Recently, I found a copy of a celebrity gossip magazine I’d never seen before. This glossy rag fawned so dotingly, so gushingly over the stars, it made The National Enquirer look like The Wall Street Journal.

Let’s take a look at the issues covered in a single issue of this magazine, which I will call The Weekly Ass-Smoocher:

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are facing yet another challenge in their Hollywood marriage! Plus, Jennifer Anniston might not be 100 percent over Brad Pitt yet!

Lindsay Lohan has changed her look! Tori Spelling has lost too much weight! One of the Olsen twins is also dangerously thin!

Kirstie Alley is keeping the pounds off … but for how long?!

REALLY, WHO GIVES A CRICKET’S CRAP ABOUT ANY OF THAT?

Brad and Angelina are just an acting couple … and let’s face it, they’re no Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. I used to act with more sincerity back in grade school, when I would fake stomach flu to get out of taking a test.

And Jennifer Anniston – I’m not even sure what she does in front of cameras can be called acting. It looks more like wandering around with a vague smile (happy!) or a constipated look (not happy!) on her face. Actresses like her convey anger by shaking their heads and saying, “Grrrrr!!!” That might work in a grade-school production of “The Wizard of Oz,” playing the Cowardly Lion, but it’s not exactly what I’d call Oscar bait.

As for Lindsay Lohan, Tori Spelling, the Olsen twins … Sure, they’ve all done some acting over the years, but I suppose Meryl Streep ain’t losing any sleep over them.

I seem to recall, one Olsen twin has a healthy weight while folks wonder if the other is puking up yards of intestines, but to me, they both look like praying mantises in blonde wigs. What wonderful role models for teen girls everywhere. If you want to be really popular, just stick your weensy, twig-like finger down your throat and blort up everything you’ve ever eaten. But make sure you have lots of blonde hair and a rack, or else the boys won’t think you’re sexy.

I do like Kirstie Alley. I think she’s very funny and I like her cute, off-to-one-side smile. But the weight-loss updates just get tedious after a while. One minute, she loses five pounds. Hurray! Cheers for Kirstie! She’s a full five pounds lighter! Then she weighs herself again to be sure… What the–? Now she’s ten pounds heavier! Oh NO! It’s the great American tragedy!

Do you wish you could be as rich and as popular as any of those folks? If so, you need an Extreme Make-Over, Hollywood-Style!

Here’s what you do:

First, have a plastic surgeon inject your lips with foam rubber or toxic waste or liquefied baby seals — whatever Hollywood hotties are using these days.

Then have that same beauty professional inject Botox into your forehead and your crow’s feet until you are incapable of registering even the tiniest human emotion from the cheekbones up.

Then have a dental specialist slap snow-white veneers on your teeth so your ultra-shiny, gleaming smile can be used to project a laser beam at James Bond’s crotch, a la Goldfinger.

Now, have a high-profile relationship with someone just as perfect and artificial as you. Remember, don’t develop any talent in your travels, and make sure you marry someone equally inept.

Have a big, crazy wedding with helicopters flying overhead and supermodels giving blowjobs to rock stars in the back row of the church. Or football stadium, wherever you decide to hold this memorable, cherished event.

After you’re married to your fellow airhead, cheat on them while they’re cheating on you, and make sure reporters catch all the juicy, sleazy details.

So far, so good. Now: develop an eating disorder! The majority of Americans have terrible eating habits, so they’ll be able to identify with you and share your pain. Let the reporters know if your weight changes by even half an ounce. Did you just break wind with more enthusiasm than usual? That counts as weight loss, so alert the media! Balloon up to three-hundred pounds! Shrivel down to seventy-five pounds! And keep notes, you’ll want to write a book about it someday.

While you’re at it, you might as well develop a few substance-abuse problems. Drink like a fish, pop more pills than Elvis, and then grind up a few pills, mix them with Columbian happy-dust and snort the whole mess up your nose. Then show up at swanky red-carpet premieres, bleeding from every orifice. Classy!

How will you be able to pay for all these extravagances? Record a few songs, star in a few reality shows, make a few commercials for fast-food or make-up or something else Americans don’t really need. Amp up the glamour for heart-clotting aerosol cheese. Walk the whole concept of canned ravioli down the catwalk, girlfriend!

Hell, why limit yourself to just being human? Have a team of scientists turn you into an eight-foot cyborg with metal claws for hands and army-tank treads for feet. Now THAT’S hot!

So there you have it: your new Hollywood-Style Extreme Makeover. Don’t just sit there being a worthwhile person who no one has ever heard of. Go out there and be a witless no-talent who everybody absolutely adores!