Christie Brinkley’s creepy, philandering excuse for a husband made a short visit to their Hamptons compound yesterday. Christie stuck around for 15 minutes before getting the hell out of dodge, returning less than an hour later with a gift for the photog camped outside her house. She gave him a box of sugar-free Popsicles with a handwritten note inside. “Sorry you have to do this on such a hot day!” she’d written.

When asked to speak about the brief meeting with her creepy, philandering excuse for a husband, Brinkley said “I’d rather not comment. I just don’t want to fuel this anymore.”

Awww. She’s a class act, that Christie. She even made everyone who works in the architecture firm owned by her creepy, philandering excuse for a husband sign an NDA so they can’t gab to the media about his creepy philandering.

Unfortunately, that Billy Joel clone she totes around the Hamptons hasn’t had comparable media training.

Cheer up, Christie! So he was sleeping with a woman less than half your age. At least he wasn’t sleeping with your brother.

Source: E! Online

Hoping that the still-murky landscape of Internet law will deter the obvious libel charges, DontDateHimGirl.com has established a targeted marketer’s wet dream: a website where women can share horror stories about the men they’ve been with who have perpetrated horrible, thoughtless acts that they are likely to repeat in the future, along with their names, locations and photographs. Or, more plausibly, it’s a website where women can make nasty shit up about that guy from the bar who never called again after you gave him a blow job under the DJ booth. Hell hath no fury, &c. The Google adbots don’t have to work too hard to get this one right.

It is, obviously, a business model equally arousing for civil-court lawyers and people who derive pleasure from watching the trainwrecks of other people’s lives on the Internet. I left law school three years short of a J.D., but I fall squarely into the latter category. This place is schadenfreude heaven, and a comedic goldmine to boot. I’ll add first that the following data is notably alleged:

Some highlights:

Bryant Wells, of the greater Pittsburgh area, is a “cheatin ass lyin ass nigga” although the author “ain’t even goin lie he looks good.” Apparently this guy will bang anything that walks, which is understandable, because, at 5-foot-3, you take what you can get.

Ephraim Reavis, of Philadelphia, was cheating on his fiancee and managed to contract the herpes virus in the process. Don’t let him try to prove otherwise, because “he knows people who work at free health clinics who will give him a clean bill of health.” Can you imagine this conversation? How is this done? STD test results are produced in a lab, right, even if the tests are administered in a clinic? So do they have “Hug Me I’m Herpes-Free” stickers they award to the fortunate few? Or does this mildly retarded chick walk into the local free clinic with this dude, go up to the front desk and say “Can you please confirm for me that this guy doesn’t have the herp? Get out your ID, baby.”

[Name removed per request], of [location removed per request], sleeps with lots of girls at the same time, and “felt it was okay to Jerk off in front of me on our 1st and 2nd date.” I doubt this guy was concerned much with your potential reaction on the first date, sweetie, but I assure you he’d determined it was 100% okay when you showed up for the second date.

And my favorite:

[Name redacted], of Manhattan, NY, “doesnt only like girls ladies he is bisexual.” How does she know this? Because he had sex with her brother, and “my brother felt guilty and just told me the truth after finding…out [that Name Redacted had chlamydia].” Since the author claims to be STD-free, she has deduced that “he was freaking 2 other girls maybe more and my brother.” This is another conversation I would like to be in the room to hear. “Hey, I gotta be straight with you, sis. Actually, maybe that’s not the right word to use here…”

I know everyone eagerly checks this blog on Thursday mornings for an debriefing on my cooking class the night before, and I do not wish to disappoint.

Tonight was meats. We spent the first hour learning about chicken, beef and pork. I started making hash marks on my paper each time Miss May said “delicious,” and I got to 11 before I gave up. In the process, I learned a few things that had me, for about 30 seconds, thinking maybe the folks at PETA had the right idea. Not in a hurl-paint-at-Anna-Wintour sort of way, but it is kind of depressing how these animals exist before they’re slaughtered. For instance, did you know they don’t feed shrimp for a few days before they’re “harvested” so that there’s nothing visible in their intestines when they’re sold? The shrimp probably don’t mind, but it just seems mean. And when I’d heard the phrase “free-range chicken,” it always conjured this bucolic imagery for me, with happy, happy chickens skipping merrily along green fields out in wine country. It turns out that “free-range” means they are given approximately one square foot of space in which to “move.” The added muscle mass makes their corpses “much more delicious.” If these “free-range” chickens are given one square foot of space throughout the course of their lives, what on earth are they doing to the non-free-range chickens?

Although the truth is, when you step out of idealism and into reality, the economic feasibility of letting all animals be treated like house pets and still being able to provide meat for the entire country is dubious at best. When you attack the McDonalds and Burger Kings and Tysons of this world for perpetrating these crimes, you’re ignoring the giant mass of unskilled workers employed by these corporations and their relative gravity in the US economy. If there’s a happy medium, I don’t know where. But I’ll get off my soap box now. You came to hear about cooking school!

We learned that large chunks of meat will continue to cook for awhile after they’re out of the oven, getting up to 10 degrees hotter, so you should always remove them a little early. We also learned the exact internal temperatures of different “donenesses” (that’s a real cooking word) of steaks, but Nandita has my notes tonight so I can’t share them.

We chose Vietnamese Chicken Salad, which was relatively easy to make and tasted incredible. I made a bit of a faux-pas with the sauteed salad topping when I left it on the stove too long and it burned, but we quickly recovered (read: started over, because your sauce is pretty unrecoverable when it’s charred and smoking) and our dish was a hit. It was really, honestly, very, very good, and I plan to make it again someday. Maybe.

I think next week is pasta and desserts, so stay tuned!

Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.

I really want to know what is in her left hand. Is that a Coke bottle? Like, a bonafide Coke bottle? Where do you buy Coke bottles? I really want one now. I feel like Coke just tastes better that way. Like a little taste of the carefree days of the ’50s. When women wore cone bras. We should bring back cone bras. Who’s with me?

I am so happy right now. Warner Brothers is producing a fourth installment of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movies, with a release date set at 3/30/07 (we have to wait that long??). This one’s all digital, and is supposedly “grittier” than the previous three (although it will retain its PG rating). Apple.com has the totally gnarly teaser trailer. Our heroes in a half-shell have returned, carrying on their sturdy backs a risk that people outside of SoCal will start saying “radical” unironically again.

They’re filming something on Pershing, in the northbound lane just north of Imperial Ave in PDR. There’s a silver SUV and a dark-haired girl. They have the cops out en masse to guard the orange cones on the road. I remember they filmed Entourage near this stretch of road last year, but I didn’t see any of those guys. It could really be anything. Guesses?

Anyway, even if they’re not filming anything interesting (if it is The OC I will never forgive myself), Pershing is the super-secret James Bond route around several miles of traffic on the 405. I’ve included a map. Remember who hooked you up with that shit. You’re welcome.