So I gather there's been some ruckus raised over the "OMFG" ad campaign the CW has plastered on billboards and bus placards hither and yon. I even saw a story on CNN about it, which just tells me the old adage is true: "There's no such thing as bad publicity." Heck, if the massively puckered people taking time away from home-schooling to lodge protests think those ads are bad, imagine how they'd react if they actually watched the show! OMFG, indeed.

Boy, it's nice to be back in the haute couture saddle! We're sandwiching the entire back nine's worth of conniving and bitchery into five hard-won, post-Strike episodes, so hang onto your hats -- it's probably gonna be a bumpy ride. When we last saw our favorite snotty uber-rich Upper East Siders, Blair had been outed as a Chuck-fucking slut, Nate and Chuck had broken up over the same, Jenny had hooked her Payless high heel to a higher rung on the social ladder, and Serena and Eric were on the brink of becoming Chuck's siblings, thanks to Bart Badass' corporate raid on Lily van der Woodsen. Can you imagine sharing a bathroom with Chuck Bass? Stock up on Purell, S! And bring your own can of Lysol!

Revealed? More like Gossip Girl Wearing A Padded Bra. In an attempt to both lure new viewers and get repeat business from those of us already hooked, the CW repackaged the pilot with a bunch of "bonus materials," including unaired tidbits, interview segments and outtakes, stretching the typical hour into a solid ninety minutes of fab fashion and gabbiness. The biggest reveal to me was how much I'd missed the snotty little suckers.

Y'all better soak up all the nasty implications, manipulation, and back-stabbing you can: this is the last episode of Gossip Girl, at least until after the writers' strike is over. Thank goodness there's plenty of ugliness to tide us over until whenever.

I must have been pretty good last year, since Santa fulfilled so many of my holiday wishes: I got Chuck back on this side of The Pond, I got Nate more naked, more often (with bonus moments of heroism and competence on the side!), I got Blair doing something vaguely compassionate, even if it was for selfish reasons, and best of all, I didn't have to deal with Jenny Humphrey or her mother for an entire hour. Happy New Year, indeed!

'Twas the night before hiatus, when all through the Upper East Side
Music blared, tempers flared and Blair was fit to be tied.
It seems her dear old dad, so jolly and gay
Brought home Roman, his boyfriend, for the big holiday.
Roman dressed all in couture from his feet to his head
But still managed to look like he just climbed out of Dad's bed.
Tears were shed and feelings hurt. Blair treated Roman like Eurotrash dirt.
But family is family, even if they all wear pants;
At least Blair will have her own room when she visits them in France.

Last night, Blair Waldorf rode on an elephant, waving regally to crowds lining the streets, while Nate Archibald danced behind her in a wig of blonde pigtails and a cheerleader costume. Okay, not really, that's just the crazy dream I had. Imagine my relief when I woke up and realized I didn't have to recap that circus, just the social rigmarole of the annual "Dispensary Cotillion And Debutante Ball" at the Palace Hotel, where young ladies of a certain social class come out to society. It's kind of like brood mares being presented at auction. Oh, and for the record, girls come out down South at a "cotillon" not a "cotill-i-on." My niece in Atlanta goes to Cotillon class on Friday nights. She can tell from a hundred paces whether a boy has gone to Cotillon or not -- "They hold doors open for you," she told me. Unlike the New York boys, who seem to be so wrapped up in each other that they can barely bother to partner their twirly birds around the floor.

Family, schmamily…you know what this episode needed? Chuck! While we mired ourselves in family this and family that, I bet Chuck was off somewhere snorting coke out of a hooker's belly button while his dad indulged in a little corporate raiding and his mom worked on her tan.

If Blair Waldorf's seventeenth birthday party is an espresso, my night was more like a lukewarm mug of chamomile tea. Our entire family got flu shots yesterday, and despite Advil all around, we're hurtin' pups, so bear with me as I try to sort out the sortie for y'all while I type mostly one-handed and go "ow ow ow" a lot.

I think we should sic Blair Waldorf on the WGA strike stalemate -- twenty bucks says she could get both sides to sign an agreement within hours just to get her off their backs. Or maybe Serena would be a better bet, with her special blend of sunshine and ditziness. Or Chuck Ass, though he'd probably just piss off the writers by siding with the rich dicks. As a last resort we could send in Nate, sweet chump that he is, and the writers would see how much he needs their direction and guidance. Without the writers, Nate might roam aimlessly among Blair, Serena, and Chuck, searching blearily for meaning and love. Oh, wait, he does that anyway. Never mind!