Posh & Becks

You know what question I'm talking about since you're asking that question right now while staring at that picture of THE QUEEN! What kind of royal secrets are hiding within The Queen's beloved pocketbook? The pocketbook that she takes with her to sit on both royal thrones. The pocketbook that she cuddles with at night. The pocketbook that is her conjoined twin and her only confidante. Memaws are serious about their handbags and The Queen has never been an exception. But a royal biographer, who is obviously going to be executed soon for committing treason, did some ninja-like shit to uncover what lies beneath Her Majesty's handbag.

In Sally Bedell Smith's new book, she claims the following shit always has a place in The Queen's pocketbook. From The Telegraph (via Jezebel):

- A mirror, because every queen must have a portable mirror with her to ask who the fairest of all is. (FYI: When The Queen asks, this is what her mirror shows her.)

- A £5 or £10 note to drop in the donation basket at church on Sundays.

- Mints, lipstick, reading glasses and a pen.

- A plastic suction cup with a hook to hang her best friend on. An anonymous source explained it like this: “I watched the Queen open her handbag and remove a white suction cup and discreetly spit into it. The Queen then attached the cup to the underside of the table. The cup had a hook on it, and she attached her handbag to it.”

The Queen ain't the one to let her precious purse sit on the floor where the dirt of a commoner's common shoes lie. Sally also wrote that if Her Majesty needs a pair of gloves, her ladies-in-waiting hold on to that kind of shit for her. But you know, this is kind of disappointing and it must be some kind of cover up. I refuse to believe that The Queen's pocketbook isn't filled with bricks (for when she really needs to fuck a bitch up by hitting them over the head) and a lone house slipper (for when she really needs to slap one of her grandchildren in the teeth for sass talking). I won't take any other answer.

And unfortunately, I don't have any answers for the other question that just loaded into your brain which is: Why the fuck did I read this shit?

Since we're on the subject of THE ROYALS!!!, here's the tingle of my loins Prince Hot Ginge leaving some club in London last night with Becks. That scratch on his nose? Yup, sass talking to his memaw again.

Either Posh had super-slim, non-bulging steel biceps installed into her arms and is wearing a Lacroix lifting belt or Baby Harper Seven weighs as much as a mockingbird's whisper.

Baby Harper Seven might be the heaviest person, place or thing that Posh has ever carried in the history of her life. It's like watching a dragonfly give a baby bunny a front piggyback ride. The power of motherhood is no joke. Posh is clutching at Baby Harper with her claws the same way she clutched the limited-edition Louis Vuitton ball bag Becks got her for Christmas one year.

My awe at Posh's sudden HULK OUT powers almost made my eyes overlook the bizarre shit that's playing down below. The dress is very "kindergarten teachers takes off her cardigan to move some heavy boxes" and those boots are "my sister in junior high school thinking she's the shit." Just because you're a mother to a newborn doesn't mean you should ignore your #1 responsibility in life which is to always match your dress to your boots. Bitch is on notice!

On a positive note, I applaud Baby Harper for already trying to perfect her mother's signature shankface. Although, Baby Harper needs less squint and more eyes that say "You're so fat that just looking at you is making me gain calories. Poof. Be gone."

An international emergency was called when Posh was photographed out in L.A. a few days ago wearing what she calls paraplegic heels (aka flats). The excuse at the time was that Posh suffered from a slipped disc or some shit and her feet were put on high heels rest by her doctors. THAT IS NO EXCUSE. Slipped disc or not, the public-at-large counts on Posh to always show us that shit is right in the world by wearing heels so high that it makes our ankle bones shiver like a crazy Christian at a trans convention.

I don't care if bitch's disc is doing the Slip 'N Slide, she needs put on those heels and channel the pain from her back into the snobby bitchface she always launches at hos. I don't care if bitch loses her legs in a freak red carpet accident, she needs to strap those heels to her stumps and hop like a motherfucker. But thankfully, we can call off the international emergency, because Posh was back to wearing back-breaking heels of death while shopping with her family in West Hollywood yesterday.

Posh made the right decision and had all of her back bones removed so that she doesn't have to live a tortured life of only wearing flats. Bitch is so light that the wind can hold her up as she struts in front of the camera. It's true that she can never sit in a chair again, but she can wear heels for centuries to come and that's all that matters.

That weave on the other hand....

Sometimes in the wild, you come across two hot-blooded sessy beasts throwing looks at each other like they just want to get messy, and that's exactly the scene of love that went down in Malibu over the weekend when Becks laid his eyeballs on a Rob Reiner-alike with sex stuffed into his Speedos. You could cut the sexual tension with Posh's clavicle bone. Posh now knows why Becks always spoons with a big Father Christmas plushie doll every night. Here she was thinking that her sleep chattering (sleep chattering is when your mouth opens and closes real fast while you're sleeping because your stomach is hongray and it's trying to catch a fly going by or something) gave Becks the scareds. But nope! The truth is that Becks has always wanted Santa Claus to come down his chimney if I ain't being too subtle.

Just look at this picture of Becks frolicking in the sea while making fuck me eyes at Daddy Bear, and try to tell me that the song playing in his head isn't this one:

I swear, if a genie showed up and agreed to grant Becks one wish, he'd ask to be turned into a crotch patch on that bear's burgundy Speedo and he wouldn't even have to think about it. I really hope this story had several happy endings, because the love between a silver bear and an otter doesn't happen often.

Yes, Becks' bulge looks more like a curled up mama hamster nursing her young while twisted up inside of a bed sheet hammock, but it's Monday and I can't write another word (after these words) about the piss whore bride and her dumb dildo groom's wedding. So I thank Becks for keeping me from that by giving himself a front wedgie on Saturday night and showing off his soft-boiled huevos in a blanket. Just for that, I will forgive him for not quitting that Pocahontas Alfalfa shit on his head.

And if Becks' nut squeeze* isn't your thing, then I'm sure his invisible Can Can kick line routine is.

* It's a damn fucking shame that as Becks' shorts squeezed his nuts he didn't let out a high-pitched Minnie Mouse squeal that could only be heard by Khloe Kardashian, making her paw at her ears in agony, thus ruining Kim's whore wedding.

Posh and Becks' new daughter Harper Eight is lucky that she was brought into this world after her daddy got a ridiculous tattoo of him as Jesus and his sons as cherubs. Thankfully for Harper, she missed out on being a part of that mark of fuckery. Phew for her. Instead, Becks showed his love for his daughter by getting her name tattooed right under his neck in fancy font. Or "you know, that curly writing that comes out of giant white feathers" as my cousin explained to the chick doing her wedding invitations.

At last night's LA Galaxy vs. FC Dallas game, Becks' allergic reaction to cloth covering his man nipples got the best of him and so he pulled off his shirt, revealing his new tattoo. I would've rather Becks used his energy to pull off that rubber cock string around his head, but whatever.

Anyway, here's more of Becks (and a sliiiiight bulge) last night as well as a picture Posh Tweeted of him and Harper.

Harper Seven could've presented her face to the public on the cover of Elle Newborn UK or Me's Bazaar, but she decided to keep it understated and demure by making her pose debut on her mom's Twitter and her daddy's Facebook page.

Only 1-week old and Mockingbird Costanza is already lowering her eyelids at us poor peons who shop with coupon codes and eat more than steamed oxygen for dinner. I see how it is. But seriously, even though most newborns look like boiled jicama to me, you can tell that Harper Seven has her mommy's original nose and I'm sure she has her daddy's voice.

Posh gave birth to half of her weight this morning and now David Beckham has told us on his Facebook page the name that will be glued onto a panda fur Christmas stocking in canary diamonds next to the stockings of Cruz, Romeo and Juliet. Without further adieu:

I am so proud and excited to announce the birth of our daughter Harper Seven Beckham. She weighed a healthy 7lbs 10oz and arrived at 7.55 this morning, here in LA. Victoria is doing really well and her brothers are delighted to have a baby sister xx

HARPER SEVEN?! If seven crime-fighting mockingbird superheroes formed a group, they would call that shit Harper Seven. If Harper's Bazaar created a Cylon based on Caprica Six for some reason, they'd name that ho Harper Seven. If Valerie Harper created her own cocktail using Sandy Duncan's tears and 7up, she'd call that shit Harper 7.

Apparently, they gave Harper the middle name of Seven, because 7 was the number on Becks' old Manchester United jersey. And because Seven was born in the seventh month, during the 7th hour, weighed 7 pounds and was born to a skeleton wrapped in alien skin who inhales 7 calories a week and sacrificed 7 virgins to the devil in exchange for a permanent opposite smile on her face. But we all know the real reason why Posh & Becks named her Harper SEVEN! Because they want to make George Costanza weep!

Or maybe they're just trying to outdo Six LeMeure from Blossom. Didn't work.

via UsWeekly

Keeping with this weekend's theme of birthing out unnamed babies, Posh Beckham gracefully lounged across a cashmere-covered hospital bed this morning in L.A. and struck a series of simmering birth poses as doctors wearing scrubs designed by her delivered her first baby girl who slapped the doctor with her pout and scowl eyes. Did you really expect a spawn of Posh to show an emotion other than judgmental indifference? Baby Posh was probably rolling her eyes before she even opened them. But don't worry, Becks provided the "high-pitch screeching like a soprano hyena" soundtrack in the labor room since Baby Posh will only use her vocal cords to hum out a sigh at all the poorly dressed whores around her.

People has all the details you don't care about (aka everything but the name).

The pop star-turned-fashion designer and her soccer star husband David Beckham welcomed a daughter at 7:55 a.m. Sunday in Los Angeles

The parents of three sons – Brooklyn, 12, Romeo, 8½, and Cruz, 6½ – announced they were expecting a girl in March.

"Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz are excited to welcome their new baby sister to the family," says Beckham spokesperson Jo Milloy.

The girl weighed 7 lbs., 10 oz., and was born at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. No name was announced.

Almost 8 pounds?! Damn. Are we sure People didn't confuse the weight of Baby Posh with the weight of Posh at her fattest? If Posh wore a pair of 5 pound diamond-embedded platinum heels, bitch still wouldn't weigh 8 pounds! They must've weighed Baby Posh while she was wearing her Louboutin bootie heels and giraffe leather capelet.

You know, there is a major part of me that wishes Posh gave birth to the second coming of Shiloh. The quake caused by the tension in her face after her baby dry farts at an Alexander McQueen princess gown would be strong enough to wake Posh's relatives in the Death Eater lair.

Expert tummy tuckers, the most skilled uterus reupholsters from Germany, a tongue re-finisher to completely scrape all food particles from the mouth, a stylist specializing in hospital gowns and a nurse whose only job is to spritz champagne mist are all standing by waiting for Posh Beckham to gracefully sneeze out (via C-section, of course) Princess Beckham. Posh Beckham will give birth to Suri Cruise's obvious rival any day now and she's already got everything ready. And by "everything" I mean "FASHION," of fucking course!

The Daily Mail is saying that Posh has already filled the closets of her unborn daughter (whose name will either be Élancé Pout or Juliet Queens Penelope) with designer clothes that are worth more than your internal organs and even a pair of custom-made Louboutin baby pumps complete with his signature red sole. They're calling them "miniboutins." And I think I just had a miniboubarf in my mouth. But for seriously....

If Posh could shit, she would shit in stilettos. If Posh could surgically implant stiletto bones into her heels, she would (and she's looking into it... she's waiting to hear from Switzerland) do it. So of course, Posh's only daughter is going to crawl in Louboutins before she can even say Louboutins. Actually, that's not true. I'm told that right after her birth, Princess Beckham will be flown by helicopter to a newborn speech therapist who will immediately teach her how to gurgle out the word "Louboutins" in case Posh happens to go mute, blind and hand-less and needs to communicate to the shoe salesperson at Saks that she wants everything with a red sole. This is the first thing every Beckham child learns in case of an emergency.

I really wish I was fly on Tommy Girl's used dildo so I can witness for myself the wall-ripping, chandelier crashing, robot malfunctioning tantrum Suri Cruise is going to throw when she finds out that Princess Beckham will be the newborn queen of the high heel catwalk before her first birthday. I mean, Suri was a late bloomer and didn't start working the heels until she was at least 2 or 3! I can already see a 6-month-old Princess Beckham killing hos in 6-inch heels while throwing Suri a silver spoon side-eye that says, "gooburpgagagooburp." That translates into, "amateur, sit down," by the way.

Here's Becks hanging out with Prince William and Kate Middleton at some thing in L.A. yesterday. Becks told Prince William that Posh couldn't make it because she's tired. In Posh talk, "tired" really means "too fat for public viewing."