When the Hilary Swank issue of Vanity Fair arrived bent over in our too-tiny mailbox, the first thing we wondered – What the fuck? – was superseded by a female friend's cooing, "Ooh, that's such a cute bathing suit." Sure, perhaps it was, but what the hell did Hollywood's most awkward looking Oscar winner have to offer? It must've been juicy, since she pushed Sheryl Crow's breakup-with-Lance-Armstrong-and-surviving-breast-cancer item further into the well. And under any normal circumstances – I'm leaving my husband of eight years because he's got a "substance abuse" problem – we might've read the text sandwiched between the photos of Hilary in more cute bikinis. But we didn't. Instead, we read Oprah-hating Bill Robinson's take.

Putting aside the obvious question of who fucking cares, there was the sadder feeling of a two-time Oscar winner ratting out her ex-tv star ex-husband (whom she forgot to thank in her acceptance speech) after dumping him. Why would she do such a graceless, tacky thing? Then it all clicked: she wanted the cover of Vanity Fair. And she got it.

Mystery solved. Now can we get back to the pivotal question: Who fucking cares? This isn't Teri Hatcher talking about her childhood molestation or Linsdsay Lohan sorta admitting she's got a coke and not-eating problem. It's boring ass Swank with a boring ass tale of heartbreak, and we don't even know what the "substance" part of the abuse is.

How To Sell Your Soul for the Cover of Vanity Fair! [Bill Robinson, Huffington Post]