According to CNN, 80 to 90 percent of the pro athletes out there cheat—the latest being murder-suicide victim, Steve McNair. Without getting into the whys—because the blow jobs are better, because it feeds the ego, because they are constantly on the road, because, well, they can—Lisa DePaulo is giving some insight into how these non-relationship relationships go down on The Daily Beast. It all has to do with the social rules almost every athlete and mistress follows — a code that McNair’s girl on the side (or one of them), didn’t adhere to, apparently. (If you remember, DePaulo has a bit of experience covering athletes and the lady-folk who follow them; she hung out with and wrote about a gaggle of NBA groupies during the All-Star weekend for GQ. Read it, if you haven’t already.) According to her, McNair and 20-year-old Sahel Kazemi weren’t playing by the rules...

Following a long line of notable affairs—A-Rod and Madonna, Eliot Spitzer and an escort, and Jon and Kate’s various trysts—Gov. Mark Sanford recently revealed he’s been having an affair with a woman in Argentina.

Of course, this is after Gov. Sanford (previously only noteworthy for refusing Pres. Obama’s stimulus funds) disappeared and then reappeared, claiming to have gone hiking on the Appalachian Trail. Unfortunately for the family-friendly governor, his cover story happened to highlight Naked Hiking Day. Man, some people just can’t catch a break.

The rumors that Twilight author Stephenie Meyer is being sued by a former college roommate for plagiarism are untrue. There are at least five reasons that make these rumors suspect. [Twilight Lexicon]

Miss California may have given what Perez Hilton called the “worst answer in pageant history,” but what about Miss North Carolina Kristen Dalton, who walked away with the Miss USA tiara? [Pop Eater]

Keep the laughter going and check out the five dumbest pageant moments. [Dumb As a Blog]—I can watch Miss Teen South Carolina’s answer during the 2007 Miss Teen USA pageant over and over and over.

I tried marriage and I don’t understand the attraction. I hated it. It’s such hard work. I had to organize the maids, the chef, assistants, chauffeurs, gardeners. All that staff. Exhausting. What really did it for me was when my husband told me he wanted children. Can you imagine? Ruining your figure for babies; those smelly things that leak at both ends?

At the beginning of a marriage everyone is on their best behavior. Everyone is pretending to be something their not. He’s pretending to be terribly fascinated in everything you say, he brushes his teeth, acts like a super stud in the bedroom, and living room, and kitchen… And we women pretend that he’s our “super hero,” we wear high heels and naughty little teddies, we shave our legs everyday. But six months and he’s turned deaf and dumb, your legs are hairy, neither one of you has brushed your teeth, you pick your nose and he picks his butt. He farts, you burp. The teddies have been replaced with sweats; he sits in front of the TV with the “game” on, mumbling, a beer in hand. You barely speak to each other; you’re too tired to have sex. Marriage. What is the advantage?

After I broke up with my sweet college boyfriend, a decent man who never ran me through the ringer, who responded to my bouts of recklessness and immaturity with compassion and sympathy, a guy who never did me wrong, I desired nothing more than desire itself. After years of slow and steady I yearned for spark and drama. Conveniently, along came Matt.

Matt was British, a very recent London transplant, and I was still inexperienced enough to equate his lilting accent with worldly sophistication. Like me, he worked in the magazine business, so we had that in common, though I’m not sure we ever went so far as to discuss the intricacies of that bizarre industry. In fact, we spoke very little, as we were highly preoccupied with having fabulous, mind-blowingly awesome sex. We did it everywhere—the Natural History Museum, a New York City alleyway, and of course in all the more traditional places such as the kitchen counter and my bed. The sheer quantity and quality of the sex should have been my first indication that something was rotten in the East Village.

So, The National Enquirer is claiming that John Edwards has a mistress and a love child and that he was totally caught visiting with them at a hotel recently. All this while his wife Elizabeth is still dealing with cancer. Now, this is the National Enquirer we’re talking about, so this is hardly FACT, but politicians stepping out on their wives is hardly an original rumor. Besides, despite the fact that my Grandma calls it “the trash”, they have been right on more than one occasion. Our lovely intern Annika revisits the Enquirer‘s moments of “A-ha! We told you so!”