Not that it's beneath me to repeat a rant, but I feel somewhat guilty regurgitating one that I just wrote; however, I can't swallow the rage that's swelling up as I sit here watching Oprah's special birthday show to celebrate that she dropped like a stone from her mother's womb half a century ago.

Her longtime "best friend" Gayle is hosting the torrid affair -- er, sordid affair. They've decorated the stage with rose-covered prosceniums framing baby photographs of her, and I suppose I have to give Oprah credit for allowing some of those into the public eye (although as I say that, I realize that some production assistants will probably be murdered and strung up in the Harpo hallways as a warning to all future party planners).

At any rate, Gayle -- who looks oddly like Whitney Houston would if she gave up the cocaine and ate a meatball sub every now and then -- brought Oprah out on the stage. Oprah wandered out with a confused, bemused expression on her face, as if to say, "WHAT have you crazy people done, and why?!?" And then she saw the stage and the "realization" dawned on her that it was a slamming party for her 50th birthday. Which she of course already knew, but is pretending she thought would just be, like, an interview and maybe a clip show, even though just last week she rolled over in bed and held a letter-opener to Gayle's throat and purred, "You're doing testimonials, RIGHT? RIGHT?!?"

So, Oprah comes out, and then Gayle introduces the guest host for the day: John Travolta, who does a joyful Michael fat-angel shuffle out to the dulcet strains of 50 Cent's In Da Club. It dawns on me that John Travolta possibly thinks dis club is Scientology.

Oprah freaks out, as she does when her famous friends show up on her program, because even though they talk a lot and she's seen them a gazillion times, she still wants to present the image of, "WHAAA? You came HERE for little ol' MEEEEE?" She has a hobby of acting like she's never seen a celebrity before, which might be endearing if she were a smaller-time host than Oprah Winfrey, who has not only met most of these people socially, but interviewed them all on her show, been surprised by them before, and conjured the exact same reaction. In the next segment she even goes so far as to gawk, "JOHN TRAVOLTA!!! Is HERE!!!" She can't even hug him, she's so "star-struck."

(Later, we'll find out that Oprah was erroneously told she could get nominated for an acting Emmy� for these performances, at which point she was heard to cackle, "Suck on THIS jelly, Lucci," while beheading a chicken.)

Travolta then pours them all some champagne and delivers a tearful memorized toast to Oprah, during which he actually spits up, "You are a hero to mankind." Oprah looks surprised -- the line she had written was, "You are an IDOL to mankind" -- and fans herself off dramatically. Travolta repeats these platitudes a few times in different ways, because it's the first time he's been in the spotlight since all those interviews he did bitterly reminding the world that they offered Billy Flynn to him FIRST, and he turned it DOWN, and WHY, L. Ron Hubbard, WHY, WHY would your religion not steer him straight to Chicago?

Gayle also introduces Stedman Graham, Oprah's longtime "fiance," who stands there looking every inch the walking, talking beard. He wears an impassive expression: head tilted back ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, and a tiny startled smile curling up the corners of his mouth. Stedman, we soon learn, does not have any other ways in which to arrange his features. Gayle meanwhile seriously does look like the spawn of Whitney Houston and Hilary Swank.

Testimonials: Is it polite to wish that someone with a food addiction would receive a gigantic sugary birthday cake on her special day? Because Jennifer Lopez just did. Meanwhile, Jennifer Aniston had the gall to wipe her eyes and suggest that the world became a better place the instant Oprah was born. "And a much smaller place," my coworker Rick observes. "And a hungrier one," I add.

In Quincy Jones' taped message, he reveals that he's "never loved another human being as much as [he] love[s] her." Quincy Jones has three ex-wives and six children who are delighted, just tickled, to hear this. Meanwhile, Michael Douglas tells her she doesn't look a day over forty, and the look on Oprah's face is as if someone suggested Sweet Valley High #11: Too Good To Be True as novel to revive the book club. Spielberg's testimonial is actually an apology for slapping so much makeup on her during The Color Purple, seriously saying that he was trying to "conform to the image of the character," or something, but basically what remains unsaid is that she needed it back then. Spielberg sputters something about not knowing how hot she was -- and then they cut to a shot of skinny Oprah looking all happy, as if to say, "Steven Spielberg worked with Oprah when she was overweight and homely. If he'd known she had an eating disorder coming up, he'd have delayed production."

Oh, and Nelson Mandela and Sidney Poitier both basically credit Oprah with stopping world hunger and teaching our cold, dead souls how to love. I'm not sure; I was hypnotized at this point by the look of annoyed distaste that's affixed to Oprah's face when they show photos of needy children Africa -- the same kids she's allegedly saved from starvation and from themselves and from The Bumble.

Once it's clear that John Travolta thinks he can dance and sing and speechify this thing into eternity, Gayle interrupts him to introduce a song. The strains of "Simply The Best" play, because they'd like to be subtle about their feelings for Oprah, and "Private Dancer" seemed too on-point. A stage pops out and Tina Turner struts around for a while Oprah practically vomits up the lyrics and then faints, again as if she hasn't had Tina Turner on the show a million times before. Oprah stands in the audience next to Gayle and Travolta, and in front of Stedman, and proceeds to dance. Stedman stands woodenly and then literally rests his hands on Oprah's corseted waist, rocking back and forth awkwardly as he pretends he's touched her like this before. They just sort of exist there, like spiky tumors. It's so unfamiliar and distant, you expect her to slap his hand away and snarl, "Easy there, Stewart, I haven�t paid you yet today."

Heather: OH MY GOD, WHO TOLD JOHN TRAVOLTA HE COULD SING? WHO?!?

Omar: Oh, lordy.

Heather: STEVIE WONDER IS THERE.

Heather: Oops.

Omar: Did Stevie fall?

Heather: No, I left the caps lock on. Please, they wheel Stevie everywhere. I think he's stapled to the dais.

Oprah doesn't bother almost passing out, since Stevie wouldn�t know the difference; instead, she recommences the rocking, at which time Stedman realizes he's supposed to try and touch her again, and stiffly obliges. Oprah throws out her arms and boogies without actually brushing up against her "fiance's" body, because she's accidentally done that before and the full-body beard burn lasted for weeks.

Travolta boogies to "You Are The Sunshine Of My Life" and positively radiates queen. He's gay as a balloon.

Jay Leno crouches behind the giant cake as it's wheeled out, and the music director cues up the Tonight Show theme a fraction too early. Nevertheless, Oprah jumps three feet in the air when Jay Leno reveals himself even after several bars of his song have already spoiled the surprise. She leaps onto him. Stedman, standing like a cardboard cutout near his chair, leans back a little and isn't sure what facial expression to register, nor precisely how to do it, so he just checks out and sends his brain to the happy place.

Tina Turner sings "Proud Mary," and Stedman pretends to know the words by doing that thing where he mouths gibberish and then tries to latch onto the tail end of a line if he can correctly guess what it's going to say. He finally cottons onto "rollin'" as a repeated theme. Oprah is caught on camera fumbling the lyrics, too. Later today, a news report will confirm that the lensman accidentally tragically decapitated himself while unplugging his camera.

The show ends with a birthday-related tune sung by Stevie Wonder, Tina Turner, and, yes, John Travolta. Somebody keeps handing that jackhole a microphone -- evidently, with the instruction, "Whatever you do, do NOT deep-throat this on television. Oprah's not that kind of girl," and apparently the only other thing Travolta can think of to do with the phallic object is sing into it like he's performing karaoke on his boyfriend's wang.

This, by the way, was promoted as being "a very special group salute to Oprah." SERIOUSLY. Stevie! Tina! Travolta! One of these things is not like the other -- and I'm not talking about the fact that Stevie can't see and Tina has breasts (which, incidentally, would leave Stevie as the odd man out again). Travolta's manager is, at this moment, screaming at his secretary to bring him some Jack Daniels. And hopefully, instead of watching, Kelly Preston is at home, catatonic, rocking back and forth, back and forth, with a grin plastered on her face a glazed look in her eye. Her poor husband is, in the immortal words of Joan Collins, suffering from delusions of adequacy.

At long last -- it was the most jaw-droppingly appalling and long hour of my life -- the show actually concludes with Oprah whining, "I don't like surprises, but y'all did pretty well."

Yeah. That's nice. Real grateful. Maybe she's ticked that apparently they could only get Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, and John Travolta -- three people with nowhere else to be -- to come to Chicago to spend an hour fussing over Her Godliness. It could've been worse: The stage could've been crammed with celebrities.

Sigh. Happy fucking half-century, babe.