We Can All Go Home Now

America's future President is trying to make up for Roseanne's shit puddle of a final season by reuniting with John Goodman to make blue collar magic again. Deadline says that John Goodman (for some reason it feels wrong writing his first name only) is about to sign on to Roseanne's NBC sitcom pilot called Downwardly Mobile. Roseanne will play the keeper of a mobile home park who is like a mother to everyone who lives there and John Goodman will play one of her best friends, so sadly it doesn't look like they'll be bumping fupas on the small screen again.

This news is like an extra star on my blue terry cloth moon robe. (Note: Am I high again or did Roseanne wear a blue terry cloth moon robe in almost every episode? I can't find pictures of that shit.) Roseanne better keep the lottery out of this and she better find a place for Crystal Conner, because she's in need of a major comeback. And don't you miss the old days when Roseanne looked like Marilyn Whirlwind from Northern Exposure.

I interrupt our regularly scheduled celebrity fuckery to bring you this video of a girl giving you directions to her house in just 23,678 simple steps. This girl must be related to my cousins in some way, because this is exactly how they give me directions to the nearest Kmart. "Go that way down the street, make a right at the Taco Bell, go down, make a left at the second Starbucks, go up, go up, go up, make a left at the Michelle's Donuts that used to be a Winchell's Donuts, go down, keep going, keep going, keep going, then make a u-turn between the closed down Shakey's and the Del Taco, and turn right into Albertson's parking lot. Kmart's on your left. There."

They tell it with their arms too, like this girl. This is why GPS systems will never be relevant.

I just wish that this girl also told us where all the bars, Chinese massage parlors and churches are along the way, because I'm going to need a DRANK, a foot rub and a pep talk from God to get me through that journey.

via Arbroath

Quick Correction: When I think of dry coochie, I think of Bruce Jenner's dried-up labia face. But the makers of Zestra, a sex sauce for ladies with cottonmouth of the 'gina, think of Pimp Mama Kris and so they asked her to be the spokeswhore for their pussy lube. This is a genius move on Zestra's part since when you look at Kris Jenner's face, all the moisture evaporates from your wet parts and you need a bottle of lube more than ever. Try it. Stare at Kris' face and then try to tell me I'm lying after you look down into your panties to find a tumbleweed and a patch of dried tears.

Here's a piece from Pimp Mama Kris' introduction letter on Zestra's site:

You can’t always plan a romantic dinner or wait for a vacation to have amazing sex, so you have to take advantage of those moments of mutual intimacy. And that’s what I love about Zestra…it works in minutes and is easy-to-use. For me, it’s instant gratification. In a busy, complicated, hectic life, you can still fit in the time for sex, and you know it’s going to be enjoyable.

Zestra is a safe, natural blend of botanical oils. And it’s clinically proven to enhance sexual desire, arousal and satisfaction in 70% of women. This includes women of all ages and life stages, as well as women on certain types of medication who experience sexual difficulties. That’s important to me. So whether you are 30 or 50, on antidepressants or just stressed from everyday life, Zestra can work for you.

Now, if you are reading this and thinking, “Okay Kris. Busy I can handle. Being over 50 (and fabulous!) I can handle. But what do I do if I’m bored to tears with my relationship?” Well, I’m going to give you the same answer. Try Zestra.

Kris doesn't mention this in her letter, but she also smears Zestra on Bruce's Cassandra face when he needs to make an expression.

Doesn't Zestra sort of sound like that gross shit Olestra? You know that crap they put in chips that gave everyone the butt vomits? I bet that when Olestra flopped, the makers repackaged it as lube and are now calling Zestra! It figures that a Pimp Mama Kris-endorsed lube will give you a wet pussy and a wet ass at the same time.

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.

The pictures of GOOPY Paltrow in Harper's Bazaar will cover your eyes with the organic grease that's smeared all over her legs, but don't worry you'll wipe those away as soon as your eyes start rotating at all the colon balls of pretension that come leaping, twirling and floating off of her tongue. You know, though, this interview isn't as ridiculous as the usual shit that comes spewing out of her talk hole. The worst part doesn't come from the mouth of GOOP, it comes from Harper's writer Justine Picardie. Justine drank the GOOP and kept drinking the GOOP until the GOOP started spilling out of the pores on her fingers. I mean....:

We've grown accustomed to the symmetry of her face and her killer body displayed on the red carpet since her catapult to fame in the '90s. But when you see her today, without the distractions of props or makeup or styling, in jeans and a white button-down shirt, Gwyneth's calm beauty is striking, as is her extraordinary discipline. As she falls naturally into yoga stretches during the course of the conversation, supple as a cat, you realize that this is a woman for whom working out has become essential.

And excuse me as my mouth naturally falls onto my erect finger so I can wet heave and jerk my head until my brain has erased that paragraph from my memory. I bet GOOPY totally served Justine a pizza from her wood-burning garden pizza oven. All of the powers of GOOP lie within that wood-burning garden pizza oven. Or the porcelain bathtub in her bedroom. Those are the weapons of GOOP's mass pretentious. Now on to quotes!

On how she loves the wrinkles that were majorly Photoshopped off in these pictures: "I'll take my wrinkles. I don't like the Botox thing."

She goes on to admit that she gets tons of facials and has done laser treatments. I believe her. Like this bitch is really going to fill her face with some shit any poor can buy with a credit card. Botox is so provincial. If Fishsticks wants to get rid of a wrinkle, she just recites Justine's paragraph above into the mirror and her face will naturally barf out globs of fat that will fill her lines. Voila!

On how she goes on a 12-week detox every season: "I have a lot of inflammation in my system, so I'm not having anything I'm allergic to—no gluten, no dairy, no sugar. I'll wake up exhausted; I can feel my adrenal cortex being really high. When I get into bed, my heart will pound, my skin won't be good, I'll feel cranky, and then I'll just know it's time."

So if this bitch detoxes for 48 weeks out of the year, that means most of the year she spends starving herself and shitting her asshole off. This explains everything. If you only ate grass sweat and laxatives camouflaged as organic vitamins, any sense of reality you had would come shooting out of your b-hole.

On how her father's death SAVED her life: "All I've learned about nutrition and health came from his cancer. I'll probably have a long and healthy life because he didn't."

On how she thought Apple was going to be a junior butch lez: "I've been saving my clothes for her since before she was born. I was like, I'll bet you anything I'll have a daughter, and she'll be a really cool butch lesbian and be so above clothes, and I got a very clothes-obsessed child. So if she's a lesbian, she's a lipstick lesbian. She doesn't like anything avant-garde at all. She likes anything that's pretty, pretty, pretty or has a bow or a ruffle or is pink."

On her anti-feminist advice to her really famous friend (like she has any other kind): "She is an actress and in a new relationship with someone else with a big career, and I said this may not be feminist, but you have to compromise. It's been all about you and you're a big deal. And if you want what you're saying you want—a family—you have to be a wife, and that is part of the equation. Gloria Steinem may string me up by my toes, but all I can do is my best, and I can do only what works for me and my family."

On how her husband Chris Martin doesn't pass his peen around, but one of her ex-boyfriends did: "I had a boyfriend who used to cheat on me all the time. I was quite naive. I knew on a cellular level, but I bought his story."

The cheating boyfriend is totally Brad Pitt (or Ben Affleck). The actress friend is totally Cameron Diaz (exhibit: A!). And I'm totally going to juice a box of Twinkies and eat a bowl of corn syrup sprinkled with powdered preservatives until my heart is pounding, my skin hurts and cranky is the only emotion I feel. Because if that's this twat's idea of being wrong, then I don't ever want to be right!

Doesn't it seem like just yesterday the media was asking a young Daniel Radcliffe what kind of Legos he likes to play with (or whatever) and now the media is asking him about how he likes his coochie. They grow up so fast. DanRad and Heat Magazine (via Entertainmentwise) were talking about how he let his Jewish peen bush be great in Equus and that somehow led to him confessing that if he's not pulling pubes off his tongue, he's not messing with it:

"This is way too much information, but I don't like girls with nothing down there either. It freaks me out. You have to have something, otherwise it's fucking creepy,"

And now we know that DanRad has licked on a hairless skin mitten and it was creepy to his ass because it was like sucking on a hairless armadillo's armpit or giving a raspberry to a plate of dried mangos. THANKS, Harry Potter. But I'm with him. Genital shrubs are there for a reason. It gives you something to look at while you're down there and it sometimes protects your nose. What if you're really getting into it and you accidentally scrape your nose on their crotch stubble. It can happen! A good day would be not having to explain to people that the scratch on your nose is from rubbing up against the stubble patch on your piece's crotch.

Let that screen shot be the warning label you need to stuff pieces of egg crate into your ear holes and hit the mute button on your laptop (Note: You can still hear Xtina's "soprano walrus giving birth while getting ass fucked without lube in a moving wind tunnel" yodel even with the mute button on).

Etta James was laid to rest in L.A. today and Xtina was invited by her family to sing "At Last" in front of mourners who should really get their knuckles chewed off for bringing their cell phones out at a damn funeral. I'm surprised their screens didn't shatter into a million pieces when Xtina's throat pushed out a sonic boom. My dog is still clinging to the ceiling and my ear drums are still lying at the opposite side of the room from listening to that last note. I swear it's like her voice is hanging on a bungee cord. Bitch's voice runs in circles, jumps up, hits the floor and does all sorts of cartwheels. It's like an acrobatic dog on the strongest kind of speed. Bitch SANG and it's a shame she didn't sing the orange off of her skin, because she's a few shades away from looking like a deep fried Cheeto and we all know what happens to deep fried Cheetos: they end up in the gulch of a Spears.

And Etta can finally rest in peace now that Xtina and her chichis are finished hollerin' and shit. But I do love open air titties in church.

UPDATE: Thanks to all of you who pointed out the shit trickling down Xtina's leg and in my professional opinion it's either:

a) Bitch is yelling her fake tanner off and the sweat caused it to run
b) Bitch's asshole is crying tears of shit, because she's clenching it so hard
c) Bitch pulled a Fergie
d) Bitch's pussy lips wore red lipstick too and it was starting to slobber off
e) Bitch is trying so hard that her tampon popped out and the bloody red river of embarrassment came streaming down

Because The National Enquirer has solved the case! Their paternity test experts took a patch of Khloe Kardashian's back fur that got stuck on a tree trunk as she ran through the forest in search of pygmy goats to eat and tested it with a DNA sample they got from O.J. Simpson's ill-fitting glove. It was a match! O.J. IS the father. The birds of the forest just fled from the trees as Harry from Harry and the Hendersons made the ground quake by doing the Not Father Dance. I guess that bareback quickie he had in the shrubs after eating ten too many fermented peaches was with a half-shaven baboon after all and not Pimp Mama Kris. It's an easy mistake to make.

The National Enquirer (via DM), who are obviously going hardcore for the Pulitzer Prize in comedy this year, heard from a source that a couple of years before Khloe was born, Pimp Mama Kris had an affair with the monster who would go on to murder the so-called best friend she sold out in a tell-all. The source says the proof is in the face of O.J.'s daughter Sydney, because they think she looks just like Khloe. The source went on to spit this dollop of pricelessness:

"O.J. told me Khloe's his child. It was the big secret that no one in the two families would discuss. And Robert admitted he and Kris were not having sex at the time Khloe was conceived. O.J. bragged about his sex life and many female conquests, which he said included some of his best friends' wives.

He used to tell us way back - even before he and Nicole got divorced - that he had a love child with the wife of a wealthy family. But at the time of Khloe's birth, it would have been devastating for the news to come out that America's biggest sports hero had fathered a love child."

Oh shit, that is good. The National Enquirer should just handle every story from now, because they are masters at spinning a whole lot of WHO CARES into gold. They're like Fuckerystiltskin. But they're not completely off base. Before Pimp Mama Kris was a bona fide pimp, she was a bona fide whore to the core so you shouldn't put it past her. That said, this isn't true ("Thank you Professorina Obvious" - You to Me). O.J. is a heartless monster, Pimp Mama Kris is a heartless minion of Satan and the only crime against humanity Khloe is guilty of is this.

And of course, Kim had to stick her Twatter into this:

Now we have all the answers! It makes sense now! Khloe u are so tan!

Kim, kindly suck on a giant Shut The Fuck Up. I'll paint it black if that helps. Kim is just bringing this up so hos will temporarily forget that she would be nominated for a Razzie for her emotional performance in that SUV ride she faked for her reality shit show. Kim, just because we're laughing at O.J. doesn't mean we still can't smell the burnt fakeness wafting off of your ass. Put down the Febreze, it doesn't mask the stench.

In the sea of candle faces, burnt sienna skin and rejected bridesmaids dresses, out came an alien goddess from planet Bowie whose hair blows without any wind around it. They should've put a giant CLOSED sign on the red carpet as soon as Tilda Swinton stomped in looking like the Snow Queen going to a high-powered business meeting. Bitch is business on the top and ELEGANZAAAA on the bottom. Normally, I'd feel sad on the inside if Tilda didn't show up in a dress that looks like an iridescent condom made by Frank Gehry, but all of this worked from the top of her Hermey hair to the bottom of her Sally's Beauty Supply shoes. Speaking of, only Tilda can look at the hair samples under the dye boxes at Sally's and say, "I want that on my feet!"

If you can crush a beer can from 20 feet away just by squeezing your ripped butt cheeks really fast and if you can crack a dude's pelvic bone just by bumping into him while he's hitting it from the back, then put down that Hummer you're bench pressing and cartwheel toward A-Rod's Miami mansion.

Cameron Diaz's former lift partner had a party at his house the other day and dude must've spiked the roid punch with angel dust, because bitches were going wild. Hos, who are more ripped than a plate of ropa vieja, jumped out of trees and tried to touch the sun with their rock hard crotches. If they were that Tarzan wild during the day imagine how they were later on when the lights went out and A-Rod fluffed his titties for "private" time.

I bet A-Rod isn't even trying to sit today. One of those crazy buff beauties probably ate the feeling right out of his ass right before she bashed in his coccyx (wink wink) by spanking him too hard. A-Rod probably doesn't even mind that he has to squeeze a friend's hand hard when he shits today. FREAK!

And when is somebody going to finally introduce that muscle-worshiping queen A-Rod to England's Finest Rose?! That is a match made in HGH heaven.