Okay, so Clooney didn't strike cinematic gold with his latest flick, Leatherheads. With a name like that, what did you really expect? Personally, I assumed it was a period piece involving medieval torture. No? Oh, a film about the beginnings of American football? With a romantic angle? That sounds great. Something that would really appeal to sports buffs and romantic comedy enthusiasts. No, you say? Only George Clooney fans? Huh, so this was Clooney's Swept Away (the Madonna epic that even had her fans leaving the theater early). Well, every celebrity is entitled to one of those. It could be worse. I mean, for newly deceased Charlton Heston it was heading the National Rifle Association.

Basically, we all screw up. It happens. Anyway, George Clooney always managed to dodge bullets with his good looks and wit; it's about time something caught up with him. Then again, we don't see his STI tests, so maybe I'm being presumptuous. The favorite child has to fuck up sooner or later. It's kind of a relief, really. Hollywood can breathe easy for a night, knowing they missed out on being involved in George's pet project. But here's where it bruises the ego. George withdrew from the writers' guild because it rejected his request to get a writing credit for Leatherheads. That sounds like someone's way of saying, "We're doing this for your own good," or "We're taking advantage of the handful of low points your career will ever have, George." And while we're on the topic of low career points, the constant references to George's being on the cast of The Facts of Life as an embarrassing piece of information is so overused and blown out of proportion: "Hey, George, remember when you used to be on a popular prime-time show with a bunch of fat chicks which, if anything, was a pretty good résumé builder?"

Oh wait, that's right, George-Sylvester Stallone did porn; you, a bad TV show.