[My friend Peter Sheridan is a Los Angeles-based correspondent for British national newspapers. He has covered revolutions, civil wars, riots, wildfires, and Hollywood celebrity misdeeds for longer than he cares to remember. As part of his job, he must read all the weekly tabloids. For the past couple of years, he's been posting terrific weekly tabloid recaps on Facebook and has graciously given us permission to run them on Boing Boing. Enjoy! – Mark]

Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia was "murdered by a hooker," reports the National Enquirer, while Robert Wagner finally gave a "murder confession" admitting to slaying Natalie Wood, according to the Globe.

Only one small detail is missing from these stories. Facts.

They have as much plausibility as the two women who tell this week's Enquirer that they had babies following sex romps with space aliens (expect Donald Trump and Ted Cruz to call for the infants' deportation), and the 17th century English prophet Thomas Totney's predictions of space travel reported (belatedly, some might say) in the Examiner.

The facts: Scalia suffered from coronary artery disease, diabetes and other ailments, routinely slept with a breathing apparatus and was propped up on three pillows when he died, according to his family and police, who found Scalia's bedsheets crisp with no sign of a struggle, though a pillow had slipped down over the top of his head, but not enough to obstruct his airway.

But because Scalia's family rejected an autopsy the Enquirer assumes a cover-up, reporting that a "2,000-a-night" prostitute employed by the CIA "injected Scalia with a needle filled with poison in his buttocks" in a bid to reshape the Supreme Court.

Let's think about this for one second. If you are the CIA, why would you employ a hooker – at any price – to kill a Supreme Court justice, when you have legions of trained operatives who could do the task more efficiently? Scalia died at an $800-a-night suite in a Texas ranch, while "just days before" across the border a "CIA spy" was seen visiting a Mexican brothel "looking for a girl to keep an older VIP gentleman company," says the Enquirer. So now we're to believe that the CIA not only recruited a hooker as its killer, but went to Mexico to find one, because everyone knows that Mexican border bordellos have the best-trained killer-hookers if you ever need a Supreme Court Justice lethally injected in the backside?

Their source? "An insider at the El Toreo Bar in Ojinaga, Mexico." Sounds like an unimpeachable source to me.

As for Robert Wagner, I'm beginning to feel genuine sympathy for this man who finds himself accused of murdering his wife almost every single week in the tabloids. This week the Globe and Enquirer teamed up to ambush Wagner, having Natalie Wood's sister Lana confront him demanding answers while a video camera rolled.

"Robert Wagner confesses," states the Globe. "Wagner unwittingly revealed he murdered his movie-siren wife," reports the Enquirer.

So what exactly did Wagner confess to? Absolutely nothing. Assailed outside an awards ceremony honoring his wife, Jill St John, when asked why he wouldn't speak with detectives – having spoken to them repeatedly for years in the past – an understandably upset Wagner replied: "Why would you even bring up anything like that? . . . I have talked to everybody . . . You have accused me of murdering her."

How is this a confession? The tabloids call upon the services of "top body language expert Susan Constantine" to watch the video and conclude that Wagner is "concealing information," and that by calling Natalie Wood "her" instead of using her name, Wagner is distancing himself from his deceased wife in the same way that killers try to dissociate themselves from their victims.

And that's what passes for a "murder confession" in the world of the tabloids. I think even a Saudi Arabian court might throw out that piece of evidence.

In other Enquirer revelations, Paul McCartney's "friends" fear he is battling Alzheimer's disease as the 73-year-old admits that he can't remember the lyrics to every song he ever wrote (as if anyone could); Nicole Kidman is caught in a passionate clinch with Alexander Skarsgard that the Enquirer assures will drive her husband Keith Urban "crazy" – at least, until he realizes it's just a scene from their latest movie; and Johnny Depp is at the center of a "murder mystery," which turns out to be the disappearance of a business partner 14 years ago, which the police label as a "missing person's case" and not a murder.

The Globe continues its incisive political coverage by reporting "The Pope Is A Dope" for branding their beloved Donald Trump un-Christian in his desire to build a border wall.

The Examiner reports on the "sad last days" of Michael Douglas, Jack Nicholson, Richard Dreyfuss, Ryan O'Neal, Valerie Harper and Joanne Woodward, because apparently once you're over 72 you're living on borrowed time and by definition must be miserable.

Fortunately we have the celebrity magazines to bring us cheer. Us magazine's cover boasts Kim Kardashian telling hubby Kanye West "You need therapy" (didn't we all know that, anyway?), Lea Michelle's "devastating breakup," and Taylor Swift's "angry feud" with Demi Lovato. Wait – that's all truly depressing.

Elizabeth Taylor's "intimate secrets" and "never before seen photos" claim the cover of People magazine, though a photo of Taylor in a kitchen and sunbathing on a yacht hardly seem earth-shattering, while the "secret" that she once hitchhiked for a lark in an upscale beach resort sheds little light on her complex personality – and that's the biggest "secret" exposed.

Us mag reveals that Kendall Jenner wore it best, Yoko Ono admits to wearing sunglasses everywhere, "even in the theatre," singer Santigold stuffs her purse with sneakers, lip salve, keys, and a Labradorite rock that "prevents negative energy," and the stars are just like us: they practice yoga, carry gifts and decorate cakes.

Headline honors of the week go to the Globe for "Seal Begs Heidi: Klum Back To Me!"

We should have seen that kluming.

Onwards and downwards . . .