Musings of the Fluff Writer's Mind

Who do I work for again? Hah! As if she doesn't know. She's not in such demand these days. Even with her pale, icy womb magically filling with baby juice, no one's pounding down her door.

Its funny, really. How the tables turn, I mean. A decade ago, the paps followed every move she and her baby-faced hunk of a hollywood hubby made. Then a nasty divorce and a string of horrifically awful, stinking box-office bombs killed the public's interest in her.

Now she's desperate for the spotlight again and playing all modest and demure. As if she wouldn't throttle a score of young, boobalicious starlets for half the publicity their drunken upskirt-shots earn them. Her face on the cover of the weekly rags? As if! Maybe, if she's lucky (or wearing something particularily vile) she'll get a mention in the weekly fashion page. Maybe.

More likely, she's relegated to some blurb in the quickies column or a blind item on some drama queen's ridiculous (and primarily false) website. This fluff piece I'm stuck writing - its the best publicity she'll get until she pops out that little rugrat and one of the glossies gives her a few grand for so-called exclusive pics.

Assuming Brit-Brit Pikes or Lindsay Loonhan hasn't had another breakdown before the issue is put to bed.

Hmm... I wonder if its too late to ask her how she intends to make it through seven more months without a little nip from Mister Botulinum-Toxin. Afterall, he is her true paramour, new husband or not!