First off, I want to say that I am not calling Kim Kardashian fat. I would never call a pregnant woman fat, mostly because I don’t need to. It is a known fact that women gain weight during pregnancy–they have to, otherwise their babies will be born glamorously thin, and then have no goals to work towards in life. I will take this opportunity, as I often do, to say this:
Originally, Keeping up with the Kardashians was komprised of 4 sisters: Kim, Khloe, Kourtney, and Killah, the out of work killer whale actress from the Free Willy movies. Killah was let go, however, after it was discovered that her and Khloe wouldn’t fit in the same big black Escalade at the same time. And by big black Escalade, I mean big black dick.
My money is on Kim. Literally. My wallet is sitting on top of her ass in this photo, you just can’t see it hidden behind all the bad fashion.
All I am going to say is that this dress reminds me of her love life.
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It doesn’t matter if you watched the Academy Awards last night or not, you have undoubtedly heard all about it today.
As expected, Jennifer Lawrence was so goddamned down-to-earth, personable and gorgeous that both of America’s previous sweethearts put themselves in the hospital. Julia Roberts smiled so hard her horse teeth cracked into shards, creating a mild earthquake in the San Fernando Valley. Reese Witherspoon hyperventilated, her breaths causing her face to finally cave in on itself, as it has been trying to do since she hatched out of that dragon’s egg so many years ago.
Anne Hathaway was insufferable, making sure to thank every single person in the production, in an effort to not seem insufferable. I am pretty sure her teleprompter just listed the credit roll from Les. Mis. She even thanked the dry oatmeal and celery diet that helped get her crucifixion thin.
Seth MacFarlane was hilarious and charming as a host. If he wasn’t 4 feet tall, I would stick it right up his pooper.
Argo, or whatever movie that is where Ben Affleck borrowed Raquel Welch’s morning wig in order to dress up like a dime-store pedophile and save the world or whatever won best picture, which made me wonder if nobody at the Academy saw Jack and Jill, with that busted Weho tranny Adam Sandler.
But on, to more important things, here are the biggest hot messes of the night :
Adele (pictured above) obviously farted on stage. That look on her face is the same one we all make when we fart in our sleep and it wakes us up. The whole: “Did my boyfriend hear that? Did it actually happen? Just to be safe I better hold my breath and pretend to be asleep. Will he ever look at me sexually again? Oh wait, never mind, I am alone.”
John Travolta’s wig, and his New Jersey bourgouise pronunciation of Les Miseraberlereassay.
Sandra Bullock flashed us a glimpse of her real face, when even her man-hands couldn’t manage to get the envelope open. Now we know the truth- that in her Oscar winning performance for The Blind Side, she played both herself, and that big black football player orphan or whatever. All I’m saying is that you don’t get a neck that thick without bench-pressing a ham hock or two. Or being born with a penis.
Renee Zellweger was shit-faced. She stumbled over her words, swayed back and forth while she was presenting, and was almost knocked over by George Clooney. It is also clearly obvious that when they went backstage, Catherine Zeta (whose presentation reminded me of a Florida drag queen winning a local pageant) dipped into her emergency stash of primo Colombian cocaine to perk Zellweger up enough to form coherent sentences.
Dare I say it, I actually enjoyed the Oscars this year.
Some people may take issue with me calling an accused murderer sexy. My response to that? All murderers are sexy. Obviously. Otherwise, how would they be able to convince their victims to agree to be murdered? And that, kids, is forensic science 101.
Oscar Pistorius used to be known as a noted South African sprint-runner before he went all Casey Anthony with a six-pack on his girlfriend. Call me crazy, but I still think he’s hot as Hell. And a little murder never hurt anyone. (Except of course the people who were murdered). Here are three reasons whey I would still bone Pistorius, regardless of how red his hands are:
1. He’s part robot. If I was Pistorius’s girlfriend, I would never let him take his bionic robot legs off, even if they chafed his stumps in the bedroom. Sex with robots is obviously the wave of the future, and I like to consider myself ahead of the curve. Besides, if his legs are made of metal, imagine what his dick is made of (unless you are one of his future inmates, since I am sure they will catch a glimpse when they are ass-raping him). Lets just say that erectile dysfunction is probably not a problem. Unlike airport security…
2. Height is not an issue. There is nothing sadder than a super hot guy with a great personality, that looks great on paper, but is only 5’7″. Guys that are 5’7″ are proof that God has a sense of humor, because you want so badly to like them and be with them forever, but are constantly reminded that they are short enough to breastfeed without slouching. It’s really not fair. Pistorius probably has like 6 sets of legs that are interchangeable depending on the size of his girlfriend’s heels. That is called being considerate. Tom Cruise, take note.
3.He has an accent. I literally do not care what kind of accent you have, from New Jersey to New Guinea, I think it is sexy. Why? Because I think retards are sexy too, and in my mind, people that can’t speak the same language as me occur as slightly retarded. Is this probably an ignorant American standpoint? Yes. Am I an ignorant American? I don’t know. Would a truly ignorant American admit to that?
In conclusion, I don’t care if Oscar Pistorius murdered his girlfriend in cold blood-he is still a total dreamboat. Or dream motorcycle. Or dream toaster oven. Yee Haw.
More sexy, shirtless pics of Pistorius after the Read more…
Crime, Welfare, Slavery, Timberlands, and Queen Helene haircare products.
Just kidding, that was definitely racist.
Gay Rights: The whole Civil Rights Movement began when Rosa Parks decided she didn’t want to sit on the queef-infested seats at the back of the city bus. If you have ever ridden a city bus, I am sure you can relate, but imagine it without air conditioner and industrial strength deodorants. Buses back then must have smelled like the inside of Christina Aguilera’s spanx after couples night at Golden Corral buffet. In all seriousness though, its because she stood up for her basic human rights that we are able to do it too.
Beyonce: If the almighty Oprah Winfrey is willing to stick her nose so far up Beyonce’s ass it comes out bedazzled in Swarovski crystals, then America should follow suit. Beyonce is an inspiration to us all. Why? Because she is classy in a way that many celebrities aren’t, and no matter how far she gets in life, she doesn’t forget the small people (those backup dancers of hers at the Superbowl whose mics weren’t turned on). I was going to mention hair weave on this list, but saying Beyonce is kind of the same thing, right?
Sending the Ravens to the Superbowl: Lets call a spade a spade. Black people are better at sports. There, I said it.
Underwear: If Eli Whitney had never invented the cotton gin, we would all Read more…
I don’t know much about presidents, except that the current one has two daughters named Nala and Simba, and his wife currently made a very bad decision whilst at the synthetic wig store in downtown DC, but I do know a funny photo when I see one. This composite of President Obama and Jesus not only made me LOL so hard I contracted toxic shock syndrome, but it also got me thinking of previous presidents, and the scandals that followed them around. Not that any of them compare to Michelle Obama’s horrible fringe bangs (made even worse by the fact that Karl Lagerfeld spoke out publicly against them, and I hate to agree with that old cunt on anything). Anyway, here are 4 of the top presidential scandals in the history of the United States.
Richard Nixon was so shady that rumor has it he was born under a redwood tree, which he later chopped down and traded to the Devil in exchange for blood diamonds mined by orphaned African AIDS babies. Everyone has heard of Watergate, but not everyone knows what it is. Thank you, Wikipedia. Apparently, Nixon used stolen money to fund his re-election, and was later accused of covering up a bunch of other illegal activities, which the public discovered because there was a secret tape recording device in his office. He is the only president in US history to have resigned from his post.
Grover Cleveland had a secret kid. Before his election he had an affair with a widow, who bore him a son. He then secretly agreed to pay child support, but ended up putting the kid in an orphanage to be raised by wolves and pedophiles (Or Popes. Same thing, right?)
Ronald Reagan’s administration secretly gave money to Nicaraguan revolutionaries that they obtained by selling weapons to Iran. Reagan was basically the poor man’s butt-baby of Sadaam Hussein and Bin Laden. Unfortch, terrorism wasn’t as chic then as it it today.
Bill Clinton got a blowjob. I will never understand why this was such a scandal, since the president of the United States should be allowed to get blowies all day, every day, from whomever he chooses regardless of political affiliation. As a result, Clinton was almost impeached. If you ask me, seems like a lot of trouble for a Saturday afternoon pump and dump, but the fact that this scandal is even on the list is evidence of just how ass-backwards our country is.
Anyway, Happy President’s Day.
I know the world is up in arms about you singing over an audio track at the inauguration of President Michelle Obama is just like us because she shops at Costco, but I forgive you. Why? Because while I do believe that since we turn recording artists into millionaires, they should be able to sing whatever we want, whenever we want, without objection, I also believe that you have paid your dues and earned the right to just exist–I don’t care whether you ever open your mouth again (unless it’s to scream because you are having a nightmare that Aretha Franklin and Steve Buscemi had a baby named Jay-Z and you married it. In that case, scream away. I know I am).
Here are the reasons I wouldn’t care even if you hummed the Taliban national fight song while drinking champagne in a can during the inauguration:
You convinced the world that you were pregnant when in reality you just balled up some old Yaki mixed with Kelly Rowland’s career and stuffed it down the front of your maxi dress.
You are so iconic that you have single-handedly prevented your baby sister Solange Knowles from ever succeeding at anything just by being yourself.
You wore all those outfits your mom pieced together from Toddler’s and Tiaras talent competition cast-offs. You wore them proudly. You went out in public matching two other women, all the time. You looked like a homeless harlequin ethnic Bratz doll that got attacked by a pitbull. Or Pitbull himself. Or Taylor Swift, in one of her breakup songs.
So lip sync away, Beyonce. You can do no wrong, no matter how much wrong you do.
I can understand if you make a living with one of your body parts, you might want to insure it. If I were Ron Jeremy, my crotch would be worth so much I would ejaculate liquid gold. If I were Taylor Swift, my breakup tears would be insured for so much money I drown the state of New Jersey all over again. (Too soon?). If I were Lindsay Lohan– wait never mind. I forgot we were talking about celebrities. Anyway, check out this handy little info-graphic breaking down the ridiculous amounts of money that celebrities insure their body parts for.
The only one I actually agree with is David Beckham. Yes, he has the voice of an English door-mouse whose balls are in a vice grip, (courtesy of Victoria) but the rest of him is worth all that money and more.
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As we all know, X Factor only has one more week before they stop putting us through the torture of watching them figure out how to format the show, how to tape the show, how to turn on microphones at the appropriate times, how to best capture Britney Spears’ dubble-bubble chin stankface, and how to showcase Simon Cowell’s I created all this so we should worship my tiny micro-penis condescending smirk.
So the burning question on everyone’s minds (and in everyone’s vaginal canals) is obviously WWKKDN: “What will Khloe Kardashian do next?” Her momager Kris Jenner had a few great gigs lined up, including, but not limited to: A walk on part as a yeti in the upcoming Monsters Inc. 3D redux, a super exciting 3-year contract job playing a California redwood in the next Planet Earth for Discovery Channel miniseries, and a unique opportunity to work as a security guard for the new Freedom Tower in lower Manhattan. Her responsibilities would consist of holding the tower up, should it be struck with any random flying objects, like airplanes, or big black basketball dicks.
Khloe passed on all of these projects however, deciding she would rather play Goro in the New Mortal Kombat movie. Why did she make this interesting decision you ask? Because she believes it will lead her one step closer to finding her birth parents, who are obviously four-armed nine-foot tall tranny beast creatures from some far-away land called outworld where the letter “C” doesn’t exist. If you don’t believe me, take a look at the evidence, referenced below.
Total twinsies, am I right?
Have you ever noticed that no matter where you go or what you do around Christmastime, Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas” song follows you around like an anorexic pitbull just freed from a Southern Californian fighting pit (basically Nick Cannon). I have tried everything short of running away to Zimbabwe to escape this song, but every day, every gay, I am constantly bombarded with that those few haunting opening notes. It is the number one google search for “All I want for Christmas” and has its own wikipedia page. So why is it that Mariah Carey dominates every Christmas party in 2012, even though the song came out in 1994 (thats nineteen-ninety-fucking-four)? I have some theories:
Because Mariah Carey is the same size, shape, and consistency as a gingerbread man. When you think of gingerbread men, you think of Christmas. Take a look at her face for a second: She has tiny little raisin eyes, pores the size of hubcaps, and a big smile that says: I am going to come to your holiday dinner, eat your fucking soul, and chase it with an entire gravy boat.
Because she Carey bought Christmas from Santa Claus for a cool 1 million dollars. You have to know here, that by Santa Claus, I mean Tommy Mottola. (think about it- they are both older than the Bible and love for little girls to sit on their laps. I am also pretty sure that neither of them have ever met a cookie they didn’t like). But you must know that by “buy Christmas” I mean he gave her Christmas in exchange for keeping the secret that he is toads molesty.
Because nobody embodies the term “ho,ho,ho” better than her.
Because Christmas is about giving gifts, and Mariah Carey thinks that she is the greatest gift of all. When it comes to divas, I feel like Mariah is up there with Celine and Barbra. I will openly admit that Mariah Carey is one of the most talented singers the world has ever seen. I will also openly admit that Read more…
Want to know the funny thing about that headline? Pretty much everything. Not only could it be used to describe a myriad of other experiences besides the recent Lifetime flop Liz and Dick, but its also ironic because the last time I checked, Lindsay Lohan was a total rug muncher. I watched Liz and Dick on opening night via my DVR (because I wanted to fast fwd through all the inevitable commercials for rehab centers and suicide hotlines). To say the least, I was not sober. To say the most, I was entertained. If you ignore Lindsay Lohan‘s odd timing, her raspy Marlboro Red vocals, the jaded I have lived 6 lifetimes in 24 years and done enough cocaine to stop an elephant’s heart look in her eyes, and the fact that by the end of the movie they had clearly exhausted their wig budget and were outfitting her head in a cartoon hairpiece they borrowed from Dora the Explorah, the movie was entertaining. Lohan’s acting was decent, and she actually cried a few times, even though you could see the tiniest glisten of cocaine in every tear that fell. The scenes where she was smoking were especially believable, since Lohan was born with emphysema, and I enjoyed all the camera tricks they tried to use to hide her puffy drug face double chin.
Was she an academy award winner? No. But playing a petulant starlet that falls madly in love over and over, has an affinity for jewelry that she doesn’t pay for, and causes scandals on a daily basis should have come easy to Lohan, and it did.
The problem came after I actually watched Elizabeth Taylor on screen. Taylor had Read more…