Ms. Young, May I Suggest an Ice Cold O'Doul's?

Updated 1/30/08: Footage from the the scene of the DGA heckling.

Look, we've all gotten blitzed and said a few things publicly we shouldn't have. In fact who hasn't gotten drunk and blamed the Jews for all the problems of the world? Hey, it happens. And let's not kick a poor woman when she's down.

That is, unless she deserves it.

Once the poster child for insane actresses everywhere, whackjob wunderkind Sean Young was fortunate enough to simply be forgotten. Death to an actress but probably the best thing for a working mother. In one of Entertainment Weekly's slowest week's ever last Fall, Sean Young gave an interview where she mentioned taking a computer course. Perhaps this would enable her the skills to turn on a computer, access the internet and auction off her undies on eBay to panty-sniffing Bladerunner fanatics or to set herself up for a plum role as the go-to Monday temp at Apple One Employment Services.

Either way, she opined that if she could only take -- get a meeting with George Clooney, she'd win him over as his latest leading lady. She moaned that she could have had Julia Roberts' career. Yes, so should about 10,000 other actresses, but they didn't and Julia is an Oscar-winning millionaire stuffing solid gold binkies into her babies' mouths.

Sean baby, I should have gotten into the University of Irvine's grad program. I should have won the Toyota Camry in that Glendale Galleria sweepstakes. I should have rounded the bases with dozens of hot girls I had crushes on in my youth that never glanced my way in class, let alone allowed me to adjust my wiggling loins as we slow-danced to Journey's Open Arms. Life ain't fair, sweetheart, but to get lit and heckle an old-timer at the DGA Awards? Hell, that's a ceremony you had about as much right to attend as Donald Rumsfeld would at a MoveOn.org fundraiser.

Ms. Young, instead of being the escorted-out-the-back-door-of-the-ball belle of the ball, it's time to actually wait for an invite to the ball. And if that invite never arrives, then stay home with your two kids. Rehab is not the ideal place for your children to visit you at.

To paraphrase Dean Wormer from Animal House, "Botoxed, drunk and kicked out of awards parties is no way to go through life, dear."

Separated at Birth?

Our favorite mullet man's latest film Rambo opened to over $18 million this past weekend. Congratulations, Sly. Your 30lb. crrrranium aside (Head! Beer! Now!), we are impressed with those human growth hormone'd forearms. Much better results than eating spinach out of a can.

Thar She Blows!

Sweetheart, we at The Mung Hour have no problem with weight gain. We just have a problem with an ingenue like yourself, whose career is a tapestry of cleavage-bearing fashion magazine photo-ops extolling the virtue of the perfect physique, crying foul when you're caught smuggling mashed potatoes. When people still cared what you did last summer, you were obviously thong-worthy from fifty yards away. And it ain't like you've aged fifteen years and crapped out a half dozen kids since you ran for your life from the Gorton's Fisherman. You're a twenty-something bra and panty spokeswoman.

Look who we've got our Hanes on now, indeed.

"A size 2 is not fat! Nor will it ever be," Hewitt responded in a post regarding last month's discovery of the Two Moons of Yavin above her thighs. "And being a size 0 doesn't make you beautiful."

Pardon the pun. Size two, our ass. To have those proportions and still be a size two, you'd have to be about nineteen inches tall. A cynic would say that you took one look at TMZ when this all transpired and pictured a board room full of old perverts at Hanes wondering aloud if maybe they shouldn't cancel your multi-million dollar endorsement contract and put their Hanes on someone with a smaller butt.

We have no doubt the Jennifer Love Hewitt Big Booty publicity parade is coming to a daytime talk show near you. After years of making a living off her hot bod, Hewitt will cry on Oprah's shoulder about how judgmental society is, and shouldn't we all just be a bit more sympathetic to the plight of a woman with a rear like two Christmas hams.

He Ain't Too Old For This Sh--!

America's beer-bong champ, connoisseur of fine pre-mugshot hair gels and favorite anti-Semite, Mel Gibson, turns 52 this week. Now firmly planted in his fifties, one wonders what the formerly mulleted Martin Riggs has in store for the world as far as career choices. No word yet from the rabbinical leaders here in Los Angeles as to how the fence-mending has been going, but judging by the island he purchased in Fiji and relatively clear IMDb slate, I'm guessing he's not exactly picking up trash outside of Sinai Temple in Los Angeles, eager for a meeting with the studio heads.

Did Santa Buy You Everything You Never Knew You Wanted?

Far and across America, there are dried-out Christmas trees, exhausted from slurping up stale water in their bases and supporting the weight of tired family ornaments. Underneath these trees are opened boxes containing Kirkland sweaters three sizes too large for the wearer, books and board games eager and willing to lap up the dust they'll collect under coffee tables or in closets, and of course, DVD collections destined never to be unwrapped, let alone watched. I mean really, did we ASK for The Hitchcock Collection (not the good ones from Universal - the boring ones from Warner Brothers) or It's A Wonderful Life: 2-Disc Set (full-screen, no less)?

Santa has a funny way of bringing the average person tons of crap they did not ask for but cannot be re-gifted. I mean, how does one re-gift "Scategories" without looking like a re-gifting a-hole? And let us not forget the 25lbs of Russell Stover chocolates sitting under that poor tree along with the gift baskets stocked with enough palm oil and corn syrup enriched snacks to keep the Energizer Bunny pounding away for decades. In fact, the annual census of diabetics in the U.S. has to spike this time each year simply due to the folks at Harry & David alone. Between the Moose Munch popcorn (does a moose even eat chocolate?), the white chocolate truffles and lemon shortbread, it's no surprise that gym memberships skyrocket come January 2nd.

Christmas is about giving. It is also about problem-solving. Like how to solve the problem of $300 worth of crappy gifts that even the Disabled Veterans would laugh at should you attempt stuffing it all into a yellow collection bag. It's safe to say that most people love their stepmothers. In the vein of charity and good will, would it be too harsh to explain to her that it's sometimes better not to receive anything than to know that she poured through the aisle tables at Bed, Bath & Beyond for that 5-in-1 flashlight with your name on it? I personally have enough travel grooming kits, sheepskin steering wheel covers, fondue sets, bartending books and silicone potholders to last ten lifetimes.

Please Santa and Santa's Little Helpers, next year let's all shoot for gift cards or maybe that nice bottle of booze. Anything by Ketel One will do (sorry to pull the snob card, but Smirnoff merits a re-gift). And for the love of the little baby Jesus, let's not let all those useless presents linger under that poor, fire-trap of a Christmas tree. It's suffered enough this month.

Where's the Brake?!

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, TDC)
How many farmer's markets and bus stops have to be plowed over before the higher-ups realize it's time to put the kibosh on anyone over eighty driving a motorized vehicle traveling at a great rate? Haven't they driven enough? Sixty+ years of driving is enough.

"If I can see, I should be able to drive," squawk the elderly, yet when people's livers are laying in the street cuz Pops drove his '77 Impala into a crowd, they cry "I'm old -- I'm not responsible!"

I don't know. When phlegm is a food group, it's time to retire the driving privilege. Remember, it's a privilege, not a right. Thank you.

**Editor's note: the only elderly man allowed to drive above 75mph ought to be Cool Hand Luke himself, driving Newman's Own 950 Volvo with its Cosworth race-bred V8.

James Woods, You Sick Bastard!

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)
God bless you, sir. I don’t care if you do have stains in your shorts older than your girlfriend. My hat is off to you!

The look on your face just screams, “Two hours from now, this broad will be face down on my pool table slathered in aloe begging for the Ben Wa Balls.” And what’s the best part? You don’t have to waste your top shelf liquor on her, because SHE’S UNDER 21!

I’d always heard you were smart. You probably just spent the Veteran’s Day weekend defiling this girl and were only out the price of rubber gloves and some Skittles. But let’s not forget the risks.

You’re old. Yeah, that’s a snazzy dye job, but we all know only about half that hair actually grew out of your scalp. The guy you play on TV is supposed to be about fifty, but you left the half-century mark in the dust a LONG time ago. Sir, don’t you realize that at almost 61 years of age, you risk your life and what’s left of Jeri Ryan’s career every time you pop a boner pill and mount this kid? Please be careful.

I’m not saying don’t debase a woman young enough to be your great grandchild. I’m simply suggesting you take it easy, because you have over sixty more episodes of Shark to put in the can before there’s enough to sell into syndication. You’ve got a lot of fans out there who don’t want you to die ravaging this young lady, because we’re hoping you’ll live to take her baby sister to the Emmy Awards when you’re seventy!

Viva Viagra!