Some of you might need to cleanse your eyeballs of the extra chunky skankness left by Kim and Kanye, so open your eyes wide and let them feel the breath of fresh sophistication wafting off of "fitness expert" and "lifestyle consultant" Jennifer Nicole Lee (Google her, you dumb fuck!). Jennifer isn't only a beacon of refinement, she's also a fashion designer and she's the one who created that elegant dress which perfectly frames her Louvre-worthy tramp stamp.
"Jennifer Nicole Lee
whored wore it better" is what you're going to say to yourself later tonight when you see pictures of Lindsay Lohan wearing this same dress backwards (with American flag pasties over her freckled nipple knobs) at the White House Correspondents' Dinner.
You know your daytime dress is elegance personified when you can easily slip out of it just by rolling your shoulders forward. And I can't with you if you mistook Dlisted's newest Aphrodite for JLo. JLo could never bring it like this.
Kim and Kanye Kardashian's stunt queen parade in NYC made a stop at The Lion last night and he decided to really sell it hard by flashing his thigh while giving us his best Blue Steel (more like Rusty Tin). I know that when the paparazzi swarm him like this, his ego boils over and causes his body to overheat, but he needs to keep his pants up. Nobody wants to see that shit!
Pimp Mama Kris obviously choreographed this move to make us all believe that Kim and Kanye are so hard up for each other that they're 69ing, golden showering and nibbling on each other's clits in the backseat of the car. Please. Kanye's pants are down, because he was having an intense conversation about art with his pubes (they're better conversationalists than Kim) in the car while Kim got her lips camera ready by varnishing them with shellac. Either that or Kanye believes that since they've been at it for a couple of weeks now, they're at the halfway point of their relationship and he should keep the romance alive by pissing on her ass right there on the street.
Or I'm completely wrong and Kanye's just smoking the wrong stuff. That's probably it. And why can't I see his panties? Is Kanye wearing a g-string or one of those peen patches?
Don't let the sweet, innocent, puppy dog-loving, slightly wonky face fool you. Josh Hutcherson, that's Peeta Bread from The Hunger Games to you and me, is a hard criminal who pisses on the law. (That sound you hear is Kim Kardashian rolling her ass to the court house to legally change her name to "The Law.") TMZ has a picture of 19-year-old Peeta Bread leaving a Ralph's in Sherman Oaks, CA with a plastic bag full of a bottle of whisky. The source behind this groundbreaking expose tells TMZ that Josh used a fake ID to buy the $170 bottle of Macallan. All together now: ESCANDALO!
TMZ lets us know that Ralph's has opened up an investigation into this SCANDAL and will take any steps necessary. Translation: They will take steps towards the cashier who sold Josh that whisky and hand them a THIS BITCH QUITS YOU slip. Josh's rep had nothing to say about this highly important story, but a couple of weeks ago he dropped some foreshadowing shit on TMZ when he told their cameras that the legal drinking age in the US should be 18 since you only have to be 18 to go to war.
Who hasn't committed an act of fraud by buying the sweet nectar with a fake ID? If you didn't have a fake ID, then you probably stood outside of a 7-Eleven trying to convince adults to live on the edge by buying you beer. We all have! The real story here is that Peeta Bread is able to afford the fancy shit. That bitch should have to suffer through the Strawberry Hill barfs like all of us did when we were teenagers. That's the true crime being committed here.
And I'm also side-eyeing that plastic bag, because every time I go to the Albertson's near my mom's house in an "unincorporated" part of L.A., they get all Bette Midler on my ass when I forget to bring my own bags since plastic bags are banned there. They charge me for a stupid ass paper bag. But I'm not going to complain about the ban on plastic bags in my mom's city, because it does keep the Kardashians out since they're not biodegradable either.
Long before Angelina Jolie's name became the first shit to pop up after doing a Google search for "Angelina," there was an Angelina with some true talent, natural glamour, sweet moves and spot-on beauty instincts (see: the stunning mane of ebony and gold locks spilling out of her head). Angelina (no last name necessary) was a freestyle superstar from the 90s whose album (THE album) took my family reunions my storm. Slap the Angelina CD into the player and you can guarantee that my cousin will jump up on a backyard bench and treat it like her own personal go-go box. Sometimes we'd go into one of the bedrooms, make it dark by putting foil over the windows and dance to that shit while one of us flicked the light switch on an off (aka a ghetto strobe light). We were way too old to be acting like that, but that's the kind of effect Angelina has on a ho. Make the room dark, flick the lights on and off, and get into this:
Take note: A true superstar lead singer never EVER wastes energy on doing the dance moves full out (that's what the background hos are for) and the Matrix business woman suit is something everyone needs in their closet.
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