Prince Hot Ginge

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.

Temperatures in Arizona and California have dropped to freezing levels ("No, they haven't." - AZ & CA "Yes, they have, stop lying! Put on a sweater!" - me) and American genitals have all gone dormant for the rest of the winter, because the fire of my loins Prince Hot Ginge has packed up his glorious Torch of Gondor crotch and has gone back to Britain after completing helicopter training over here. One of PHG's first stops on his welcome back tour was the Brompton Club in London where he ran into his old piece Chelsy Davy. They didn't leave together, but some hos are still saying that it's only a matter of time before she's slathering burn cream on her coochie from riding PHG again. To which I say...I don't mind this!

I've always liked Chelsy Davy. Like me, she's a piece of trash and always looks like she just got up from taking a drunk nap on a toilet seat in a bar's bathroom. If Chelsy was born into American society instead of South African high society, she'd probably be a regular on Swamp People and the local news would definitely interview her for their story on vodka tamponing. This is why PHG and Chelsy belong together. PHG loves snorting vodka and Chelsy's Diva Cup probably smells like Smirnoff. That last part is the real reason why Cinderella's prince fell in love with her. See, it's written in the fairy tales.

Never mind the cell phone strapped to the waistband (!!!!!!!!) or the fact that he's dressed up more like a lesbian lumberjack buying a chainsaw at Home Depot than a butch bitch biker, Prince Hot Ginge straddled on a Harley is still making all of my pistons fire. Prince Hot Ginge has moved on from California to Arizona to continue helicopter training, and this past Friday he transformed into The Gingey Rider when he rented a Harley from a dealership in Scottsdale. This is the same Harley dealership in Scottsdale that I'm going to need you to stand guard in front of while I sneak in to make out with that bike's seat. You have my permission to mace me in the face if you see me putting a condom over one of those handlebars after pulling down my chonies. The ginger fever hits me the wrong way sometimes. I can't help it.

A witness tells The Daily Mail that the strands of pure bronze sprouting out of PHG's arms twinkled in the sun and blinded all motorists as he sped off for the open road with his bodyguard. The witness went on to say, "Harry looked like he definitely knew his way around a motorbike. It was Friday rush-hour traffic. He was on the freeway for a while before they hit the open road. He was weaving in and out of commuter traffic. He didn’t even have proper leathers on or gloves. He rode like a pro."

You know, it's best that I let this moment from last night's Saturday Night Live describe my feelings about Hot Ginge on a Hog:

At this performance, the role of these PHG pictures will be played by Paul Rudd and the role of me will be played by Jason Segel.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and practice my "grazing with a BIC" technique since the hanky code tells me that PHG gets into shaving shit. I knew there was a good reason for why the tingles overtake me when I get a whiff of ginger-scented shaving cream.

Out of all the wigs that tried to quit a bitch during Today's ridiculous mess of a Halloween show this morning, why couldn't it have been the dull beaver's ass on top of Al Roker's head?

My nipples have the weirdest hard-on right now and my other parts that usually flutter when Prince Hot Ginge's name comes on my screen are so confused after watching Al Roker as Prince Harry. There is just so many thick layers of HUH?! here. Prince Hot Ginge would never walk into a LensCrafters unless it had a bar of contact lens cases full of vodka, so those glasses on Al Roker's face are historically inaccurate! The top of PHG's head naturally looks like a volcano erupting into an orgasm and so that sad piece of dusty rust carpet on Al's head just isn't going to work. Al looks more like the butch Indian lesbian who sat next to me in 9th grade English and tried to convince me that her ginger hair was all natural and not from a date with Miss Clairol. Bitch totally looks like a Bollywood version of Rojo Caliente.

With all that being said, even though Al Roker makes a terrifying Prince Hot Ginge, it is still my duty to fap to all things Prince Hot Ginge. Today is the day I find out if tears can double as lube.

Here's more from Today overdoing the overdone royal wedding this morning. The cast of messes included Matt Lauer as Prince William, Ann Curry as Kate Middleton, Natalie Morales as Pippa, Savannah Gunthrie as Prince Charles, Hoda & Kathie Lee as Eugenie & Beatrice, the laptop girl from the 4th hour as Posh and Meredith Vieira as Queen Elizabeth.

Somewhere in Buckingham Palace, THE QUEEN! is pacing back and forth and is filled with so much worry that she's about to order one of her maids to queef into her pocketbook over the rumor from The Daily Mail that the third in line to the throne is tapping his fiery scepter on the common pussy of an American (OFF!) cocktail waitress ('ER!) who wears white Juicy Couture sweatsuits ('EAD!).

A source tells the DM that two weeks ago, Prince Hot Ginge took a break from his helicopter training to guzzle down on the sweet nectar at the Andaz Hotel in San Diego. That's where he met 26-year-old Jessica Donaldson, a "VIP cocktail waitress" at the Ivy Club who captured the royal loins of PHG with her vast knowledge of the American cinematic classic Laguna Beach and her ability to suck out a Jell-O shot from across a crowded room. The source says that since they met at the Andaz Hotel, they had lunch and went to see some jazz thing at The Belly Up Tavern.

I know I should be writing this on a Greyhound Bus as I make my way to San Diego to rip out that SoCal skank's swap meet weave and force her to spit in my hand (Well, if she touched tongues with PHG, that means she has some of his saliva on her!!!), but I don't mind this. Kate Middleton is a stick of boring with a dollop of pretty hair on top. Princess Jessica is just the kind of demure and delicate flower the English people really need. Kate is like Talbots and Princess Jessica is like a Frederick's white sale. It's meant to be. Princess Jessica is even inked with the crest of the English roses and Blue Curacao runs through her veins, which is the same thing as being a blue blood.

And Princess Jessica is already the luckiest slut on the planet since she can now tell her grandchildren that Prince Hot Ginge fucked her on a military base once.

If you're in the El Centro area of California and a single strand of ginger hair that looks exactly like what one of the sun's pubes would look like flies by you, lure it into a petri dish with promises of a vodka shot and send it directly to the third stall in the men's bathroom at New York City's Port Authority (they know how to find me) and then we'll play a game of hot potato when I send you a bouncing check as a gracias.

Prince Hot Ginge stepped onto American soil yesterday (Oh, get me a pile of that American soil he stepped on too and if you pour it into one of these, I'll add more zeros to your trampoline check!) to begin a two-month training program in California and Arizona.

Everything I want to say about this picture is already being said by the eyes of the dude in the crossing guard vest. Who needs a TSA wand when you've got eyes that can zoom straight into the royal nalgas of Prince Hot Ginge. If you stared deep into that dude's eyes, you'd see the reflection of red ants carrying sparklers over two majestic sand dudes. (Yes, I've been taking writing classes from Courtney Stodden.) Thank you, neon vest dude, for doing what a restraining order tells me I can't do!

via Daily Mail

Prince Hot Ginge has a warm heart made of a million Care Bear stares and he loves helping children as much as he loves snorting vodka shots in the middle of a club. And yesterday, on the 14th anniversary of his mother's death, PHG warmed the souls of ill children with his sunburnt smile at the Wellchild Awards in London and someone just had to give him that balloon. I guess that balloon is supposed to be a rose, or some shit, but I've never seen a rose like that. If roses looked like that, I would be sitting on a rose bush right now and I wouldn't even be mad about the fact that I'd be pooping out thorns for the next few hours. Wouldn't be the first time.

But really. Somebody just had to give PHG that balloon and he just had to hold it up to his crotch like that and all of this just had to happen while in the presence of children. They're just fucking with me now. They're testing my ass. How can I get dirty about PHG's big long balloon with a fat head when there's chirruns around? Everybody knows that I'm always THINKING OF THE CHILDREN so I can't possibly taint their ears with the lukewarm dingles of inappropriateness that come dripping out of my mouth. But I will say that even thought it'd give me rubber burns on the no-no and bits of balloon would permanently live up in my gut, I still would.

And I've just realized that I wrote way too many characters about doing stuff with Prince Hot Ginge's balloon (A BALLOON!) while sitting at my mom's kitchen table. Some people have Aha! moments. I just had an Aha Aniston moment. If you need me, I'll just be here forever alone.

There's really not much to say about this priceless shit since I really should be using my keystrokes to write to that club in Croatia and ask them when I should expect them to start selling pre-lubed plastic dildo bottles of Prince Hot Ginge's pool water. (Note: There's no need for them to put a warning label stating that the chlorine may sting if ingested through any orifice since my b-hole is way past the point of feeling anything.)

I love that PHG dances like a constipated grandpa on low-grade Ecstasy at a beginners Hokey Pokey class. I love that PHG dresses like a middle-aged father of 3 at an all-inclusive time share resort in the Caribbean. I love that the sweet nectar put PHG's sense of balance on pause and he tries to make it look like he meant to fall into that pool. I love that PHG gets back up and doesn't let a pool fuck with his funky chicken moves. And most of all, I love that as PHG has the drips, I too have the... Okay, I'm stopping. It's only Monday and I have the rest of the week to give you dark-sided visuals that even your hypnotherapist can't help you erase.

Today, 25-year-old panty model Florence Brudenell-Bruce (or "Flee" as her friends call her) is framing a bright shiny ginger pube as her punane sheds a single tear, because her ride on Prince Hot Ginge's piping hot crotch scepter has come to an end after two months. To which I say the same thing I hope PHG says to Pippa Middleton when she tries to get more pap attention by climbing up his fiery tower: BYE, BITCH!

A source type says that even though Royal aides (whoever the hell that is) approved of Flee, Prince Hot Ginge is not done knighting blonde vaginas with his peen so he decided to de-Flee his ass. The source went on to tell the Daily Mail this shit, "Harry has a lot on his mind at the moment. He is concentrating on his Apache helicopter training. After that he's expecting to return to Afghanistan. Harry enjoyed spending time with friends over the summer, but he doesn't want to be tied town in a relationship when training, so he called time with Flee."

PHG also knew it wasn't going to work out with Flee, because he's leaving for helicopter training in Arizona and won't be back until Christmas.

I never bothered making a voodoo doll of Flee out of overcooked spaghetti noodles and a Dollar General plastic doll, because that would be a waste of overcooked spaghetti and a Dollar General plastic doll. Just like the pocketbook that is permanently glued to The Queen's hands, this relationship was going nowhere.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a bus ticket to Arizona to buy and an Apache helicopter costume with easy access holes to make.

At the beginning of last season's The Real Housewhiners of New York, Jill Zarin nearly OY VEY-ed herself into a puddle of neurotic frustration when both Ramona and Alex showed up to a wedding wearing shades of cream. According to Jill, the wedding etiquette she pulled out of her own ass states that guests should never ever EVER ever wear anything in the white family. It is forbidden by law or some shit. (Question for Jill: But I've been to some weddings where the bride wore jorts, flip flops and an "I'm Marrying Stupid" t-shirt. Does this mean I can't wear jorts and flip flops too? Does this mean I can wear a white wedding gown and veil? Please advise.)

Well, guess who broke the law according to Jill Zarin when she showed up to the wedding of Prince Willy and Hot Ginge's cousin in head-to-toe cream? Okay, it's more like the color of leche con a drop of cafe (or like the color of a post-butt sex condom), but still!

Not only did Kate steal all of the attention away from Zara Phillips by wearing an embroidered corn tortilla coat, but not one guest at the wedding could concentrate on the ceremony. They were all too busy trying to fight the craving for thin crust pizza dough, a round tamale and a poorly made Awesome Blossom while staring at the mess on Kate's head. Making it all about you: Duchess Kate knows how to do it.

And now, instead of wanting to talk about Zara's dress, I want to nibble on an Awesome Blossom wrapped in pizza dough. Kate is good.

Here's a few more pictures from this morning's latest royal hat convention. In order: Duchess Kate with Prince William, Zara with her new husband Mike Tindall, THE QUEEN with her pocketbook, Prince Hot Ginge, Prince Charles, Princess Bea and the Duchess of Cornbread with some Wind of the Willows shit on her head.