After seven years of annoying the shit out of each other, Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe have finally called it quits.

From TMZ:

The couple’s rep released a statement to TMZ Monday morning that says “We are saddened to announce that Reese & Ryan have decided to formally separate. They remain committed to their family and we ask that you please respect their privacy and the safety of their children at this time.”

After last night’s fight club in Tony Bennett’s basement, I thought for sure I was going to have to come up with a whole new costume for Halloween this year. With roughly fifteen cuts on just my forehead alone, there was no way I was going to heal in time for the big bash tomorrow night or even find make-up light enough to apply approximately a dozen foundations without having to support my head with a neck brace.

But then, as luck would have it, I turned on the news this morning and there it was: Reese and Ryan were officially separating. Bad news for them, of course, but terrific news for me. Why? Because now I’ll be able to go as Reese Witherspoon for Halloween and not have to worry about all the bruises on my face.

In fact, if someone approaches me tomorrow and asks “what happened?”, I think I’ll just tell them “Reese happened” before pulling a dildo out of my purse and throwing it on the floor. Hell, maybe I’ll even get my girlfriend to dress up as Ryan Phillippe and she can run by screaming as she holds her crotch covered in blood. Blood that may or may not be real, depending on how well I can hide her tampons tomorrow.

If you were out doing something important last week like, say, leading a group of orphans across Africa in an attempt to save them from the liver-spotted hands of a white devil named Madonna, then you probably haven’t heard the latest news about Jaime Pressly yet. And before you get too excited, I should tell you right now that she isn’t dead nor dying nor been kidnapped by an angry group of Juliette Lewis fans intent on getting their idol a new starring role on “My Name is Earl”. [Sorry Juliette, but screaming into a microphone while sweating all over the place is really the only way you’re going to eat nowadays. Enjoy the rest of your life, you rebel.]

No, instead Jaime Pressly is alive and well, and apparently, now happily engaged to a friend she’s known for the past nine years. His name? DJ Eric Cubiche. The amount of alcohol it takes before he starts reciting the long list of men his fiancé has slept with? Three beers and a shot. Sometimes less if he skipped lunch that day.

So far, there’s been no word yet on when the marriage will actually take place, but I doubt Jaime’s too concerned about a little detail like that. After all, she’s got more important things to do like show off her engagement ring to everybody and show off her engagement ring to everybody while showing off her engagement ring to everybody. Yeah, Oskar Schindler she ain’t.

All of which brings me to a little pet peeve of mine [wow, just writing “pet peeve” made me feel gay] – the constant fawning over something like an engagement ring; as if it actually serves some kind of purpose besides that of just sitting there on a woman’s hand waiting to get lost or stolen. For once, I would love to see a woman – when asked about her engagement and the absence of a ring – answer by saying, “I decided to go with the plasma and trip to Hawaii instead.” Ah, the sexiness of pragmatism.

Dear faithful reader,

In case you missed it, here’s a sampling of Tara Reid’s stupidity while filling in for Barbara Walters on “The View” this morning. Originally, this thirty-three second clip was part of a five minute and fifty second spiel on why she had her breasts augmented [one was bigger than the other] and what went wrong [apparently, anyone with the letters M.D. after their name can legally practice plastic surgery]. You can thank me later for cutting the whole thing short.

Your friend and colleague,

Erich von Stroheim, M.D.

Editor’s Note: I now know what an ashtray would sound like if it could talk.

Spooked by public chronometers fast approaching the number fifteen, Paris Hilton and Carmen Electra have already begun trying to line up paying gigs to host New Year’s Eve celebrations in cities like New York, Los Angeles, and St. Paul Miami.

From Page Six:

Hilton wants $100,000 plus expenses and a private jet for her to host a party, while Electra is cheap – a mere $50,000 and expenses. No jet necessary.

For those of you who have always wanted to ring in the New Year from a hospital bed with multiple contusions, here’s your chance. Just try to look surprised when the crowd attacks you after announcing that their host for the evening will be “Ms. Paris Hilton”. Because if you don’t, some of your guests might think they’re just being “punk’d” and end up pulling their punches. After all, no one wants to look like that big an asshole on television – which is why you might want to invite the President to your party if you’re a bad actor. He’ll beat you something fierce regardless.

It’s been a tough year for Heather Graham. First, she stood by and watched as ABC cancelled her new show “Emily’s Reasons Why Not” after just one episode and weeks of late night whoring, and now she finds herself sitting in a movie theater in the Hamptons, too spaced out to promote a film that’s sure to hit DVD faster than Britney hits K-Fed when he spills something on her “brand new fucking carpet again!”

So, since I’m such a caring and sensitive guy whose heart often breaks when seeing someone this sad, I’ve decided that the next time I cross paths with Heather on the Upper West Side, I’m going to refrain from spitting on her like I usually do and instead offer to take her to lunch. Something that shouldn’t be all that difficult since all I’ll have to do is reach inside my man-purse, pull out a handful of chicken feed, and throw it onto the sidewalk. Hell, maybe I’ll even stand there for a while and say “here chick, chick, chick” while she eats. After all, I’m sure she could probably use the company too.

Editor’s Note: You’re probably wondering why I’ve been spitting on Heather Graham all this time. Well, it’s because she did two episodes of “Growing Pains” early in her career and I can’t help but spit on anyone even remotely associated with that piece of shit show. That includes you too, Leo. Martin Scorsese can’t hide you forever.