With Super Bowl Sunday looming, football pundits worldwide are typing their fingers to the bone predicting who will step up, who will choke, and which commercials will be the most buzz-worthy. Sure, football is a group sport and there's no "I" — or "Eli" — in "team," but we can't help boiling down the big game to its most fascinating matchup: the budding legend versus the legacy kid. How do Tom Brady and Eli Manning stack up, and more important, which one looks better in spandex? Let us be your guides.

TABLOID APPEAL: Tom Brady has been all over the rags this year, thanks to his baby-mama drama with Bridget Moynahan and his ensuing photo-friendly relationship with Gisele. Whereas we only know from Wikipedia that Eli Manning is engaged; "Giants QB Really Digs College Sweetheart" probably won't move any magazines unless he knocks her up with some baby joy. At Tom Brady's house.

Advantage: Tom. Unless you prefer keeping your private life private, but where's the fun there?

Oscar bigwigs released this year's crop of nominees Tuesday, but after the flop that was the Golden Globes (the opening night of awards season), it's tempting to ignore Hollywood's annual self-congratulation spree and embrace a good old-fashioned orgy of shame. That's right, the Razzie Awards! They beat Oscar to the punch Monday, naming their choices for 2007's very worst. As ever, the race for the Golden Raspberry is as tight as Burt Reynolds's face. We can't contain ourselves! So, we won't: Read on for our exuberant choices as to who stank up the screen the most.

Worst Supporting Actor Nominees: Orlando Bloom, Kevin James, Eddie Murphy, Rob Schneider, Jon Voight.

Not to ruin his moment, but we dispute Orlando's inclusion: He looked smoking hot in Yet More Pirates of the Caribbean, and that's truly the most supportive an actor can be. Chuck & Larry's problems go way beyond poor Kevin James, and, let's face it, there's no way Rob Schneider was any worse in that than he is in anything else. That leaves Jon Voight in Bratz (oy) and Eddie Murphy as Mr. Wong in Norbit, another of those parts he hogs because he's a whore for latex makeup. But it's Voight's Razzie to lose, if only because seeing his name next to the word "bratz" makes us want to crawl back into the womb.

This week a new Tom Cruise video hit the Web, believed to be an internal Scientology indoctrination reel (which we can’t confirm; although Tom’s words are definitely English, they make no sense in the unique order he’s chosen). Cruise stars as himself, a fervent believer who practically vibrates with devotion and punctuates his preaching with disturbingly enthusiastic cackles. It's so weird that you can't look away, and the timing couldn’t be better: Ol’ Couchjumper’s recent canon of cracky behavior has inspired such massive piles of intrigue and gossip that he’s become the subject of a book by professional-unauthorized-biographer Andrew Morton. The book attempts to unveil all the dark secrets of Cruise’s mysterious private life, including his not-so-casual involvement with Scientology — and now that this creepy video has hit the Web, Morton’s no doubt thanking the gods for their impeccable timing. But Morton’s reported inability to penetrate Cruise’s closed ranks has turned a hotly anticipated tell-all into a loosely sourced kitchen sink of a book that may, amazingly, do the Cruise camp more good than harm.

As Sunday night approaches and the Golden Globes’ “Night of a Thousand Yawns” press conference looms large and boring, we’re still struggling to absorb the fact that the whole affair will be void of the traditional pageantry. Usually, this is the time when we’re stocking up on Ruffles and dip in preparation for an evening on the couch, wondering if Cate Blanchett will wear Armani (possibly) or something metallic (probably) and laying bets on whether Nicole Kidman’s inevitable Balenciaga will successfully make her look less waxen (doubtful). But this year, no ceremony means no fashion parade: no hits, no misses, no Marchesa. Fine, the sacrifice is all in the name of union labor and whatnot — but will no one think of the outfits?

Yes, it was the year of downward spirals, DUIs, and prison terms, but 2007 was also chockablock with stylistically challenged celebrities digging deep into their pocketbooks and shelling out for some new clothes and coifs — and as a result, of course, positive pro-makeover press. But now that the likes of Katie Holmes, Rihanna, and even — gasp — Fergie are all squared away, we’re turning an eye toward celebs who could use a similar style overhaul in 2008.

Take Heath Ledger, for instance. He’s freshly single, starring in the newest Batman film, and generally young and hot. So it’s beyond us why he insists on slumping around Brooklyn unshaven and wearing a porkpie hat. Wouldn’t his career and personal life continue their upward trajectory with more oomph if he put on a sharp suit occasionally, instead of dressing like he’s gone Method to play the Joker?

Juno star Ellen Page is poised to collect a lot of Hollywood hardware for her mantel/garage shelf/toilet lid. Yet so far she’s rarely worn anything but black or gray on the red carpet, often with an awkwardness evoking a kid eating her first meal at the adults’ table. With the spotlight headed her way, there’s no time like the present to go a bit more glam: Throw in some color, funk up the accessories, and turn the Everygirl into a woman. Done right, no one will remember who actually wins the damn awards.

Now it really stinks to be Jessica Simpson. When her new boyfriend, Tony Romo, played his worst football game of the season in her presence, tabloids and his teammates alike christened her a walking curse. And last week, the cover of Us deemed her "Tortured by Regret" on the premise that she bailed on her marriage and now can't keep a man. Essentially, at the ripe old age of 27, she's been deemed a washed-up dud. We don't even like her, and we think that's rotten.

With Hollywood's warring writers and producers seemingly spending more time on PR statements than negotiations, it's going to be a long, wretched winter for television fans. To patch scheduling holes, networks are rushing out "mid-season replacements" (everything from game shows to reality hours) — essentially, shows that are handy in a pinch, but weren't good enough to debut in the fall. It's the idea that if there's no water at the oasis, we'll just drink the sand; too bad for them we're not so easily satisfied. However, we ARE easily bored without our stories, so if our holiday wish for a speedy, fair strike resolution is impossible, then it'll take some crafty TV-diet substitutions to get us through the drought.

Here are a few simple swaps:

American Gladiators. The show that brought us such spandex-wrapped warriors as "Turbo" and "Zap" obviously occupies its own vital place in TV history. But it also ably replaces the absent 24. Think about it: Jack Bauer runs a lot. He sweats. He does things to America, for America. And he likes to hit people with blunt objects. If he'd had the wherewithal to do it all with a Speedo and a tennis-ball cannon, you'd never even know the difference.

Somehow, despite having a hit show on CBS, Jennifer Love Hewitt has always been best known as that girl from adolescent sob-fest Party of Five. But thanks to the recent combination of a revealing black bikini and a paparazzo’s long lens, she’s now most famous for the contours of her thighs. While having our cellulite plastered all over the Internet would have us crying into a bottle of tequila, Hewitt’s reaction — a quiet, sane post to her blog — was both low-key and dignified. So we’re wondering two things: Who knew Jennifer Love Hewitt, of all people, would become our real-girl hero, and why was she the first person to hit the high road?

For the past year, the tabloids have been obsessed with Bad Girls and the rotating cabal of shaggy, greasy party boys who love them. But as public patience with self-destructive dim-bulbs like Paris Hilton and Britney Spears wanes, mags have cooked up a new dish for us to salivate over: the Good Boy. He's sanitized, sexually harmless, and above all, as bland as an egg-and-egg omelette. In short, he is Gossip Girl's Chace Crawford. Nothing against Crawford: He's coming into his own playing troubled, rich pothead Nate Archibald, and it's possible he secretly digs astrophysics, dog shows, and racing unicycles across shaky rope bridges. But if he is that well rounded, we won't read about it anytime soon. The boy's appeal lies in his intense (but not intimidatingly intelligent) eyes, carefully mussed hair, and TV show aimed squarely at the squalling teens who buy multiple copies of magazines so as to tape the pictures to their bedroom ceilings. Even his maybe-girlfriend Carrie Underwood described Chace's appeal thusly: "He's got cool hair, he's a nice height, and he just has beautiful eyes." How profound. Will they register at Sephora?

We were delighted by Tuesday's news that Paris Hilton's first major humanitarian effort involved encouraging people to stop making alcohol available to a roving gang of binge-drinking elephants in India. Given Paris's countless inarticulate, heavy-lidded avowals that she would devote her post-prison life to charitable work, it seemed poetic than one of Hollywood's most visible drunk party animals would gravitate to staging an intervention for actual drunk animals. Tragically, her publicist debunked the rumor, but it was too late: We were already reminiscing about the Summer of Legal Shenanigans, wondering how the midterm report cards of our favorite famous celebrity miscreants would look — and whether, as they promised, things are going to be different this time.