Is it just me … or have things gotten worse? Between the blogs, blab, and tell-all tomes, we have seen and heard more—much more—than we want or need to know about Britney and K-Fed, Whitney and Bobby, Jessica and Nick, Paul and Heather, Ellen and Ron, Anna Nicole Smith (tragic as it was), Lindsay and the Man of the Week (or night for that matter), Paris and Nicole, Madonna and Angelina (with all those babies).

The paparazzi first zoomed in on Bennifer, then shifted to Brangelina, and now are focusing on TomKat. We have been inundated with sordid tales of DUI arrests (thanks to Mel, Paris, and Nicole), Lindsay Lohan and her sobriety (or lack thereof), Russell Crowe and Naomi Campbell (hold the phone!). Recently, Judith Regan and O.J. squeezed the last bit of juice from his 12-year-old beaten murder wrap in the form of a misguided—and aborted—book/TV deal that would have told the world “if he did it, how it happened.”

Give me a break! Now celebs are not only signing book contracts to dish about scandals and affairs that did happen, they’re getting paid to talk about what might have been. As Denise Brown, sister of the late Nicole Brown Simpson, said on Larry King Live recently, the last thing that we—or the Simpson children, or the high school kids of America—needed was a manual on how to commit murder.

What a relief it is to know that O.J.’s story won’t be published. His interview won’t be aired. And his book won’t be sold online. We need more media outlets to look past the ratings and take a moral stand. We should stop paying attention to this tasteless behavior. We should stop listening and watching till these people clean up their acts. Okay … enough should-ing!

Back in the golden age of Hollywood, from the late ’20s to the late ’40s, movie stars recognized their obligation to the public at large, and to the studios they represented. Back then, stars didn’t run out to get a cup of coffee or even hit the local supermarket without first dressing and making up, impeccably. Gloria Swanson, Carole Lombard, and Katharine Hepburn would never have pulled a Britney (will somebody please buy that girl some underwear?). Less was more. Studio publicists and managers realized back then that the less the public knew about what their stars were really like, the more fans could fantasize that they were the characters portrayed on the big screen. We want our stars to be heroes—larger than life. We want them to look, act, and behave admirably … or do we? But these headlines are what sell! Scandals, sexcapades, and slurs are what keep the tabloids and the paparazzi turning a profit. It’s like watching a train wreck, and for some reason, we just can’t turn away. So then who’s to blame? The celebs for acting out? The media for selling it? Or us for loving it?

Although we know that Elizabeth Taylor and Zsa Zsa Gabor had seven and nine husbands, respectively, and a stormy relationship or two (or three!), they have always said that they simply married all of the men they slept with. Back then, there were rings at the altar, sans the bassinettes. Nowadays, celebs just don’t care. They have no shame, no humiliation, no conscience, as long as they can push their wares.

We’ve all had a friend or relative—or have, ourselves—been besotted with a passionate love. But very few of us jump up and down on a sofa in a crowded room (let alone in front of a television audience of millions) to shout, “I love this woman!” (à la Tom Cruise on The Oprah Winfrey Show). You can love—even lust—after someone, and still tone down the PDAs. What is it with these celebs and their making out in restaurants, in bars, and on the red carpet? That’s what they have (multiple) homes for. They should take a page out of the journal of Prince Charles. During all of those years of canoodling with Camilla, it was all done behind closed doors of the country homes of family and friends. Discretion is the greater part of valor.

In 2004, we watched James McGreevey, stunned wife at his side, proclaim, “I am a gay American” and tearfully resign from the office of governor of New Jersey. McGreevey confessed that he had placed a male lover in a state job for which he wasn’t qualified. Next thing we knew, there he was, repentant and promoting his confessional tome about the whole mess on Larry King Live and slapping a wet one on his handsome new Aussie lover while introducing him. What a difference two years makes! From toppled to top of the world! From public humiliation to a new coming-out party! The former governor didn’t sense the inappropriateness of PDAs (no matter one’s sexual preference) on national TV. (No, Rosie, no homophobia here!) He didn’t see the shame in discussing the sexual encounters at rest stops … or maybe he did, but he was holding his head just high enough to promote his memoir. What could be next but the soon-to-be-hailed resurrection of Mel Gibson, as Oscar time draws near and his latest film, Apocalypto, gets buzz?

We’re all in favor of everyone living the life they choose. Be true to yourself. But quite frankly, maybe some of this stuff should go back in the closet.

All’s well that ends well. Enough, please, enough. ’Tis the season to end this folly…. Get out the mistletoe in the privacy of your home, and sit back and enjoy The Sheet! Happy holidays!