It’s the summer silly season, and this week’s dubious tabloids are more fact-free than ever.
“Drew Peterson’s Wife’s Body Found!” screams the cover of the National Enquirer.
No, it wasn’t. A sonar scan has supposedly spotted a body-shaped object in an Illinois canal. After 11 years, “killer cop” Peterson’s missing wife Stacy’s corpse would most likely have suffered extensive decomposition. It could be anyone who recently fell into the canal, but is more likely an abandoned store mannequin, which is why authorities haven’t dredged it up yet.
Jennifer Aniston is having secret “sleepovers” with estranged husband Justin Theroux, claims the Enquirer, noting several of his cars parked in her garage. How does that work? Every time Theroux comes over for some break-up sex he brings three cars with him? Or could it be he’s just parking them at her home because she has the garage space?
“Natalie Wood Death Yacht Ransacked,” reports the Enquirer, citing “multiple sources” who claim that Robert Wagner “is behind it,” deliberately “destroying critical evidence.” That only makes sense if Wagner believes that the boat’s lanterns, a ladder and bilge pump somehow miraculously hold incriminating evidence 36 years after Wood’s death on the yacht she was aboard before her drowning death in 1981. Or could it perhaps just be vandals and thieves stripping the old yacht Splendour?
And when the Enquirer reports that Justin Bieber is planning an all-nude wedding to his fiancé, well, it feels as if they’ve just decided the weather’s too good to be stuck in the office and are making it up so they can flee their desks and rush out to the beach. I look forward to photos of this naked wedding in People magazine. Sure, that’ll happen.
“Prince Philip: The End!” yells the Globe cover. “Docs tell him he has 90 days to live.” He’s 97 years old, for crying out loud. Isn’t this like shooting fish in a barrel? If he lives beyond three months, the Globe will just write a story about his “miracle recovery.” The Globe claims that the Queen’s husband is suffering pancreatic cancer, which comes as news to the legion of the British Royal press corps.
As a summer two-for-one special the Globe throws in a “world exclusive” reporting that The Queen “collapses after hearing hubby’s cancer diagnosis,” and illustrates it with a photo of Her Majesty collapsing in public. Or maybe she’s just picking up something from the ground, which could explain why no other photographer has pictured her “collapse” in from of a legion of paparazzi.
The Globe also brings us singer Tom Jones’ “brave goodbye” as he battles illness in his “fight for life.” Or, as his representatives say, he hopes to be back performing “very soon.”
Us magazine is more vacuous than usual, if that’s possible to imagine, devoting its cover to Katie Holmes and Jamie Foxx’s “Twisted Romance” as the love-birds reunite after a bust-up. “Katie forgives Jamie’s wild ways with an unprecedented public display of affection,” reports the mag, adding a voice of parental caution: “Is she headed for new heartbreak?” Yes, that’s how news-free this week has been in tabloid land.
Equally air-headed is celebrity clan “momager” Kris Kardashian’s interview in Us mag explaining “How I raised billionaire daughters.” Filthy rich, yes, but not billionaires yet. And seriously, what was her career advice to daughter Kim? Ride the coat-tails of Paris Hilton, and make a sex tape to become famous? If so, then she can proudly take credit for Kim’s success.
Fortunately we have the crack investigative team at Us mag to tell us that Margot Robbie wore it best, that Rosario Dawson is allergic to cats and dogs so she’s “probably getting a fish,” and that the stars are just like us: they shop, drink, eat and ride bikes. How did we ever live without this information?
The shocking news from this week’s Us magazine is that there’s no look inside the purse of a celebrity you’ve never heard of! Have they run out of minor celebrities? Did they finally realize that every actress and singer carries the same lipstick, keys and phone inside their purse, along with a book they planted there to make readers think they’re actually literate? Or is it just the summer vacation for the team of experts who delve into celebrity bags, and they’ll be back with us next week? We can only hope.
In the meantime, Us gives us something for its impressionable school-age readers who hope to one day graduate to peering into stars’ purses, with a look at “What’s in My Lunch Box?” This gripping exposé takes readers deep into the heart of darkness that is the lunchbox of actress Sarah Michelle Gellar’s two children: hand-rolled sushi, home-made granola bars and mini-pancake muffins. The horror! The horror!
Onwards and downwards . . .