenewyorkers@gmail.com. A request for comment sent to that address received no reply.

According to Google’s password-recovery process, the account owner signed up under the name of “Henry Hudson,” the English sea explorer after whom the Hudson River was named. Less identifying, but perhaps more telling, is the ad’s weird kerning—in dozens of places, random letters overlap—which suggests the ad was created by a layman instead of, say, someone at Bloomberg Businessweek’s renowned art department.

To contact the author of this post, email trotter@gawker.com

[Photo credit: Associated Press]

Doris Deahardie just turned 100, but that doesn't mean she's done living it up. In fact, to celebrate her centennial, the great great grandma did something new: She hired a stripper to give her a lap dance.

Doris, of Saundby, England, ordered the stripogram herself and even put in a special request for a "full monty."

"I told the lad he might have to be careful with her because of her age," recalled Doris's daughter-in-law Sharon, "but then she told me she wanted the whole lot!"

Doris came fully prepared with her own bottle of baby oil and even a can of whipped cream which she had the stripper lick off her face.

"She's in great health for her age," said her son, Barry. Which is a good thing, because Doris plans on being around for many strippers to come.

[H/T: BroBible, video/screengrabs via Lincolnshire Echo]

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, this knob that needs a little extra 'ow's yer father. Let's take a trip to a "personal development" camp in these cherished isles. Let's put a little more jack in the Union Jack. Am I being too coy? Fine, let's go on a weekend retreat to learn how to masturbate better.

Because the United Kingdom has thought of everything, it apparently has such blessed places—to be fair, in Scotland, not England proper. So explains Jack Flanagan of Kernel magazine, who took a quickie jaunt north to Edinburgh find himself, and then to fondle himself: "I was headed for a three-day exploration into self-pleasure I had dubbed 'wank school' but which the organisers described in more florid language as 'tending the fire in your belly'":

I reviewed my notes. I'd made a list of three things I wanted to get out of the weekend: to understand a hobby better; to see if masturbation can be better than it is now, and to connect with other men about male sexuality…

My, my! This sounds tasty! We Gawkerers are known to defend self-love against its crude detractors from time to time. What new tricks can we learn? And how does one find such seminars? Are any offered at the 92nd Street Y? Sadly, Flanagan leaves these questions largely unanswered: We aren't getting self-service service journalism here; we're getting taken for a wild ride:

I had with me a list of things I'd been told to bring: an object "for the altar", a drawing of my genitals, ear plugs and wet weather clothes.

Rdfavfsvasf. "Altar"? "Genital drawings"?! Who's coming to this thing, anyway? [Spoiler: Six men, the youngest of whom is 44, excepting Flanagan.] Will there be much nudity? [Spoiler: Oh, yes, so so much. With blindfolds and oils.] Flanagan, to his credit, isn't scared yet, though he does allow himself a minute's dread after dropping his bags in the home of Peter, the middle-aged organizer, upon realizing what this retreat is, and what it isn't:

A few minutes later, he wandered back into his living room, a little sheepish but stern. "Just so you know, at no point will we be having sex. I want you to feel safe with me." He left to pick up another man... I was shocked, and realised I'd have to accept the implication: we would be in a situation that could possibly lead to sex. This was not a man's retreat, and it certainly looked less and less like a heterosexual man's retreat.

But hey, make the best of an awkward situation:

Two things happened next: I felt a wave of anxiety and, then, 10 minutes later: an orgasm. I'd started early.

Study hard, like a champ, Jack. Because you have gained entry to the pantheon of putz-futzing, the nobility of knob-hobbing. You are a treasured guest at Wankton Abbey!

We were shown to our rooms: tidy, and decorated in typically barren Scottish fashion. Two rams' horns on the window-sill. A heavy brown throw on the bed. My roommate, Lachlan, hadn't arrived yet. I was called for dinner and went downstairs: 5 men, the youngest 44, greeted me as I entered. I had the mixed sensation of pleasure – meeting new, interesting people in my home country, and a distant fear of what I might be expected to participate in over the weekend.

After some personal chit-chat with the gang, it's time for the, um, lessons. Under "rock out with your cock out," see this:

Peter had just one other experience for us before bed. It was a trust exercise. We had to be blind-folded and disrobed by the other men in the group...

It was difficult was to get my trousers off. They had collected around my feet and the men struggled to remove them. Managing that after some painfully awkward seconds, they took off my boxers. I was aware of heavy breathing in the few moments between becoming completely naked and Peter removing my blindfold.

When everyone had been undressed, we stood around each other, naked, holding hands and repeating a "sacred mantra".

Mantras, huh? Here's a zen riddle for you: Doesn't presenting masturbation as a shared experience sort of defeat the purpose of masturbation? It's a nice heaven-sent pleasure bonus for the lonely, alone, or anti-social (which, hey, describes all of us at some point). It all seems a bit topsy-turvy to make a social activity of it. I mean, not that that's weird or anything.

We then split into groups: two for massage, two to go upstairs and masturbate...

After that walk we re-entered the shrine to watch a short film. A man masturbated vigorously on-screen, completely oiled from his feet to his chest. The 15 minute video featured "moves" known collectively as "evolutionary masturbation", which seeks to combine the heart and the genitals…

The short film went on a loop, was intensely pornographic, and beside me I could hear Colin's hands squelch over the lubricant he had lathered over himself.

Okay, that might be weird. In the context of a masturbation camp, at least. It feels as if we've headed over into ritual orgy territory, which is awesome, if you're into that sort of thing. Especially as it comes with mostly nude "sex-dancing" with five other men in a mood-lit living room as the Lacrimosa from Mozart's Requiem transitions into Shakira's Hips Don't Lie. Also, these massages, how do they roll?

He wasn't unconscious of Lachlan's penis. His hands were busying fiddling with it, or running in an almost cruel distraction away from him, down the inside of his legs, and back up again. I questioned in my mind whether or not that broke the "rules" of erotic touch. I watched Colin become more vigorous, more focused in his actions: he began to toy with other parts of his body.

Yeah, that technically isn't masturbation.

It was sex.

Yep, got it.

I was revolted, but only looked away to see if Peter had awakened to the gasps and forced breaths of the other two...

I looked down and saw that, in the midst of my voyeurism, I had become erect.

Oh, my. How to make sense of this intense weekend, of these men and their sometimes sacred, sometimes profane blurring of the lines between self and other?

All of these men talked about personal development, about reconnection. They are confused about their past, which affects the people they live with now. The soft and intimate spirituality of the commune, dancing naked, casual but not anonymous sex, must feel very healing to them.

Healing is important. But is it completely fair to suggest these men are all broken, merely because their wanking gets crazy communal?

That's not to say I enjoyed it.

Neither did we, Jack. Neither did we. Pass us a Kleenex?

[Photo credits: lolostock/anteromite/Shutterstock; Photoillustration by Adam Weinstein]

Some advice: Always take your gun out of your pocket before you take off your pants. Otherwise you might end up like William Rood, who shot himself in the chin as he attempted to disrobe Sunday evening.

Deputy David Caldwell, of the Carter County, Tennessee Sheriff's Department, was called to Rood's home late Sunday, where he found a bloody scene, according to the Johnson City Press.

Rood told Caldwell his loaded .25 caliber Beretta pistol had been in the front right pocket of his pants. The pistol discharged as Caldwell placed his pants on his dresser.

The bullet struck Rood in the nose and chin, eventually settling in his neck. He was rushed to a local hospital, where he was airlifted to the better equipped Johnson City Medical Center.

Why does Thought Catalog contributor and Toronto native Iris Milanova want to live in New York City?

10) "As Frank Sinatra famously bellowed in 1979, NYC is the, 'city that doesn't sleep.'"

9) "This dazzling city is served bloody rare and you better be able to stomach it. Disregarding the negative things that have been said about NYC, one has to remember that there are also so many possibilities in this bustling metropolis where you can actually touch opportunity in the air as it floats and sparkles beneath the gaze of the Statue of Liberty."

8) "I want to grab a breakfast sandwich and devour it in-front of Tiffany's at 7am."

7) "There is no other city in the world, in my opinion that has such a wide variety of meal choices as NYC. Whatever you're craving, there's going to be a restaurant that will cater to your stomach's grunting."

6) "Say goodbye to your local mall's food court; you can indulge in cuisine from all over the world without having to leave the 5 Burroughs."

5) "I dream of being surrounded by 8.337 million New Yorkers in one of the most populous urban agglomerations in the world."

4) "I want to see and understand the difference between a person from Staten Island and those that live in the Upper East Side."

3) "I want to thrive off of the creative energy from the residents of Williamsburg and jog alongside the many fitness enthusiasts in Central Park on a warm summer morning."

2) "I want to be immersed in an environment that reaches in the pit of my soul and yanks the innovation and creativity right out of the far reaches of my brain."

1) "I want to be able to grab a Cosmopolitan and gaze as hundreds of people walk by on the street, while indulging in some non-judgemental people-watching."

We don't do that here.

[Photo: Flickr]

[People walk during an ash fall following the eruption of Mount Sinabung as seen from inside a car in Payung, North Sumatra, Indonesia on Wednesday. The volcano has sporadically erupted since September. Image via Binsar Bakkara/AP.]

Welcome back to Midweek Madness! Every Wednesday, Callie Beusman ventures out to the newsstand and picks up the latest issues of Ok, In Touch, Star, Life & Style and Us, so that together we may inhale the aromatic fragrances of gossip. This week: a Defense of Duck Dynasty; Her Majesty The Queen of England weighs in on soup; and Khloe Kardashian is pregnant. The sweet smell of suck-cess!

Ok!

"INSIDE HER NEW HOME"

Someone at OK! has penned the world's most depressing fan fiction about Kate Middleton and Prince William moving into their new royal home. According to a "source," "There were balloons and a 'Home Sweet Home' banner on the wall." Prince William popped over to Party City to get novelty moving-in items with which to surprise his royal consort. Sure. Also, he apparently has built himself a mahogany man cave with a flat-screen TV for watching Breaking Bad. I hate this story so much. Nothing else remarkable is contained within these pages: Charlie Sheen called Ashton Kutcher "lame" and also "REALLY lame" on Twitter. Sick burn, Charlie. In other news, Tori Spelling is having trouble trusting Dean McDermott after the recent cheating allegations. The magazine ventures that she deserves an Oscar for maintaining her composure around her children. Moving on: Bachelor Juan Pablo might not have entered himself on a high-rated reality television program set in a hot tub salted lightly with tears because he wants to find pure and everlasting love. UNTHINKABLE. Suspicious sources are split on whether he's in it for money or because he wants to kick-start a television career.

GRADE: F (Bog of Eternal Stench)

In Touch

"INSIDE KATE'S HOUSE OF HORRORS"

Another Kate, another home to home to be inside metaphorically. And o! what a difference: Kate Gosselin is controlling and isolating her eight children, provoking a great deal of worry in former husband Jon. Apparently, the children are having problems interacting with other kids their age, and Kate doesn't let them leave her property much, controls their daily behaviors fastidiously and makes them do a lot of chores. It's probably because she wants to get them back on TV. Gross. In other news, no one kares about the Kardashians anymore and it's making Kris Jenner very koncerned. Friends joke that she might leak a sex tape with Ben Flajnik. I think the apocalypse would absolutely begin if that were to occur. Moving on: the mag has published a really bizarre spread attempting to justify the homophobic and racist things said by that old guy from Duck Dynasty. "Sources" assure the magazine that noted racist and homophobe Phil Robertson is neither racist nor homophobic. What. Why is this happening now, a month after the scandal — and, more importantly, why is this happening at all? In other news, Justin Bieber faces criminal charges for egging his neighbor's house, which we all know — but apparently one of the people living in the egged house is a 13-year-old former Bieber fan. Can you imagine the tween angst one would feel upon being egged by their former heartthrob? That is so sad. Finally: A spread entitled "Even Picture-Perfect Stars Get Cellulite!" (Fig. 1), meant to make women feel comfortable with having cellulite or something? We're all for being less cruel about famous peoples' bodies, but is continuing to point to cellulite with a message of empowerment the best way to go about it? (Hint: No.)

GRADE: F (the odor from mountain of cat turds topped with dirty diapers)

Life & Style

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?"

During a radio interview, Kellan Lutz laughed off the rumors that he is dating Miley Cyrus, calling the situation "hilarious." This incident has been spun into a story about how Miley is "humiliated" because yet again a man "wants nothing to do with her." In fact, a "friend" of Kellan's says he thinks Miley is "kind of gross." The rest of the piece is about how this 21-year-old would love to be in a relationship but "she comes off an a man-eater" and "flaunts her sexuality" and dudes don't like that. Patti Stanger weighs in: "Serious guys don't like someone who's constantly seeking attention." The copy also blames her parents for not "modeling appropriate behavior" and scolds Miley for making a spectacle of herself, always partying and "throwing herself at married men" — aka performing with Robin Thicke at the MTV Awards. Look, she is not perfect, but painting her has desperate and lonely because she doesn't have a boyfriend is sooo boring and dumb. Moving on! Scott "American Psycho" Disick is supposedly headed for a breakdown because he went to a party two days after his father's funeral. Lindsay Lohan got in trouble with Oprah when a camera crew showed up to LL's apt and she refused to let them in. After Oprah gave LiLo a talking-to, Lindsay let them in, and this will all be on her reality show, so stay tuned. Another item claims that Amanda Bynes's "new obsession" is shopping, — just because she spent $100 at Forever 21 and then went to Urban Outfitters. Come on. That sounds like normal twenty-something behavior. There are two pages devoted to the 150-year-old mansion in Kensington, London that the Beckhams are moving into — it's 9,000 square feet, has seven bedrooms, secret doors and passageways, and a mini-salon with four nail bars and beauty shop sinks. Posh! Major! Next: Alongside a photo of Emma Roberts and Evan Peters walking and eating ice cream, a body language expert writes: "Emma's lips and cheeks are filled with tension." Um… she's eating ice cream. (Fig. 2) Finally, in news you can use, the season's hottest hair hue is BROND. Adjust accordingly. (Fig. 3)

GRADE: D- (aroma emanating from seldom-cleaned monkey enclosure at zoo)

Us

"HIS EXES TELL ALL"

Some scandalous revelations from women who have dated Bachelor Juan Pablo in the past: he's good at dancing. He is seductive and does not like to settle down. However, he was raised to respect women. He really likes his daughter a lot. YAWN. In much more titillating news, Us has compiled a list of Queen Elizabeth's pet peeves (Fig. 4). It includes soup ("She just doesn't care for it"), the word "pregnant" ("Her Majesty finds the term 'vulgar'"), and fake bow ties ("The queen can spot a pre-tied tie at 20 paces"). It deserves several Pulitzers. Back to boring news: Hilary Duff and her husband split up "because the spark was gone." They tried couples therapy for 18 months, but he wasn't trying hard enough to work on their problems. They're going to stay friends, though. Moving on: Kim Kardashian and Kanye West want to start reproducing again, ASAP. A source says that they're not using birth control, so do with that what you will. Us Weekly would be remiss in tabloid-world to not mention that Kim quickly lost the baby weight from her first pregnancy, so they went ahead and did that. Awesome.

GRADE: D- (fragrance of vomit-drenched old wet towels)

Star

"KHLOÉ PREGNANT"

Who's the daddy? Lamar! Or possibly Matt Kemp. Or else The Game. Any which way, it's a black guy. (Fig. 5) Apparently, even though they're getting divorced, Khloe and Lamar are still meeting for secret sex sessions. They have "insatiable lust" and, according to a source, "sex was always the glue that held them together." Which makes for some unfortunate sticky imagery. Anyway: Khloe allegedly found out she is pregnant days after filing papers and was in complete shock. "She yelled 'I can't believe this is happening!'" The question is, whose sperm did the trick? In late November — the time KK would have gotten knocked up — she went to a Drake show with Matt Kemp. The week after that they went to a John Legend show. Drake and John Legend: that, kids, is how you get pregnant. A source says Khloe HOPES the baby is Lamar's, and that sounds reasonable. Moving on. At the Golden Globes, Jennifer Lawrence and boyfriend Tony from Skins got into a huge fight because her attention was on Bradley Cooper. Lorde is a "total diva," according to a source who might be a bitter teen on Twitter. Apparently at a video shoot she treated the hair and makeup people terribly. Shrug. Newly-engaged Ashlee Simpson wants to get breast implants because new fiancé Evan Ross "likes skinny women with large breasts." I thee dread indeed. We didn't read the entire story about Bethenny Frankel's icky new man, but we did read the line "he picked up a vase ad threw it at the wall about 10 feet away from where she was standing." Ugh. Finally, in reality show crossover news, Elise from The Bachelor — who claims it was love at first sight when she saw Juan Pablo — auditioned for Jersey Shore back in 2008 and suggested The Situation audition as well. She went on to be his booty call, hooking up with him numerous times through the years. An "insider" says: "They'll play up Elise's innocent teaching job on The Bachelor, but the reality is that she'd sell her soul for a showbiz career." Showbiz loves those kinds of ladies, so expect her to be on the cover of a magazine by 2015.

GRADE: C (the smell of the crotch in well-worn yoga pants that have never been washed)

Addendum

Fig. 1, from In Touch

Fig. 2, from Life & Style

Fig. 3, from Life & Style

Fig. 4, from Us

Fig. 5, from Star

The Air Force announced this afternoon that 37 nuclear missile officers have been implicated in academic cheating scandals and drug rings, and the ongoing investigation may turn up more misdeeds soon.

So far, 11 Air Force on six different bases have been implicated in the drug ring. Three of them are missile launch officers at Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota and Malmstrom Air Force Base in Montana, according to the Washington Post. Those are two of the three U.S. bases that house America's 450 intercontinental ballistic missiles.

In addition, nearly 20 percent of all the launch officers in charge of ICBMs at Malmstrom cheated or allowed cheating on a job-related certification test, the investigation showed. An estimated 200 officers have had their certifications yanked and will be forced to retake the exam, though it isn't clear how many officers might lose their jobs.

The Air Force insists that the integrity of its nuclear arsenal has not been compromised, though the service's chief of staff, Gen. Mark Welsh III, told reporters that Malmstrom had failed an August nuclear readiness test, according to Military.com editor Michael Hoffman. (The base later passed another nuke test in October.)

The revelations come just weeks after the top general in charge of all U.S.-based nuclear missiles was fired for going on a drunken bender and carousing with foreign women on a mission to Russia. The Air Force has had to push back against that incident, and additional reports that its nuclear missileers are burned out, cynical, and suffering historically low levels of morale.

As one member of the elite community, with its capacity to annihilate civilizations, put it to the AP: "We don't care if things go properly. We just don't want to get in trouble."

[Photo: Slim Pickens rides the nuclear pony to global perdition in Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.]

"Money shouldn't be your objective," says a man with a $28 million salary.

Almost missed this: A leading immigration opponent says Hispanics will cause "the unmaking of America" by voting Democratic, inviting jihadist attacks, destroying "social cohesion," yadda yadda yadda. No biggie, he's just testified to Congress on immigration a few times.

If they ever made a porn parody of Sophie's Choice, big bust legend Elizabeth Starr would be a shoo-in for the lead role.

Starr, 44, is staring down the double barrel of her own impossible decision: Lose her iconic O-cup breasts or risk developing a blood clot that could end her life.

Back in the day, the then up-and-comer installed a pair of polypropylene breast implants (AKA string implants) — highly controversial devices that have since been banned in both the US and Europe.

They work by absorbing water over time, thus ensuring that the implant — and, consequently, the breast — continues to grow indefinitely after surgery.

Irritation, infection, and 63 corrective procedures followed Starr's 1999 augmentation, and now doctors have told her she must either undergo a double mastectomy or risk life-threatening complications.

But Starr is refusing to even consider getting rid of her prized possessions.

"After 63 procedures on my right breast and fighting to keep my career and my breast, I honestly don't think that I could," the mother-of-two told Barcroft Media. "A mastectomy would take away my livelihood and I don't know what else I would do."

She continued:

It's hard when you have been a victim of something and it's even harder when you choose a path in life where people might look down on you and think, 'She deserved it.' But I wouldn't wish this on anyone and I hope my story will act as a warning.

Hanging out with Jesus pic.twitter.com/X94o90Wkym

— Elizabeth Starr (@ElizabethStarrX) July 13, 2013

[H/T: FilmDrunk, video via BarcroftTV]

Friday Night Tykes, a ten-part docuseries focusing on the Texas Youth Football Association (TYFA), debuted Tuesday on the Esquire Network. Formerly the Style Network, Esquire re-launched in September with the goal of reaching "today's educated, upscale man." And if today's educated, upscale man is into puking, head injuries, and teaching young boys how to "make it rain" in the end zone, the series will absolutely resonate with the demographic.

The show itself draws comparisons to the equally problematic pageantry of Toddlers & Tiaras: both programs document parental monsters doing "whatever it takes" for their kids to win. However, a simple comparison downplays the scope of Tykes's abuse. Just like in Toddlers, there's a fair amount of adults behaving badly and showcasing bad sportsmanship. For instance, the Colts coach does laughingly lead his team of small children in a chant of "Fuck the Rockets" before a game.

But while the awful parents in both shows fight for their kids to win, the parents in Toddlers at least believe their beauties deserve a crown. The parents in Tykes are much tougher: they have no problem actively blaming team failures and losses on their own kids. When watching pageant parents, it might look uglier to see them question their children under Holiday Day Inn Express fluorescent lighting, but the meanness in Tykes is more deliberate and far more physically destructive. The second episode even features the mother of an Outlaws player ruthlessly mocking her son:

This isn't the say all the parents in the series verbally abuse their children. There's certainly a group of parents who also have no problem blaming the coaches for losses, questioning their calls like a group of fucking boosters looking to oust Charlie Strong. But at times that blame is mitigated by sad shots of the coaches struggling with their own ridiculous sense of failure. In one upsetting scene, the Broncos coach cries after a loss: "Today was the biggest day of my life."

But each time viewers find themselves feeling for these adults and sympathetic to whatever demons drive them toward this behavior, we're quickly reminded that these men are also just assholes. Assholes teaching young men that winning ethically is not as important as winning, and assholes teaching young men that "emotions is a female trait."

A male trait, presumably, is teaching young men how to take hard hits straight to the head and then shake them off after.

The most disturbing aspect of the show is how familiar the format seems, how accustomed we've become to screaming coaches, injured players, and the long, noble march toward glory. Watching from the couch at home, at times Tykes feels like a particularly compelling 30 for 30 chronicling a football great's humble beginnings. It's even more uncomfortable when, as a viewer, you find yourself rooting for the underdogs to win, especially in beautiful shots framed against the wide-open Texas sky. It's just like watching some tiny East Dillon Lions clawing their way toward victory, except this time, real lives are at stake. Clear eyes, full hearts, everyone loses.

Friday Night Tykes airs on the Esquire Network on Tuesday nights at 9 p.m. ET.

This pet dog from Maryland went missing in Maine during nine days and nights of insanely cold weather, and it was only rescued after it was hit by a car that nearly killed it. How's your January going?

CBS Baltimore reports that the sad dog originally got separated from the family during a trip to Maine. For reasons that will forever be unknown, "Dempsey" the dog jumped a six-foot fence and vanished into the freezing woods.

After days of fruitless searching, the family had to go back to Maryland for work. Temperatures in Maine fell below zero every night. And Dempsey is not one of those snow dogs from a Jack London story—Dempsey is just a regular little dog of some kind, maybe a boxer? Not the typical breed to survive for endless frigid nights in the Maine woods, that much is certain.

What we do know is that Dempsey got hit by a car, at night, on the ninth night of its nightmare ordeal. Some people who didn't even own the dog somehow heard about a random stray dog hit by a car nearby, so they followed the tracks in the snow and found Dempsey in an outbuilding, preparing to die.

Instead, the skinny and nearly dead Dempsey was rushed to the veterinarians. The dog had a broken leg and was dehydrated and starving and deeply sad about all that had happened to it, for no real reason.

Dempsey is recovering now, and has been reunited with his family. It is impossible to know what a dog is thinking, but is it so wrong for us to assume he's thinking about how much he hates Maine?

[Image via CBS Baltimore.]

The National Labor Relations Board today charged that Walmart "illegally fired, disciplined or threatened more than 60 employees in 14 states" who were participating in strikes, protests, and other legal activities. I dunno, that seems out of character.