Sometimes our celebrity brethren need to feel the white hot sting of my bitch-slap o’ advice so badly, I have trouble even typing. This, friends, is one of those times. Our girl crush Scarlett Johansson, who, until very recently, was married to Ryan Reynolds, People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, may be hooking up with – guys, y’all might have to sit down for this – Sean Penn. Ohhhh, it hurts.

What? What? I mean, really, Scarlett? It was bad enough when Natalie Portman had her ill-advised fling with him (Oddly, Penn’s fling with Jewel didn’t bother me. That just kinda made sense.), but this is truly heinous.  Scarlett, this is bad. There is nothing about this that is good. What, exactly, is so awful about it? To quote Carrie Fischer in When Harry Met Sally — which I try to do regularly — “It’s so awful, there’s no way to even explain what is so awful about it.” Be that as it may, I’m sure gonna try. Here goes:

1. Sean Penn is old.

Ok, 50 isn’t anywhere near old, but it’s a helluva lot older than 26. Scarlett, I understand the whole older man-younger woman thing and how that’s attractive to some girls. It works for Catherine Zeta-Jones. Believe me, if the dude from Mad Men (not Jon Hamm, the grey-haired one, and only if Jon Hamm isn’t available. Jon, call me.) knocked on my office door and said “Let’s go,”  the only thing my boss would see when he walked past my desk would be a puff of smoke. But Sean Penn is not the grey-haired guy from Mad Men. He’s not even the slightly-pudgy, bespectacled guy from Mad Men.

2. Sean Penn is crazy.

How crazy is he? He’s so crazy that Madonna dumped him. Madonna. He’s so crazy that he and Hugo Chavez are friends. As in, have-a-standing-date-to-drink-Arbor-Mist-and-watch-Glee friends. That man is crazy straight up, no chaser. A big ole bag of crazy. Crazy follows him around like Charlie Brown’s cloud. Everyone knows you don’t go to bed with crazy, Scarlett.

3. The bizarro circumstances surrounding how you met him.

To quote some anonymous source from Us Magazine (emphasis mine):  “‘Scarlett first reached out to Sean when she was planning to visit Haiti with Oxfam,’ says the source. ‘She knew Sean was living there in a tent and turned to him for advice.’” In a tent, Scarlett? In a tent??

4. Ok, let’s bring this bitch home.

Here comes the dear-God-what-are-you-thinking, tough love portion of our chat, Scarlett. Because you apparently need to be reminded of this, I would like to refresh your memory that you went from this:

To this:

Let’s go over this again, just in case you weren’t paying attention. You had this:

And now you have chosen this:

Scarlett, dear, you’re backsliding. Get rid of this guy, but immediately, and hook up with someone less creepy, like — I don’t know — Woody Allen. In this dark march toward whatever it is we are approaching… Don’t—don’t hang back with the brutes!

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday (let’s just pretend it’s Tuesday).

‘Tis a new year, kids, and I am excited about the work I have ahead of me. I have a feeling 2011 is going to be a busy one for Meg Boyle, Patron Saint of Celebrity Advice. Thankfully, there is enough of me to go around (and if I keep eating the way I did over the holidays, there may soon be even more me to go around…).

But which wayward celebrity will end up needing my advice the most, I wonder? Let’s take a look at some of the nominees for Potential Hottest Mess of 2011…

Could it be…

David Arquette, who just checked himself into rehab in order to win back estranged wife Courteney Cox (nee Courteney Cox-Arquette, nee-nee Courteney Cox)?

Lindsay Lohan, who just checked out of rehab and is moving next door to her ex-girlfriend Samantha Ronson? There’s no way that can end poorly!

Miley Cyrus, who is really only guilty of desperately needing new parents?

Kelly Preston who, according to the National Enquirer (I know, I know, it’s the Enquirer, but! remember! they were right about John Edwards), is heartbroken over her extremely not-gay husband John Travolta’s constant weekends with the guys? I have a feeling Kelly is going to need some tough love soon. You boys don’t go skiing up there, do you?

Brett Favre? Oh, Brett. You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?

Any member of Congress? Seriously, like any of them. The ineptitude is mind-blowing. Except Kirsten Gillibrand, that is, who is rocking the house (or, rather, the Senate) just as I predicted she would. Suck it, Maureen Dowd!

Gwyneth Paltrow, whose comeback is so well orchestrated that even I am starting to like her. Clearly, the other shoe is poised to drop. But when?

So who will it be dear readers?? Vote for one of the above, or write in a new candidate, in the comments section (all three of you who are reading this). Happy New Year!

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.

Fun fact about Meg Boyle: I was a huge fan of E!’s reality show “The Girls Next Door,” which documented the high-larious hijinx of Playboy Magazine founder Hugh Hefner and his three barely legal, barely natural girlfriends (note: I speak of the original, awesome “GND”, not the weird, twin-tastic reincarnation). Those who were also fans of the show know well the bitter pill that long-suffering “#1 Girlfriend” Holly Madison – who genuinely seemed to love The Hef, or so it seemed to this viewer – had to continuously swallow every time Hugh brushed off her long-held desire to marry him and have his children. Eventually, Holly followed the sound of her ticking biological clock right out of the Playboy Mansion as we fans shed a single tear for what might have been and then promptly forgot that the show ever existed.

But! Now! News from the InterWeb: Hef! Gets! Engaged! The man who said “marriage isn’t part of my puzzle” proposed to his 24-year old girlfriend on Christmas Eve, which also happens to be one day after Holly’s birthday. Fans, join me now in a rousing chorus of “Aw, hell nah!” Poor Holly. All those emotions she must be feeling right now! Who ever can she turn to for advice on how to cope with this heartbreak? Lucky for you, Holly dear, I have a lot of experience finding out that the dude you left because he wouldn’t commit has miraculously changed his tune for the very next chick he laid eyes on. Come crawl into Auntie Meg’s lap, Holly; I’m about to share with you my five-step plan for dealing with hypocritical ex-boyfriends, a five-step plan I like to call Dancing It Out with Meg Boyle.

Step One: Prepare, prepare, prepare

Sooooo, you just found out that your ex-boyfriend, the media mogul who refused to marry you, is engaged. I’m not going to lie to you, Holly, this is gonna suck, and the only way out of the pain is to dance through it. First thing to do is take a deep breath. Now take another. Feel like crying? Let it out, girl, regardless of whether you’re at home alone or surrounded by strangers in the international foods aisle of the A&P. Feel better? Ok, now is the time to act because this post-cry-high is what we here at Dancing It Out with Meg Boyle like to call the Relative Calm Before the Shit Storm. You’ve got about three, maybe four hours before you go completely Courtney Love crazy, so take this last stretch of sanity and stock up on some reinforcements. Is Ben & Jerry’s your comfort food of choice? Get yourself to the supermarket and buy in bulk; you’re gonna need plenty. Don’t like ice cream and prefer to drown your sorrows in macaroni and cheese? Then DIOwMB salutes you, Ms. Madison! Most importantly, take a few minutes to make yourself an ipod play list of revenge songs. In fact, we here at DIOwMB recommend that every woman have this play list pre-loaded on her ipod, just in case, as it’ll save precious minutes in a crisis. The songs don’t even really need to be relevant to the situation; they just need to fill you with the sweet sauce of righteous indignation. Go ahead and load everything Amy Winehouse ever recorded on there. That Cee-lo Green song? Great choice; I’m listening to it right now. Justin Timberlake’s “What Goes Around / Comes Around”? It’s gold, Jerry. Gold!

Step Two: Go To the Mattresses

By now, the calm you were feeling should be giving way to some anger. That’s good, we’re going to want to tap into that by tapping into what we here at DIOwMB like to call Summoning Your Inner Sicilian. Holly, I know that in these last hazy minutes of clarity you might be tempted to relive all those wonderful memories that you and Hugh shared; misty, water-colored memories such as your first Playboy photo shoot, when The Hef took one look at your nubile young body coated in so much Wesson Oil and shouted “Voila! There’s my Gigi!” or your first hot tub foursome with Hef, Pam Anderson, and Patti Reagan. These may be cherished memories, but you’re going to need to forget them and cut this bastard out of your life. He’s dead to you. De-friend him on Facebook, un-follow him on Twitter, and delete him from your iphone. He never existed. Is this harsh? Maybe, but remember that you invested seven years of your twenties – which is like three decades in Bunny Years – to that man and he paid you back by giving the ring you wanted to some girl he’s known for a hot minute. Revenge is a dish best served cold, Holly.

Step Three: Gather Ye Girls and Gays

No one is more valuable during a meltdown than your girlfriends, be they women or men. Sure, you may desire the perspective of a trusted straight male friend or your beloved mama during this difficult time but perspective is overrated, Holly. You’ve been wronged, and you need a gaggle of supportive friends to be the wind beneath your wings right now. Do you want that wind to gently whisper sensible things like “There are plenty of fish in the sea,” or do you want that wind to slam her drink down and howl “Girl, hold my purse, I’m about to send that little slut back to the trailer park she came from!” That’s what I thought. Send up the Bat Signal and put on your dancing shoes; this crisis is going to require every gay in a five-mile radius.

Step Four: Drink

The creative and legal teams behind DIOwMB would like to stress that we do not endorse overindulgence in alcoh-…Ha! Sorry, I tried to get through that without laughing; I really tried. Holly, bottoms up. You start drinking now and don’t stop until the whole thing seems kinda funny. Incidentally, this is where having taken Step Two will come in handy, as somewhere between your second glass of wine and fourth margarita you may feel the urge to call your ex to give him a piece of your mind. Ensuring that you live in a Hef-free universe prior to that fifth tequila shot makes this ill-advised phone call impossible, and that’s a good thing, because the douche bag doesn’t deserve to ever hear your lovely voice again. Let that harpy of a fiancé get on his case about something. You’re too busy getting your drink on to care!

Step Five: Rinse and Repeat

Repeat Steps 1-4 of Dancing It Out with Meg Boyle for as long as it takes you to move on. But do consider moving on, Holly. You’re pretty darn hot, and you’re on TV! A thousand little girls out there would kill to grow up to be you. I’m not entirely sure that’s a good thing, but stay with me here, Holly, I’m going somewhere with this. In just a few hours, it will be a whole new year. You don’t want that wrinkly old albatross hanging around your neck in 2011, do you? It’s his loss; if he liked it, then he shoulda put…well, you know.

When you start feeling down, Holly, just remember this: Hugh Hefner is 84 years old. He was born the same year as the Queen of Freakin’ England. Let’s face it, honey, you dodged a bullet. Also, it could have been much worse: His new girlfriend could have been Asian.

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday (or, you know, Friday).

I’m back, dear readers. I hope you’ll forgive my little gentleman’s intermission of the past few weeks–let’s just say that I do not recommend moving in the middle of Thanksgiving. And let’s just say that I’m a little underwhelmed with the traffic of celebrity gossip this month. No celebrities hot-footing it to rehab, no nasty divorces (except Eva Longoria, to whom I have to say: Really? You’re divorcing him because of text messages?). I’m like a man without a country; a nun without a calling. Luckily, when Hollywood lets me down, there will always be an even more dysfunctional town in this country that needs me. My advice this week goes out to you, Washington, specifically to two former foes who are dancing on my last two nerves.

Dear President Obama: I’m so, so glad to hear that you have extended the Bush tax cuts for the wealthiest Americans. Because when the deficit is as high as it currently is, the most important thing to do is to keep spending money while not generating any revenue. God, why don’t those pesky “liberals” and “moderates” and “Nobel-prize-winning economic experts” understand that? I mean, this is just good math! Pure, simple, uncomplicated math! And in case no one has noticed, we’re in a recession. We can’t go around all willy-nilly, raising taxes on the wealthiest 1% of Americans now can we? What would the Real Housewives of Greenwich do if they had to spend the winter in Connecticut instead of the Swiss Alps? I shudder to think, President Obama. It’s about time someone stood up for the big guy. Barry, I’m glad that someone is you.

Dear Senator McCain: I’m so, so glad that you’re taking a stand against Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Because when America is engaged in one full-scale war while winding down another, the last thing we want is more soldiers joining the military. Those gays have really been pushing it lately, with their demands of “equality” and “civil rights.” If we allow gays in the military, what are they going to want next, the right to get married? Come on now, that’s just crazy talk. Oh I know, I know; you’re not actually against Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell per se, you’re just against implementing it now. I get your vibe, Johnny. Wink, wink. Your secret is safe with me.

And so, to summarize:

Senator McCain, pull your head out of your ass. And President Obama, you may not know this but you’re the president of the United States. You’re, like, in charge. Let’s go ahead and act like it, ok? Ok.

Let’s face it: Some celebrities (and politicians) could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.

I am sick as a dog, dear readers. How sick is she?  She is sicker than a consumptive waif in a Bronte novel. She is so sick that her eyes, burning with fever, can barely see the screen upon which she types her weekly words of wisdom. She is so sick, in fact, that she will have to keep her advice very short this week. Charlie Sheen, this one’s for you: Get it. The hell. Together.

I mean seriously, dude. Picking up a porn star and trashing a suite at the Plaza? Who are you, Leonardo DiCaprio circa 1999? Blaming your behavior on an allergic reaction to medication? Who are you, Meg Boyle? (For the last time, I was on Advil Sinus Headache and it was an honest mistake!) Claiming your antics were just another “bad night“? I don’t even have a snarky comparison to make on that point; that’s all you, Charlie, and it’s a new low.

If my admonition isn’t enough to shame you into getting it together (and it should be,  as I can be pretty scary when I’m sick and annoyed), consider this: Tom Sizemore is urging you to get help. Tom Sizemore. Type “hitting rock bottom” into Wikipedia and the definition will simply read: “You have hit rock bottom when Tom Sizemore encourages you to get help.” So listen up, Carlos Irwin Estévez, because I only have a minute to spare before I pass out from dehydration: Enough of this crap. Get your act together, dammit. And take your Vitamin C; there’s a nasty bug going around. 

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.

Mike…Mike, please hear me out…

I have nothing against Christmas. Adult though I am, I still look forward to it every year. In fact, last Christmas I bought not one but two advent calendars; one for home and one for the office, and not just because I love chocolate. Because I love Christmas. So you can imagine the joy I felt when I woke up yesterday morning and it was Christmas. I smiled as I passed the heartwarming red displays in the department store windows. I delighted in the wreaths hung jauntily off the lampposts. But encountering the holiday displays at the Duane Reade gave me pause. Why? Because it was November 1st, Mike. November 1st.

What happened this morning, though, was so horrific that, going forward, it shall only be referred to as The Christmas Cup Incident. Pleased with myself for waking up extra early to vote in the mid-term election, I decided to treat myself to a cup of Starbucks as reward for doing my civic duty. After waiting in line for four hours, I ordered a tall cup of the Thanksgiving Blend, which was promptly poured and handed to me…in a red Christmas cup. Thanksgiving Blend; Christmas cup. A Christmas cup that assaulted me with this lame little bit of folksy crap written along the side of it: “When I give gifts,” it read, “I always get more in return. Funny, isn’t it?” Actually, no, Starbucks, that is not funny. That’s about as un-funny as the predicament of encountering 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife is un-ironic. Thanksgiving Blend; Christmas cup. Let’s just say that things started to get a little blurry.

“Um…wait…no…” I stuttered.

“Yes?” asked the inhumanly perky barista.

“Thanksgiving Blend…but Christmas cup…” I said weakly, feeling a small trickle of blood run from my ear.

But no. Inhumanly perky barista just didn’t get it. “Yes! That will be $12.79, please,” she said.

And that’s when my head exploded. Blood and strawberry hair, all over the store. It took three baristas to scrape away the bits of my brain that were stuck to the espresso machine. It was pretty embarrassing, Mike.

Please don’t misunderstand, I’m certainly not waging some wrath-of-Fox-News-inducing War on Christmas. I don’t want anything about Christmas to change whatsoever. I just want my autumn back. Mike Bloomberg, I think you’re the man to help me.

Think of it, Mike, this could be your next great campaign! You’ve already taken on smoking and noise pollution–what better way to improve the quality of life in your city than by ensuring the fall season gets the reverence it deserves? The possibilities are endless: you could pass a law banning pre-holiday wassailing; you could offer tax breaks to businesses that wait to decorate until December 1st; hell, play Autumn in New York on the Times Square Teletron if you must. That will benefit New Yorkers and  Winona Ryder — win/win situation if you ask me. This could be the move that gets you elected for yet another term as mayor or – dare I say it? – the move that gets you elected president. Defending the Sanctity of Thanksgiving: The Tea Party would eat that crap up.

You can do this, Mike; I know it. Remember, the Great Pumpkin only visits the pumpkin patch with the most sincerity. Don’t you want New York to be that pumpkin patch next year? You can do this. Save autumn in New York!

Thank you for your time, Mike, and don’t forget to vote.

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.

The circus came to New York last night, and I do not mean Barnum and Bailey. Last night was the first and likely only gubernatorial debate and it was, if I may be blunt, a shit show. I knew the debate would be a bit crazy when I heard that all seven candidates would be allowed to debate (if I may quote Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music: “SEVEN???!!!”), but no one could anticipate just how glorious this figurative rape of our political system would be. The debate was more entertaining than the season finale of “Mad Men.” The front runners of the race, Andrew “Nepotism” Cuomo and Carl “Get off my lawn!” Paladino, offered nothing substantive or entertaining, but that left plenty of room for the remaining five candidates to get their freak on. And what will become of these candidates, now that their fifteen minutes are up? I have a few helpful suggestions…

So first up we have City Councilman Charles Barron, of the Freedom Party, to whom no one paid any attention. You talk a lot about education, Chuck, and you seem to be very anti- charter school. So it seems to me that the natural next step for you to take your anti-reform message out on the road and hit up the Sunday morning news programs. Say hi to David Gregory for me.

Next up is crazy Kristin Davis, a former madam whose only prior contact with the New York political scene was touching Eliot Spitzer’s happy place. Davis is running on the idea that legalizing prostitution will bring some badly-needed revenue back to the state of New York. Well, that’s never going to happen here so Kristin, you should go west, young woman, to that magical land where prostitutes practice their love freely: Nevada. Open up your own brothel; you can call it Kristin’s Kathouse or something. HBO will be knocking on your door within five minutes.

Then there are the Green Party and Libertarian Party candidates, Howie Hawkins and Warren Redlich, who basically cancel each other out. I say the two of them should join forces and get it on, Carlsonand Begala-style, with their own cable news show. You take two steps forward, Howie; Warren, you take two steps back. You go together ‘cause opposites attract.

And last, but certainly not least, there’s my personal favorite candidate: Jimmy McMillan, of the Rent is Too Damn High Party, the only candidate on that stage who was both a karate expert and a snazzy dresser. If you didn’t see the debate last night, do yourself a favor and watch these clips. My advice to you, Jimmy, is to stay in the spotlight for as long as you can milk it because you, sir, are a delight. Someone please get this guy a reality series, stat. Rent is too damn high!

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.

Ooooh, girl, did you hear the news? Courteney Cox and her husband David Arquette, of the Los Angeles Arquettes, have decided to separate. Somewhere, Jennifer Aniston is throwing her arms up to the heavens and shouting “Yes! I’m no longer the saddest former Friend!” Don’t worry, Jenny, that title has long been reserved for Matt LeBlanc. Anyway, in their statement to the press, the Cox-Arquettes said they hope that “friends, family, fans and the media also show us respect, dignity, understanding and love at this time as well.” What better way to show my respect, dignity, understanding and love than by offering Courteney the benefit of my advice? Oh it feels so good to give.

Courteney, I’m not going to mince words: That jackass has been weighing you down for years. If you were to pick up a copy of the New York Post  from the 90′s, when your love for David flourished on the set of the Palme d’Or winning film “Scream,” you’d probably see that the Page Six item announcing your relationship consisted of only two words: “Him?” and “Really?” No one understood this relationship. So now that you’ve confirmed your “trial separation” (read: impending divorce), it’s time to make up for those eleven years you wasted. You’re (sometimes) funny, successful, and still smoking hot, so paint that town red! I want to see you dancing on a banquette, I want to see you getting out of a cab with no panties on (ok, I don’t actually want to see that; I’m trying to make a point, here), and I want to read tabloid reports about you, Laura Dern, and Jennifer Aniston leaving a bag of flaming dog excrement on Angelina Jolie’s doorstep and running away. Go out and live it up!

My second piece of advice to you is that now is the time to stretch your little acting wings. Looking back over the way-too-many years that “Friends” was on the air, there is a marked shift – more like a lurch – in your acting style that started right around when you got married. I think we all agree that it was not a good shift. Forgive me, Courteney, but you got downright hammy and it was so clear that David was directing you on the side. And I understand; if I were married to an Oscar-winning graduate of Juilliard who holds dual membership in the Actor’s Studio and the Royal Shakespeare Company, I’d let him coach me, as well. But those were not good years for you, professionally speaking. Interestingly enough, I distinctly remember thinking that your acting got less heinous as the first season of “Cougar Town” progressed. (Yes, loyal readers, I watch “Cougar Town” and I like it. Who are you to judge me?) So I’m guessing that you and David split up somewhere around the middle of the 2009 – 2010 season. Now that you’re not weighed down by that pesky albatross around your neck, it’s time to get back into movies. Start small, maybe with a nice mini-series or Lifetime movie where you cry a lot. I smell Golden Globe!

Finally, since “Cougar Town” inexplicably has nothing to do with the practice of Cougartown-ing, you should go out and Cougartown it up. We already know you’ve been doing the nasty with your costar (who is also your employee, since you’re a producer – well done, sweetie), but if you can get away with robbing the cradle then go for it! There are men, Courteney, of 19 or 20, and I mean to get you a few. Younger men, who’ll give a girl plenty…Courteney, you’ve got a lot of living to do!

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.

So I was walking down the street on Saturday, leaving a voice message on my friend’s cell phone when something I saw stopped me in my tracks, mid-sentence: The advertisement for A&E’s new show “Teach: Tony Danza.” Apparently, it’s his toughest role yet. If you’ve seen this ad you might have assumed, as I did, that this is some lame prime time drama series starring Tony Danza as a teacher but no! You’re wrong. You’re so wrong! It’s – guys, I’m so excited to share this with you that I can barely type – a reality show about Tony Danza actually teaching! Yes! Teaching people’s children! If you didn’t see the first episode, I’ll sum up what you need to know: Tony Danza has a degree in history and always wanted to be a teacher. And since we Americans give celebrities anything they want, the administrators of Northeast High School in Philadelphia said “Sure, what’s the worst that could happen?” Allow me to stop writing while I finish laughing.

Ok, I’m back. Now, I could spend my time with you this week commenting on how unfair it is that while Philly is struggling to find the funds necessary to keep their best educators from being laid off, someone who lists “tap dancing” in the skills section of his resume is just handed a job teaching tenth grade English. But I remember well the baptism-by-fire that is your first year as an educator so Tony, I’m going to take pity on you and give you ten golden nuggets of advice, from one former teacher to a future former teacher.

1. Do not have your first year filmed.

Seriously, do not have your first year filmed. It’s not too late to pull the plug on this A&E show. Trust me when I tell you that you are going to make more mistakes this first year than Nicholas Cage has made since winning his Oscar. And Nick’s made a lot of mistakes, not the least of which is naming his son after Superman. You are not going to want any of these precious first-year moments captured on video.

2. Don’t try to be the “cool” teacher.

This may be the number one rookie mistake, and you reek of it, Tony. You have the very stench of wanting to be cool seeping from your pores. There’s a scene early in the first episode of “Teach” where Mr. Danza, upon seeing a kid sitting outside the principal’s office, sits down and says brightly “Hey, are you in trouble?” I knew then that you were in the danger zone, Tony. I’ll let you in on a little secret about students: Like many of the men I date, kids have a tendency to send mixed signals. They may laugh at your jokes, they may cheer when you don’t give them homework, they may actually tell you that you are cool. However, like many of the men I date, kids don’t know what they want. They may act like they want you to be their friend, but that’s not what they really want, nor is it what they need. Incidentally, this may be the only mistake (and I do mean the only mistake) that I actually did not make. I am not cool. I will never be cool. In fact, as a teacher, not being cool was kind of my thing. If you try to be their friend, the students may like you, but they will never respect you. Know that.

 3. Toughen up.

Tony, you have to stop crying. Teaching is really, really hard but dude, even Glenn Beck would watch this show and say “Geez, that guy is a real wuss.”

4. Drink a lot of coffee, and get a lot of sleep.

That “leave-at-3, summers-free” rhyme is a cute story they tell in order to recruit young teachers, much like how the Sisters of Charity try to lure young women to the nunnery by telling them they’ll never have another bad hair day. I taught from 7:30am to 2:30pm, after which there was detention to administer and chess club to supervise and students to tutor and parents to call. Then I went home at night and graded papers. Weekends were spent reading books, preparing lessons, supervising Saturday detention, writing exams, and, yes, grading more papers. What about the summer? Bitch, I was working; you can’t actually live on a teacher’s salary alone! I loved teaching, but my most difficult day at my current job hasn’t been half as exhausting as a typical day spent teaching.

5. Kiss some ass.

Write this down, Tony. You need to suck up to the following: The lunch staff, the office secretarial staff, and, above all, the custodians. Despite what anyone tells you to the contrary, these are the people who really keep that school running.

6. Don’t pick your battles, pick how you win them.

The question is never if you are going to win the battle – you’re the teacher; you are always going to win - the question is how you win the battle. Many teachers employ the ignore-bad-behavior, reward-good-behavior method, but that only works on puppies and husbands. Too many others just scream their heads off. That, too, is a mistake, as the kids will learn to tune you out pretty quickly. I preferred the silent-ninja method of exerting my authority. An example of this is a favored move that I referred to as the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: On the occasions where a student would not report for detention, I would not lose my temper and Hulk out. I would instead bide my time until the next day, when I would calmly ask said student to deliver a note to the principal for me. Little did this poor student know that the note explained his insubordination and asked the principal to punish him accordingly. Was this sadistic of me? Sure. Was it effective? Oh yes. Mwah-ha-ha.

7. Keep the new ‘do.

I’m really digging this whole very short, distinguished grey thing you’ve got going on, Tony. You should stick with it. No, this will not help you become a better teacher but this is my column, dammit, and I give the advice around here!

8. Stock up on popcorn.

Ramen is for amateurs. Popcorn is cheap, tasty, and filling. It makes a great dinner when your paycheck is late and your funds are low. And trust me, the paychecks will always be late and your funds will always be low. I can’t imagine there is much coming in by way of syndication money, Tony, and I worry about you. I worry.

9. Unlike the McCain campaign, vet every decision you make before taking action.

Do your homework. Before you walk into that classroom, make sure you read every book and check every source. Do not, and this is merely a hypothetical example, show your film class a clip from the remake of a classic horror movie in order to compare it with the original without actually watching the clip first. Even if your film-major boyfriend assures you it is a shot-for-shot copy of the original, even if your department chair signs off on your lesson plan and writes “great idea!” in the margin, and even if the guy at the video store assures you it’s a great scene to show your students, make sure you watch it first before screening it in class. Otherwise, you risk accidentally showing a clip of Vince Vaughn masturbating to a class full of minors. I am not saying this happened to me. I’m just saying you would be really, really embarrassed if it happened to you.

10. Don’t ever ask a kid “Who’s the Boss?” and then, before she can answer, scream “I AM!!!!”

I feel this moment is inevitable, Tony. I’d like us all to avoid it.

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.

The nightmare I’m about to describe starts out like any other evening: You’re lying in bed after a long day, enjoying a glass of pinot grigio and flipping channels on the television. That’s when you see one. Dark, round, and virulent-looking. And just as quickly, it’s gone. Wait, are your eyes playing tricks on you? But no, for there is another. And another. And…another. You start to sweat, you start to cry, you jump up off the bed and battle the urge to burn the whole house down. Alas, it is too late. You’ve been infested, and the innocence you once knew is now gone. No, dear readers, I am not talking about bedbugs. I speak of the Kardashians.

My father likes to say that, when the revolution begins, these little brats will be the first to be carted off. Until recently, I didn’t have an opinion of them one way or another. I don’t watch their reality show, so I lived in a protective Kardashian-free cocoon. But suddenly, like poison sumac, these little fame whores are everywhere. Even CNN reports about them: Breaking news! Kim Kardashian drinks a latte!And there are so damn many of them! It’s like they’re breeding them in a lab. Maybe this has always been the case and I’m just noticing them all now; regardless, my brain has reached Kardashian Kritical Mass. What sent me over the edge, though, was this blog post by Khloe Kardashian: A letter she wrote to her husband, Lamar Odom, to celebrate their first wedding anniversary.  I made the mistake of actually reading this prime example of how the education system has failed our youth and now I am all sorts of Michael Douglas in “Falling Down.” I officially cannot stand these people.

For a second, let’s overlook the idiocy of publicly boasting of a happy marriage when you’ve known your husband for only a little over a year; I have non-perishables that have been sitting in my pantry for longer than that. Let’s instead look at the bigger picture: This blog post is Exhibit A of why people like the Kardashians, the Hiltons, the Nicole Richies, and the Tila Southern Comfort people of the world make me itch. They’ve become incapable of doing anything away from the glare of a white hot spotlight. Look at me, I’m writing a letter to my husband! Look at me, I’m getting a bikini wax! Look at me, I’m ordering a pain au chocolat! See it’s different when I do it because I’m famous!  Why is anyone interested in these people? I propose that we add an amendment to the Constitution whereby no one can become famous for releasing a sex tape, or for having a sister who releases a sex tape. You want some bipartisan consensus, Washington? Throw that one out on the floor and watch the masses eat it up.

So my advice this week goes out to you, The Family Kardashian: It’s time to go away. You too, Bruce Jenner of the Lady Elaine Fairchild face. You don’t have to announce some big Garbo-esque retirement from the limelight; you can gracefully, gradually fade away. But fade away you must. Know what the first wedding anniversary gift is, Khloe? Paper. Please use it to write all future missives to your husband.

Let’s face it: Some celebrities could use good advice. Meg Boyle gives it to them every Tuesday.