Do you hear that noise? The distinct tween-age squeal bordering between adolescent mania and unhealthy obsession? Don’t lock your doors just yet, there’s a likely explanation for all of this: The newest installment of the “Twilight” saga is opening in theaters tonight at midnight.

As this celebrity-trash spiel goes to print, lonely teenage girls across the country are donning their tackiest Edward Cullen T-shirts and abusing Kristen Stewart voodoo dolls in preparation for the much-talked about premiere of “Twilight: New Moon.” Exactly why this series — which documents a hilariously contrived romance between a sparkly vampire and an awkward high school girl — has been such a monster hit among Twihards is beyond me. The only thing I am sure of is that Robert Pattinson, the male star of the series, will have to hire 12 extra bodyguards to protect himself from all the underage girls and sexually frustrated women who will attempt to pull off his limbs to take home a souvenir from the film’s red carpet premiere.

On the topic of media-blitz tours, Sarah Palin is out on the talk show circuit promoting her “memoir,” the hastily ghostwritten “Going Rogue.” Can you believe this literary extraordinaire reportedly received upwards of $5 million as an advance for her underdeveloped musings and insults? No wonder the publishing industry is in such bad shape. While Palin was crying to Oprah and Barbara Walters about her daughter Bristol’s baby-mama woes, Levi Johnston — the Alaskan hunk who knocked up Palin’s teenage spawn — was shedding his moose-skin garments for a scandalous Playgirl spread. It’s amazing to think that a little more than 12 months ago this woman was vying to be a heartbeat away from the presidency.

Sarah Palin isn’t the only Bible-thumping conservative darling pushing an illiterate memoir these days. Former Miss California Carrie Prejean, a woman who should have lost all media relevancy exactly 15 minutes after Perez asked for her opinion about gay marriage, is hawking her own narrative and using the opportunity to position herself as a liberal media martyr. To that end, Prejean recently freaked out on Larry King Live when the King of Softball Questions was unsatisfied with her publicist-approved responses to his predictably ordinary queries.

Too bad this Barbie look-alike has too many skeletons in her closet to make a convincing campaign as the cover girl of Christianity. One of Prejean’s former boyfriends has recently been peddling up to eight different sex videos starring Miss Anti-Gay Marriage. While two gay partners tying the knot is indefensible to Prejean’s sensibilities, she contends that pageant-subsidized boob jobs and solo sex tapes are A-OK with Jesus. The most unsettling part of this debacle is that Prejean’s own mother was reportedly with her daughter in their lawyer’s office as the tapes were played. They’re going to have one awkward Thanksgiving.

Moving on to more salacious family drama, Michael Lohan is garnering further support for his Worst Father of the Year award. Daddy Lohan has been tape-recording his tragic phone conversations with his troubled daughter Lindsay. If that wasn’t disgusting enough, he has been selling the tapes to the media, consequently revealing that Lindz was “special friends” with the late Heath Ledger in the weeks before his death. Her dad claims that he is only leaking these private conversations to encourage Lindsay to get help for her chemical and emotional issues. It’s truly fitting that Michael Lohan and father-of-eight Jon Gosselin have been photographed numerous times during their playdates, because neither man is above selling out his own children for media exposure.

Fergalicious Black Eyed Peas frontwoman Fergie-Ferg is also discovering that family life isn’t all gumdrops and diamond rings. A money-hungry exotic dancer recently gushed to the National Enquirer about a tawdry one-night fling with Fergie’s new hubby Josh Duhamel. Poor Fergz. Regardless of whether the skeezy allegations are true, these are hardly the rumors a newlywed wants to hear in the months after her fairy-tale wedding. Perhaps part of the problem stems from a recent confession the singer made in the pages of The Advocate, where she claimed her therapist had to teach her the technicalities of infidelity. Apparently, it’s not really cheating if it happens out of state with someone of the same sex or if you paid for a lap dance a few hours prior.

Marital infidelity is gloomy. Let’s move onto a topic everybody enjoys, or at the very least can appreciate reading about: celebrity drug use! If there’s one thing that fame and fortune proves, it’s that access to money leads to boredom, and boredom inevitably leads to experimentation. The latest trashy confessional comes from Harry Potter star Daniel Radcliffe, who allegedly had a giggle-fest at a recent London party, where he proclaimed, “I LOVE WEEEEEED!” I’ll refrain from calling him Harry Pothead from now on, because that title already belongs to Prince Harry.

Another more disturbing claim comes from former tennis great Andre Agassi, who recently admitted that he was high on crystal meth for the better part of the late ’90s. As unsettling as this image may be, it pales in comparison to Agassi’s other allegation: that his famous locks were fake and that a weave covered his balding head. There’s almost nothing I can do to erase the image of his synthetic blonde strands flying across the tennis court.

As we enter the holiday season and begin to look back at what 2009 has given us, we must all remember to thank all of the entertainment our favorite celebrities have given us. Whether they be purity ring-touting role models or booze-drenched trainwrecks, the proud parent of octuplets or the embarrassed mother of yet another panty-less starlet, we should thank our tabloid fodder. Their triumphs and failures allow us to look beyond our everyday struggles and unanimously agree, “Wow, these celebrities are totally shameless.” And for that, I am thankful.

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