Why Are You Pulling My Dick?

Human vodka bag Chelsea Handler has spit out a lot of shit about the Falcor/Lamb Chop hybrid that is LeAnn Rimes, but the latter decided to be the bigger person by going on the former's show. And by "bigger person" I mean that LeAnn is a fame whore in the truest sense of the phrase and will gladly look past someone's obvious hate for her if there's a TV camera involved.

LeAnn said that all the shit Chelsea talked about her actually helped her through her divorce, because she was able to laugh at Chelsea laughing at her. Uh huh. There's dick pull #1 from LeAnn. Dick pull #2 came when LeAnn said her skinny ass body happened naturally. LeAnn was a fat kid and as she grew up the fat magically melted off revealing the grown up skeleton of a War Hose underneath. Uh huh. Finally, dick pull #3 came when LeAnn admitted to calling the paps once in a while, but says that they mostly just show up by themselves and it's a thorn in her bony side:

LR: They just follow us everywhere. It's quite annoying. Yes. I get annoyed with myself, to be honest.

CH: That's good to hear. That's refreshing. People want to know that. Now do you know when you're getting your photograph taken. Some people would say that you set the photographs up. Some girls do that. Have you ever done that?

LR: I have actually set a photograph up to get people to leave me alone. Once the photographs are taken then they're done. It's not something that you go do often..... The really really freaky things... Like we'll set photographs up for our wedding so we know everything's taken care of and it's going to be done the way we want to do it.

CH: Like pictures don't get out that you don't want to get out. Private photos. This is a good lesson in paparazzi.

LR: True. But yeah, certain ones where I'm like picking a wedgie out of my butt in a bathing suit. I definitely didn't set that up.

If only this bitch could pull her eyelids out of the squint position to clearly see all of us rolling our eyes at this. Like any of us are buying this shit. I mean, somewhere there's a crumpled up piece of paper in a paparazzo's pocket that has GPS coordinates written on it over a note that reads: "At exactly 14:00, I will pick a wedgie out of my butt in a bathing suit. Get that in hi-res. It will be perfect for The National Enquirer's annual Beach Bloopers cover."

Click here to see LeAnn on Chelsea if you care. And here's Mr. & Mrs. Squint at a pre-Grammy party last night.

But before we get into Kunty Karl's sorry excuse for a sorry, let's all read his original comment so we're all clear. Metro, where Karl was guest editor that day, asked him what he thinks about Lana Del Rey. This is what Metro published:

"I prefer Adele and Florence Welch. But as a modern singer she is not bad. The thing at the moment is Adele. She is a little too fat, but she has a beautiful face and a divine voice. Lana del Rey is not bad at all. She looks very much like a modern-time singer. In her photos she is beautiful. Is she a construct with all her implants? She's not alone with implants."

Karl pretty much called Adele a butterbody and everybody read it that way. But after everybody threw shit balls at Karl over that comment, he suddenly grew a heart even though we all know his maker ripped out of his heart in an alley way in Transylvania a thousand years ago.

Karl has returned to the scene of the crime, Metro, and said that his comment was taken out of context:

“I’d like to say to Adele that I am your biggest admirer. Sometimes when you take a sentence out of the article it changes the meaning of the thought. What I said was in relation to Lana Del Rey and the sentence has since been taken out of context from how it was originally published. I actually prefer Adele, she is my favorite singer and I am a great admirer of her. I lost over 30 kilos over 10 years ago and have kept it off. I know how it feels when the press is mean to you in regards to your appearance. Adele is a beautiful girl. She is the best. And I can’t wait for her next CD.”

Ghoul, please. Put it into context or take it out of context, it means the same thing. I know Kunty Karl has 500+ years on all of us (not counting those years during World War II where his cryogenically frozen body was kept in an underground tomb in Austria somewhere), but he needs to stop acting like we were born yesterday. Even newborns who were born yesterday know that his apology is made of shit. I don't even know why Karl cares in the first place. Since when does the Dark Lord of the Undead respond to human emotions? If Kunty Karl is going to start caring about human feelings, then there's really no hope for cuntkind. I'll have to start calling him Karing Karl. The end of days, indeed.

...And she's so annoyed by it that she brought it up again.

The human mutation of Cathy is out selling that Wanderlust movie, which looks to me like the brain dead "didn't pull out in time" baby of Flirting with Disaster and Wet Hot American Summer, and you know what that means? It's that time again when Jennifer adds fuel to the fire by bringing up Brangelina to sell her damn movie. After posing for a bunch of pictures, which can double as a Chico's ad campaign, for InStyle's March 2012 (via The Berry) issue, Jennifer talked about what misconception annoys her the most and how she isn't copying Justin Theroux's style.

On how she doesn't purposefully dress like Justin Theroux and how the first time he came to her house she didn't secretly steal his favorite leather jacket to make a twin of it for herself: "First of all, he has great style - it's very specific, and it has been his style forever. Has it influenced mine? No, but I know people say it has.'Oh, look, you're dressing alike.' And I think, no I'm not. I've had this jacket for three years!"

On the biggest mistake of her life: "I'm not sure. Just walking out of the house can be a risk!"

On how she'd be a director or a dermatologist if she wasn't a professional line memorizer. Basically, she loves facials: "Directing. I was very proud of producing and directing for the beautiful project 'Five.' Or I'd love to be a dermatologist. I'd be so obsessive about it. I'm fascinated by skin, products, and lasers. I go on the Internet and read all about it. I call it 'laser porn.'"

On how she hates that fake Brangelina feud talk, but can't stop talking about it!: "Which one? There are so many. I would say the triangle with my ex-husband - and that there's a feud there. It's constant. It's a story headline that won't go away, but it's a money thing - [people make money off] a story that has nothing to do with reality."

Oh ho, please. It's so annoying that this bitch threw it up again. Aniston knows very well that quote just earned her the cover of every tabloid for the next few weeks. Star Magazine needs to send her a bouquet of Maddox voodoo dolls, because she just gave their asses a perfect cover headline that will read: "Jennifer Aniston says: 'The triangle with my ex-husband....there's a feud there!"

Why didn't Aniston leave that Brangelina shit on the ground next to the dead horse and instead bring up the misconception that when she fights with Justin, she locks herself in her bedroom. Then she makes her Justin Theroux Cabbage Patch doll apologize to her before handing her a bowl of happy soup (aka melted ice cream with uncooked room-temp cookie dough balls in it). That's because it's not a misconception! It's a truth straight from my Maddox's Burn Book Tumblr.

Just a month after the reincarnation of God, Blue Ivy Carter, descended onto earth on the back of a platinum Pegasus, Beyonce stuffed herself into a Spanx cocoon last night to make her first public appearance at Jay-Z's charity concert at Carnegie Hall and the after-party at 40/40. The conspiracy theorists are straightening their tin foil wigs and screaming "DEM HIPS DO LIE!" while holding up their magnifying glasses to find concrete proof that Beyonce recycled her Tempur-Pedic baby into hip padding.

There are clearer pictures here that Dlisted's accountant (aka the receipt from the street ATM machine downstairs) tell me I can't afford and those pictures make me believe that those widened hips definitely made way for something and those titty balls are probably filled with sparkling leche (B.I.C. doesn't drink anything else). What I'm trying to say is that I'm pretty sure B.I.C. came from in there.

But wait. Do your hips still assume the birthin' position if you had a C-section? Cue up the 48 Hours Mystery theme song and hand me a piece of Reynolds Wrap. I'm not ready for a full-on tin foil hat, but I might be ready for a tin foil scrunchie.

In what has to be one of the weirdest American traditions next to stabbing each other's faces off for a 10% off Xbox360 controller the day after Thanksgiving, hundreds pulled themselves out of bed to gather around Punxsutawney Phil's burrow hole in Pennsylvania to predict if we'll have six more weeks of whatever season we're in. The weather tells me that it's not winter, because I wore a t-shirt yesterday and didn't get frostbite to the nipples. This is like winter in hell. YAY for global warming! Let's all raise a can of Aqua Net and spray until the hole in the ozone layer spreads wider than a power bottom on DP Tuesdays at the bathhouse. Keep spraying until it's ten million degrees everywhere, we're all in our thongs we can't walk down the street without tripping over a seal.

Anyway, Punksatwatney Phil pulled his fat, lazy, works-one-day-a-year ass out of his burrow hole this morning and locked eyes with his shadow. Whatever. Phil doesn't know his asshole from his shadow. I would trust the weather prediction skills of a gerbil out of Richard Gere's burrow hole before I would ever trust Phil. We should just let Phil live his lazy life by letting him sleep in on February 2nd. Besides, Phil needs his rest, because in a couple of years, winter will not exist and the heat will bring him out of his burrow hole forever. Phil will have to shave his coat off and drag himself across the desert to bitch fight a seal for the last drop of water in a discarded Poland Springs bottle. On that note...

Happy Bill Murray Day, everyone!

And here's some pictures of Phil's Canadian third cousin, The Lesbeaver, shooting scenes for the all-girl remake of Gleaming the Cube in Miami yesterday.

Fran Drescher and her ex-husband Peter (the one who ended their marriage after declaring his undying love for peen) both have the same kind of scar on the same spot and that could only mean one thing: they were both kidnapped by aliens, microchipped and programmed to meet each other. Obviously. Fran tells HuffPo that when she was in junior high school, the aliens beamed her up into their spaceship and tagged her ass. It's like the recurring wet dream that Tommy Girl wishes would become real life.

"You know, it's funny because Peter and I both saw [aliens] before we knew each other, doing the same thing, driving on the road with our dads. We were both in junior high. A few years later, we met, and we realized that we had the same experience. I think that somehow we were programmed to meet. We both have this scar. It's the exact same scar on the exact same spot."

I bet that when the aliens shimmied the chip up under her skin, Fran let out one of her ear hair-burning laughs and the aliens immediately dropped her back on earth before vowing to never subject themselves to torture like that again. Fran single-handedly saved us from an alien invasion! But seriously, Fran and Peter weren't TAKEN. Those bitches just did way too many whip-its and freebased way too many spices in junior high school. That scar is probably from a bong burn. I'm sure Demi Moore is also telling her therapist that she was abducted by damn aliens.

The term BOLD BITCH has just been redefined, so update your dictionaries. Susanna Barrett, a pageant mom who's been on Toddlers & Tiaras before, has thrown a $30 million lawsuit at TMZ, The Huffington Post and the greatest news source in every universe The Daily Mail for sexualizing her 5-year-old daughter Isabella by posting a video of Isabella singing to LMFAO's "I'm Sexy And I Know It" at a club in NYC. Somebody hand me a bedazzled Kleenex, because a pristine tear of happiness slides down my cheek every time a mother pushes blame on another trick to get a quick check out of it. The Pimp Mama Kris Effect is a beautiful thing.

MSNBC says that in the lawsuit filed in NYC on Tuesday, Susanna claims that the video (seen above in all of its terrifying animatronic glory) is the epitome of G-rated innocence and the media turned it into a piece of illegal sucioness by writing shit like "gyrating in a nightclub and singing about her sex appeal" to describe Isabella's performance.

"(Isabella) did not understand the concept of sex, let alone 'sex appeal' and could not have been singing about her own sex appeal. It is the defendants who, through their articles, have thrust these false and vulgar characteristics on to Isabella. As a result, Isabella is now perceived sexually, erotically and pornographically, and (the stories) have placed Isabella in serious physical danger, attracting the attention of others who would seek to sexualize a child."

I've pulled the Lawyer career card at least three times during the Game of Life and this makes me an expert at law shit, so you can trust me when I say that all of that legal talk translates into: "If anybody's going to make a dollar by sexualizing Isabella, it's going to be Susanna Barrett and Susanna Barrett only! Now empty your fanny pack, Harvey!"

Isabella is the same girl who looked into the camera and said that her 3-year-old arch rival Paisley Dickey (NO COMMENT) dresses like a hooker. So not only should Paisley Dickey (again, NO COMMENT) throw a lawsuit at Isabella for hookerizing her by calling her a wannabe hooker, but White Oprah should also file a lawsuit against every single media outlet for crackieizing her innocent daughter by posting picture after picture of her behaving like a complete cracked out crackhead mess.

Prepare yourself to know what it feels like to never trust anything that comes out of Brad Pitt's mouth again (because I know that up until this point you hugged every word that came out of Brad Pitt's mouth with warm arms of trust). Brad Pitt has regularly declared before the gay gods (aka a sculpture of Rojo Caliente riding a Liberace unicorn centaur down a flannel rainbow) that he will never slip a wedding band on Angie Jo's bony finger until everybody in the U.S. can get married. Well, the bitch is a teller of lies.

As you and your same-sex partner wait at City Hall until it's legal for you to file a marriage certificate, the asshole who vowed to stand with you until the end will whisk on by with his zombie vampira skeleton bride and cut in front of the line. RIGHT IN YOUR BETRAYED FACE. Because Brad tells The Hollywood Reporter that he's probably going to break his promise by becoming Angie's third husband:

"We’d actually like to, and it seems to mean more and more to our kids. We made this declaration some time ago that we weren’t going to do it till everyone can. But I don’t think we’ll be able to hold out. It means so much to my kids, and they ask a lot. And it means something to me, too, to make that kind of commitment.

I’m not going to go any further. But to be in love with someone and be raising a family with someone and want to make that commitment and not be able to is ludicrous, just ludicrous.”

I'm going to force myself to not get hypnotized by the fact that Brad's goatee looks like an upright grandpa stache and an upside-down grandpa stache holding hands over a soul patch, because there's more important matters at hand (not really). Brad has just proven that he cares about keeping his commitments as much as he cares about finding a shampoo for extra oily hair. (Seriously, Brad, it's not hard. Just ask someone at Sally's Beauty.) If Brad rips the notary stamp off the promise he made to gays and gayelles, how can Angie Jo trust that he won't rip the notary stamp off the marital bowels (Oh, Freud, I love it when you trip me) he makes to her? Oh, wait.

Elton John's husband David Furnish went on a bitter old queen rant the night Madge won the Golden Globe for Best Song over the song from his movie Gnomeo & Juliet. Shots were fired and Madge made a mental note to claim the soul of David's first born Zachary by revenge fucking him in 18 years. We should all assume that Madge also threatened to strangle David with her velocicrotch in his sleep, because he's put down his weapon, slid it over to her side and is now saying on Facebook (via UsWeekly) that his words were blown out of proportion.

"Wow! What a tempest in a teapot. My comments regarding The Golden Globes have been blown way out of proportion. My passion for our film Gnomeo & Juliet and belief in Elton's song really got my emotional juices going. But I must say for the record that I do believe Madonna is a great artist, and that Elton and I wish her all the best for next week's premiere of the film W.E."

Hmmm. I wonder which part was blown out of proportion? The part where he wrote "Madonna for Best Song? Fuck off!" or the part where he wrote that her "acceptance speech was embarrassing in its narcissism." Or maybe the part where he used her old CD booklets to line the inside of Elton's Depends? I hate it when this shit happens. David let his bitter bitch flag fly brightly and now he's backpedaling up Madge's ass, because he's afraid she's going to make his hairline jump back a few inches when she puts him in a neck-hold with her engorged peen arms. David is an embarrassment in his wussyissism (and I'm an embarrassment for using the word wussyissism).

And when you write the line "my passion for our film Gnomeo & Juliet," everything you write afterward should be struck from the record, because it's obvious you're okay with not making sense and it's not right for you to drag us down too.

Speaking of W.E., here's a piece of The Daily Telegraph's smile-inducing, heartwarming and day-making review:

Madonna’s skill with the camera seems to extend to her being able to turn it on, but not a great deal further: to liven up an argument between Wallis and Edward, she has her romantic leads inexplicably run around a tree trunk. Later, we see Wallis dancing the Charleston with an African tribeswoman to the strains of 'Pretty Vacant’ by The Sex Pistols in front of a Charlie Chaplin film, which must be a strong contender for the most garbled, half-baked image in cinema history.

W.E. is — still — a stultifyingly vapid film, festooned with moments of pure aesthetic idiocy. With characteristic humbleness, Madonna performs a song called 'Masterpiece’ over the end credits, although one can’t help but feel that her 2003 number one single 'Sorry’ might have been more appropriate.

Now that's how it's done, David! W.E.'s chances at getting nominated for an Oscar are as bleak as my asshole getting nominated for an Oscar, but the academy should still flash this review when they acknowledge Madge's movie career in the In Memoriam segment.

(Thanks Gillian)

ABC has chopped up Cynthia McFadden's interview with Madge and has sold it off in parts to Nightline (aired last night), Good Morning America (aired today) and 20/20 (airing tonight), and so the quotes are slowly trickling out like water torture. On Nightline last night, Madge kicked CaCa's tuck out again by saying "Born This Way" sounds "reductive." This bitch really used the word reductive like she's a spelling bee judge or some shit. Like she was helping Lourdes with some English homework that afternoon and barely learned the word. The way she said it too. Madge said it while smugly patting her smart gene. By the way, "reductive" basically means "simple" in pretentiouscuntanese. Moving on....

Cynthia also brought up the fact Madge's last piece Baby Jesus was only ten seconds out of the manger and her new piece Baby Brahim still has his mother's womb jelly stuck up in his ass crack. Cynthia asked Madge why she's always spreading her cougar coochie on boy toys who haven't yet mastered the art of lifting up the toilet seat before taking a pee pee.

"I didn’t choose to, you know, I didn’t, like, write down on a piece of paper I’m now going to have a relationship with a younger man. That’s just what happened. You see, that’s the romantic in me. I just met someone that I cared for, and this happened to be his age.”

"I didn't choose to"? To quote everybody who stands in front of Kim Kardashian before she opens her mouth to say something: NOW YOU KNOW THAT'S A LIE! After being with a dude (Guy Ritchie) who didn't keep his mouth shut, Madge likes to be the one holding the whip in a relationship and so she chooses fuck pieces who will gladly hand the deed to their ballsacks to her and won't curse back because they can barely speak English! No hate from me. I guess when you're around a bunch of bitches who will do everything you say all day, you just want to go home and surround yourself with a bunch of bitches who will do everything you say all night. Makes sense!

Here's the full interview from Nightline last night and I sort of love that 24-year-old Brahim refuses to massage her centaur hooves. I'm sure Brahim won't make that mistake again after Madge punished him by ordering her henchman to cut off his auntie's feet and deliver them to her on a platter:

And will somebody let Madge know that we already have one Dowager Countess of Grantham and we don't need another, so she can finally quit the Downton Abbey act.