Chic C’est La NO!

I just got back from spending the evening with my family at the luxurious beachside enclave that is Brighton Beach where we feasted on overcooked old fish and flat soda water at the most prestigious Russian seafood restaurant with a zero point Zagat rating, so this is the perfect video for me to end my day with. This is The Real Housewives of NYC’s Countess LuAnn dragging Jill Zarin and a bag of leather beans through the Borgata Hotel in Atlantic City, because when you think of “Chic C’est La Vie,” you automatically think of an old Jersey whore giving a $2 hand job on the boardwalk. I know I do.

But real talk, that video is just a ridiculous piece of shit wrapped in old lady tragedy. Jill Zarin belongs in a music video as much as a clit belongs in my asshole. It’s not right. It’s also not right that Cuntess LuMann sounds like an Eartha Kitt fart and looks like a man alien in Teri Hatcher drag. This is what it looks like when a hot flash and a cold queef collide.

via Popeater

Oh, How The Mighty Have Fallen

Speaking of WELL, WELL, WELL…the host of the show To Catch A Predator has been doing some pretty predacious stuff himself. The man who has made his name using hidden cameras to bust pedophiles trying to net a little underage action has been caught on hidden camera by a National Enquirer sting operation netting a little action of his own. Well, at least she’s over 18, but there’s that whole “married to someone else” thing.

The Daily Mail says that Chris Hansen, 51 and host of the show, was caught dining with Kristyn Caddela, a 30 year old Florida journalist, at Ritz-Carlton hotel in Manalapan before jetting back to her Palm Beach apartment where they didn’t leave until 8am the next morning. I’m sure she was just interviewing him for her journalistic, um, endeavors and his wife Mary approves. ESCANDALO!!!

They reportedly met in March while Hansen was on location in South Florida investigating the disappearance James ‘Jimmy T’ Trindade. Maybe he was looking for clues in her chocha. The Daily Mail goes on to say that they left the restaurant at 9:15, cruised the shore, then filled up with gas and later booze, getting back to her place at about 10pm for some INVESTIGATING, not bow-chicka-bow-wow, you jaded sluts.

Why is it always the righteous ones that have cemeteries in their own closets? LOOK OVER THERE!! DON’T LOOK AT WHAT I’M DOING!! PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN!!! At least he kept it semi-legal (note: the law kinda frowns at cheating on your spouse) but tsk tsk at Chris. Nothing is sacred kids, and not in the way I was talking about last night. Thanks alot, Chris. This is why we can’t have nice things.

Thanks DeeDee and MK!

A Note from Michael K: Thank you to Sweetas for covering Chris Hansen’s starring role in “To Catch A Cheating Man Whore” produced The National Enquirer. Today, irony tastes like room temperature lemonade and the tears of sweet revenge trickling down the greasy cheeks of a caught pedophile. I just have to add that the children of America can safely skip through the Internet and sleep with their windows wide open tonight, because the pedos and Pedobear will be too busy doing the victory conga line in his cave! Oh, and we all should’ve seen this coming. I mean, Chris Hansen is really fucking good at hiding in pantries (a plus for any man cheater) and he already has a storage room full of the condoms, Astroglide and wine coolers he steals from all the pedos. “Why don’t you have a seat over here,” said Chris Hansen to his side whore as he pointed at his crotch.

I Feel Dirty

Well, well, well-UH. Aaron Carter dropped a few bombs (and maybe some acid) on Michael Jackson in an interview with OK! magazine. In a candid interview, he comes clean (actually, I don’t think you could ever come clean again, but I digress) about his time with the late pop icon. Apparently, they had a really close relationship, in which MJ gave him wine, the bad shit, and maybe more. Here are a couple of quotes from Aaron. Don’t read into them (totally read into them).

“I never talked about it… This is the first time. I do… I miss Michael… I have spent such incredible times with him. I did things with him that nobody else did… But I was also troubled about what he did to me.”

Me: What he did to me??? wtf??? Moving on…

“Yes, he gave me wine. I mean, I could have refused, but I was 15.”

Ahem. Maybe Michael just had a European view of wine? More…

“He gave me cocaine. I felt weird about that and other stuff… We spoke afterwards, hours and hours, on the phone. I admired Michael, but his behaviour bothered me a lot. Then my mother called the police…”

UM. Other. Stuff. And then his mom called the popo. I’m sure it was all good clean wholesome fun! *side eyes MJ’s ghost*

You know, I may be understanding Aaron Carter’s um, “issues” a little bit better at this point. I’m not saying MJ did anything inappropriate, unless you call giving minors wine, coke, and “other stuff” inappropriate. I think I’m gonna go bathe in bleach now.

In Your Face!

If you’ve ever dreamed of seeing the glittery yet dark RPattz up to his eyebrows in pie, your prayers have been answered!! Okay, it’s not quite the pronhub shit some of you hookers have been wishing for (I’m pretty sure he doesn’t eat that kind of pie) but here he is looking all kinds of delicious on the set of his movie Cosmopolis in Toronto.

Aaaand if you’re not a fan, you can point and “AHAHAHAHAAA!! In yo face, bitch!” See, RPattz is so thoughtful. There’s something in it for everyone!

Thanks for the pics MK♥!

When Guardian Angels Throw In The Towel

We all know the story of Ryan Dunn’s untimely death when he rocketed his Porsche off the road after filling his tank with the nectar of the gods, killing himself and his passenger. In an emotional inteview, Bam Margera talked to E! Online about the death of his bff and said that it wasn’t the first time Ryan had flirted with the reaper on that same stretch of road. Damn.

Bam said “He flipped me in a car eight times at the same exact spot in 1996. Thank God I had my seat belt on, because Chris Raab put one on me, but my brother didn’t have one on. He flew 40 feet. Thank God he’s alive. But like, Dunn was always a maniac at driving.”

Later in the interview, Bam read a text, the last words he ever heard from his friend. “Stopping for a beer, be there when I can.”

You know, I can’t even snark on this shit. It’s sad, it’s wasteful, and it was so avoidable. Dude rolled his car eight fucking times and almost killed his friends in the same spot he was doing 140 mph in 15 years later. We all know some crazy ass who always seems to skirt the inevitable, but eventually shit’s gonna go down. Just, damn.

Toeantino

In news that should be shocking to fucking NO ONE, Quentin Tarantino is reportedly a freaky freak in the sheets. Gawker says that there’s an email circulating that was written by some equally freaky chick (I mean, come ON she dry humped on QT, heave) that is a showbiz behind the scenes type. If you can stomach thinking about Quentin and secks at the same time, read on.

In the email, she goes into detail about her twisted tryst with Quentin at a private party, where she made out with him WHERE PEOPLE COULD SEE HER, FUCKING EW and ended up back at his place. Basically, she knew she was being grosser than gross and the gods answered her PLEASE!!NO!! prayers when instead of pulling out a condom, QT pulled out her toes. After he had tonguey toejam sessay times while pulling his allegedly nubby pud, they passed out and lather, rinsed, repeated in the morning. Then he drove her home. You know girlfriend owes the gods one for Quentin’s peen keeping that shit to itself, jussayin!!

The email is after the jump. It’s long as hell but since you know you’re not doing shit anyway, go ahead and give it a read. JUMP!

————— Forwarded message —————
From: [redacted]
Date: Mon, Jun 13, 2011 at 11:24 PM
Subject: I meet Quentin Tarantino, hilarity ensues
To: [redcated]
Attachments: 1 [Ed: See above image]

Friendsicles,

You are either getting this e-mail because I’ve promised I would tellyou this story and haven’t yet, you’re besties with someone I used to hook up with, or because my need for attention and adulation has reached such an all time high that I decided to pick 15 of you at random to listen to this story (most likely explanation), but all the same, below is the (in)famous but true story of how I met Quentin Tarantino… [redacted] and [redacted], I’ll be expecting your short film script of this in my inbox in the next couple of weeks…

Wednesday, June 1st, 2011:

Get a BBM at 8 in the morning from my friend [redacted] telling me we’re going to a party in “the Hills” that night because the Yankees were in town. But this party now presents a conundrum as a) I didn’t know people partied on Wednesdays because I’m uncool and b) I had just run out of clean underwear and hadn’t shaved my legs in three days, so I wasn’t really in a “party” sort of place. (what’s that you say? You’re surprised I’m single?) However, after being told to grow a pair, I decided to join the girls after work for this fiesta.

Party time rolls around that evening and despite being a Wednesday, and based on how many trashy girls in short dresses there are, it looks like the inside of any club in Las Vegas has vomited inside this music producer’s home. Minus all the hordes of Asians you get in real Las Vegas. I spend my first hour at this party irritated at having to even be there, and then telling the Yankees picture Joba Chamberlain how he’ll never be as great as my beloved Brian Wilson. I think he may have called me a lesbian as I was walking away, but I guess you can’t blame him since I did choose to wear pants. Anyways, I digress.

Heading back inside, bored out of mind, I look over and notice Jamie Foxx and Quentin Tarantino have joined the melee. Joy. Two more people at this party who could not give a shit about who I am. I go back to texting in the corner while stuffing my face with a hot dog.

About an hour later I’m making a drink and realize the pasty tall fellow pouring orange juice into my glass is the man himself, QT.

Realizing I kind of have to go for at it this point, in all my nerd glory blurt out: “I’m sure everyone tells you this but I fucking loved Reservoir Dogs. I watched it when I was 11 for my school newspaper, and it’s badass.” He starts laughing, thanks me, pleasantries are exchanged about how I was clearly a fucked up 11 year old for watching Reservoir Dogs, and we start what appears it might be a delightful little chat about film. Until this happens:

Quentin: Wow so you really loved Reservoir Dogs, huh? Which of my other films do you like? (this blatant arrogance is the type of douchebaggery that really gets my gourd about Hollywood, so now my film boner has turned to film hate fuck, and I feel the need to cheekily undermine Quentin.)
Me: Oh wow. You know, I really didn’t like Kill Bill…
Quentin: What? What do you mean? 1 or 2?
Me: Ehh, a little bit of both. I just didn’t care for them.
Quentin: Wow…I don’t think anyone has said that to my face about my seminal films.
Me: Perhaps it’s because you call them your seminal films. Shouldn’t you wait for someone else to say that?
Quentin: You know, you’ve got a mouth on you. I like that.

At this point, QT puts an arm around me and I’m acutely aware that Quentin Tarantino has an arm around me. As are my four friends, who are all looking at me as if I have grown a second head. To be fair, I am easily the most uncool out of all my friends (I go to Q’s in Brentwood four nights a week), so the fact that anyone even mildly famous wants to speak to me is pretty shocking. He’s chatting with my friends and I like it’s no big deal, I am pretending like this happens every night of my life, and out of nowhere he leans in for the makeout. Yes. True story. I am pulling a frat move and making out in a crowded kitchen with Quentin Fucking Tarantino. I cannot stop laughing AS this is happening, mainly because I see my friends [redacted] and [redacted] literally gag behind Quentin’s head, and I really am doing this for the story at this point. We make out some more, take a walk, keep making out, get more drinks, lather, rinse, repeat. Believe me when I say I’m not bragging, because..well…have you looked at a photo of Quentin Tarantino recently? (Please refer to: http://bit.ly/jL4ORR)

At some point in our public makeout, Jamie Foxx comes over and without acknowledging me goes, “Yo QT, ready to roll?” Quentin looks at me and says “Want to come to my house?” Ummmmmm…fuck yes? We get in an SUV and off we go. As I’m in the car though, I realize two things:

1) Making out with Quentin Tarantino is a great story, but there is no way I plan on putting out, and 2) This is a director who makes up fucked up films for a living, there is a 23% chance he could Phil Spektor me, and I’m definitely not ready to die. But alas, I’m already in the car and we’re off.

We get to the house, which is gorgeous, and Jamie Foxx takes off with his lady friend (I try to say bye to him and he doesn’t even look at me. Jamie Foxx could not have given 2 shits who I was. This is probably karma because I snuck into a screening of Ray in 2004 with my black boyfriend who worked at AMC at the time, instead of buying a ticket). Which leaves me and QT alone in his bar. I spot a photo booth and immediately realize that we must take photos, if for nothing else, proof that this story even happened. (Because I know at least 7 of you right now think I’m still lying, and are pissed you had to read this much. It gets even better, I promise!!) We get a few good photo strips, which I immediately buried at the bottom of my purse lest he take them from me, and go on talking about film. (For you film geeks, this was a great conversation that led to QT cutting me a trailer of my five favorite bad movies, but for sake of some semblance of brevity, I will leave that aside for another day)

After a lengthy film discussion, Quentin suggests we head to bed, which is the point where I really start panicking. I have stalled for a good long time but the makeouts were really losing their appeal because you can only be sweated on so much, and we were getting closer to the moment of truth on whether I’d have to put out or not. The makeout continues for a while longer, and I’m really getting nervous about where the night may lead, kicking myself over not pretending to be more drunk and “passing out”, and wishing he’d turn the damn lights off so that he won’t notice that I’m wearing Hanes Her Way underwear the size of Canada that I bought at CVS that morning because my life is really just that sad and pathetic. We make out some more, there’s a little below the belt action that I try to avoid, as QT has the most unattractive penis I have ever seen (short. fat. nub-like. The chode of all chodes. Boys, those junior high pamphlets are lying when they say that all shapes and sizes are normal. Lying.) Just as I’m about to hyperventilate over the fact that he may try to put that horrific bodily implement anywhere near my Britney, he leans over and goes “Hey…”

I know this “Hey.” This is the “Hey, should I get a condom?” hey that accompanies 20 minutes of ungratifying sex. As I’m trying to rapidly think of ways I can agent myself out of this deal, I hear what is without a doubt, the strangest question in the history of my life.

Quentin Tarantino asks, “Can I suck on your toes while I jerk off?”

What. The. Fuck.

Many of you may have seen this coming, as his foot fetish is WELL documented, but for some of us who spend more time watching Kate Hudson than we do Quentin Tarantino, this was a huge shock. On top of that, I don’t even like weird sex habits! A saucy hookup for me is on the foot of the bed, instead of on a pillow. Someone tried to talk me into a threesome once and I cried for an hour. Having someone ask to fellate my feet while rubbing one out was a world I was not prepared for.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I realized this just might be my get out of jail free card on the whole chode in vag issue. After some negotiations about how I would not partake in any of the hand job action were nailed down, I begrudgingly acquiesced.

(And by begrudgingly, I realized I didn’t have to shtup the dude and said sure why not in about 0.03 seconds) And thus began the weirdest ten minutes of my life – having my feet made out with by an Oscar winning filmmaker while he pleasured himself. Truth be told, it wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have to do anything (a nice bonus, since I am undoubtedly the laziest person in bed, which some of you can attest to), no bodily secretions were ejected anywhere near me or my feet (thank god, because I imagine it would feel like walking in sand with wet I fucking hate that), and just as I hoped, we went to bed right after.

In the morning, I snooped through Quentin’s belongings while he was in the bathroom and now know his e-mail address. He fooled around with my feet one more time (this time without asking, which I found rude), and then drove me back to [redacted]’s apartment in [redacted] and that was that.

Most insane experience of my life, and without a doubt, probably the best story I will ever get to tell. Those of you who know me well know of my love of hyperbole, so I’m actually rather sad that I won’t get to use “best story ever!!!” when talking about how I scored a free topping at Yogurtland anymore, but I suppose for Quentin I can make an exception. I’ll try not to forget all of you little people when my feet and I make our meteoric race (foot pun intended) to the top of the A-List soon.

Till then, I’ve attached our photo booth photos for those of you who think I still just have a vivid imagination…and yes, he does look like Frankenstein.

Love,
[redacted]

via Gawker