Backroom Whispers

Look, it’s like this: We’re lazy. The GBs are to hard work what Eve is to bikini wax. We don’t do this for the love. We do this when it pleases us and in our own damn time. Such as when we get bored of shit like arguing over whether the new Common joint is wack or not, or when our new favorite drinking game–listening to Dipset mixtapes and taking a shot of vodka each time someone says something real ignorant–takes a turn for the worse. And that time is now.

So. Michael’s innocent. Of course, we knew that all along and never doubted for a moment that he’d be vindicated. We never believed those stories about the defense team leaking certain documents into the public domain in an attempt to get any conviction overturned as unsafe on appeal, or about certain celebrity witnesses only agreeing to testify for the defense if it was ruled that they wouldn’t face questions about whether they’d acted as sperm donors for Michael’s kids. But we still can’t understand how even he managed to blow $140 million in less than a year without spending at least some of it on hoes and yayo.

Speaking of cashflow problems, Diddy ain’t happy about his new alimony setup and the impact it may have on his baller status. Admittedly, we first heard he was having money troubles via people who may have an axe to grind, being that they still ain’t been paid for work they did on his July 4 throwdown in L.I. last year. His new label deal with the Warner Music Group will have helped a little, but nothing’s gonna convince us that Lyor Cohen brought Bad Boy to WMG for any other reason apart from trying to make their IPO look as tempting as possible to investors. Yeah, investors who haven’t listened to the radio for eight years, maybe.

There was a story circulating a little while back that Dame Dash got his ass banned from Great Britain (are they still allowed to call it that?) because he didn’t pay the rent on his lavish London apartment (indoor swimming pool, bowls of weed from which guests can help themselves, gay orgies when Dame’s out of town). Now, we know the Brits have some nasty habits, but we’re pretty sure they don’t get down like that. If they do, then Minister Louis Farrakhan and Stokely Carmichael got back rent like a motherfucker. We do know that Dame refused to pay a substantial bill to the public relations company he retained while in London, though. His excuse was that because he was so famous, they ought to work for him for free. We definitely need to start using that line.

Here’s what we’ve been hearing about Tyson Beckford: torrid phone messages left for friend/manager, lone vehicle hitting the only tree in a 50-acre field, visit to a top “health spa” already scheduled, longstanding rumors of depression/sexual dysfunction/off and on Prozac abuse. None of which should be taken as evidence of anything other than a 3 a.m. night drive gone wrong. Damn, it must suck being that good-looking, huh, Tyson?

The Wit And Wisdom Of Paris Hilton, continued: “I don’t really read anything on the Internet except my AOL mail. I don’t like people who sit on computers all day long and write about people they don’t know anything about.” Word life.

When Paris Hilton appeared on SNL, the cast — who called her an “energy vacuum” — put up a $500 prize for the first person who could say that she’d asked them a single question about themselves. The prize went unclaimed.

Talk of Paris Hilton begs the following question; is it us, or does barely a month seem to go by nowadays without a new “celebrity sex-tape leaked on the internet” scandal? We’re almost beginning to yearn for the days when that kind of shit was fueled by a few reels of Super-8 (y.b.a.s.) and a grip of harshly-lit Polaroids taken in cheap motel rooms. Despite all that, we were still pretty fucking surprised when some photos fitting almost that exact description landed in our mailbox recently. You could have taken that surprise and doubled it when we saw what looked a lot like a leading headwrap-and-incense/coffee-shop neo-soul diva wearing nothing apart from a smile and a teddy (and the teddy don’t stay on long). If you’re feelin’ the “natural” look, and you like your ladies a little on the thick side, it might be worth doing a Google image search. All we’re gonna say is that we can definitely imagine those big-ass titties “gettin’ in the way” of all kinda things.

Will Smith is still the Fresh Prince. He’ll only wipe his ass with wet-wipes (we’ll let you guess why, but our dollar is on hemorrhoids), and his personal assistant carries a pack with her for his use at all engagements. We understand that this is only one of many functions his PA is called upon to perform, if you know what we mean, and we think you do.

On the subject of PAs, whenever you phone the Brit scourge of American Idol wannabes, Simon Cowell, his (male) PA almost always answers, even if you’re calling his hotel room before breakfast.

One of the highlights of the Cannes Film Festival is the amfAR Charity Auction, where stupid-rich stupid people pay stupid dough for holidays, designer luggage, Barbra Streisand concert tickets, etc. Co-host for this year’s event was Sharon Stone, and at the end of the auction, she called upon all those who have helped with the auction to come onstage and take a bow. Referring to one co-presenter, she yelled, “Chris Rock, get up here! You do so much for this charity…get up here, Chris Rock! Come on Chris! where are you? Get up here! Thank you so much, Chris Rock!”

Only it was Chris Tucker.

Reading the recent stories about Russell Crowe throwing cellies at hotel porters (change your network, dude), we were reminded of a tale we heard from the set of Cinderella Man. During shooting, Crowe was accompanied by his friend/mentor/bodyguard, a bodybuilder and fellow Australian nicknamed Spud. During the first week’s shooting, Crowe’s wife and baby were on set too, and everything was cool. As soon as she flies home, he’s back to normal—booze, drugs, fucking extras in the trailer—until Spud decides he’s gone too far. So Spud goes over to Crowe’s trailer and starts banging on the door.

Crowe: Fuck off!
Spud: (bangbangbang!)
Crowe (opening door, stark naked): Fuck off, Spud! Can’t you see I’m busy?
Spud: Russ, this isn’t on, mate. You’ve got a wife and kid, for God’s sake!

At this point, Crowe (who’s still naked) hurls himself at Spud, and a fight breaks out. Being that Spud is a cock-diesel motherfucker and Crowe is a drunken fat fuck, the fight lasts about three seconds. Crowe’s so shocked by the ass-kicking, he scrambles to his feet and runs off (yup, still naked). After a while, a search party is dispatched to look for the missing Oscar winner, who’s found hiding, gibbering and disoriented, amongst some bushes. Order is restored, Crowe and Spud have a long talk, and the whole incident is never mentioned again. Apart from here.

Number crunching time:

Tupac Shakur sightings reported to the LVPD this year (as at 1 June): 83
Number of anonymous tips to LVPD claiming Suge Knight was the murderer: 315
Number of people arrested by LVPD for fraudulently attempting to obtain goods or services by claiming to be Tupac: 4

Bruce Willis fucked Avril Lavigne. There’s really nothing else we can add to this.

You may have read about how Ashton Kutcher failed to get the better of Lil’ Jon on a recent episode of Punk’d. It seems “you can’t punk the king of crunk”, which is good news for all of us. This can only mean there’s no truth in the rumor that Kutcher got his man, but that the trick didn’t go down too well (hey, it was bound to happen sometime), and Kutcher was actually scared to leave his house, so seriously did he take the subsequent threats he received. Arrangements were swiftly made to film an alternate skit in which Lil’ Jon foils the set-up just in time. Result? MTV gets their show, Lil Jon retains his dignity, Ashton Kutcher doesn’t have to walk round Hollywood with a pimp cup stuck up his ass.

In case you’ve been wondering what Backroom Whispers’ favorite punching bag, Irv Gotti, has been up to…well, he’s been hanging around with Ron Hightower trying to break into Ron’s line of work. We’ll wait while you Google Ron Hightower. We’ll wait while you figure out what Irv’s trying to do. Now here’s your barf bag.

About 20 years later, we’ve come full circle: Arabian Prince is once again ghost producing for Dr. Dre. No word on if “Cabbage Patch 2005” is in the works.

Speaking of Dre, as part of his final “fuck you” to G-Unit and the Dr.–not to mention part of his plan to kill his career before it even gets going–The Game is picking up a new manager. Guess who. No, go ahead, guess. OK, fine, we’ll tell you. Jerry Heller.

Quick word of advice to Grand Puba: Next time, make sure you check homegirl’s ID at the bedroom door.