You Learn Something New
Fake nekkid ass nekkid pictures of that "Call Me Maybe?" girl, Carly Rae Jepsen, have been making the rounds for the last few days, but now TMZ is saying that real and recent nekkid ass nekkid pictures of her exist and the hacker who stole them is trying to sell them to the highest bidder. Don't worry, if the pictures ever see the light of the Internet, looking at them won't make Chris Hansen slip out of your pantry to tell you to have a glass of lemonade before having a seat in the easy chair in the corner, because Carly Rae Jepsen is actually 26 years old. Bitch just acts and dresses like a 14-year-old Mickey Mouse Club reject who still draws pink hearts over all her is. But I guess that fact still makes her naked pictures every layer of NOT RIGHT.
TMZ says that back in March, Carly Rae called the Vancouver Police Department to report that an anonymous tipster told her that someone snatched pictures of her...well....snatch....from her computer. After investigating the tip, the police declared that she had been hacked and they already have their eyes focused on one possible hacker.
When these tricks start to become famous, their publicist, or whoever, should really tell them that if they don't want their nipple knobs and fuck parts wallpapered all over the Internet, they should do at least one of the following things:
1) Don't take pictures of your naked body.
2) If your ass must, keep your face out of the picture and use your finger to hit the delete button as soon as those pictures make it to their destination.
3) Change the timestamp on the camera to a date weeks before your 18th birthday, so you can at least try to play the Minka Kelly card.
4) If a piece insists on a naked picture of your ass, just do what half of the hos on Craigslists' Casual Encounters section do. Send a naked picture of some random you found on the Internet. Actually, don't do that, because nothing is worse than showing up to some hook up's apartment and finding out that instead of looking like Ryan Gosling (like he did in his picture), he looks more like current day Ryan O'Neal. And since you're such a dedicated slut, you do it anyway since you did come all that way.
And yes, like with most things in life, we can blame this on Justin Bieber.
You can dissect Omarosa's side-eye all you want, but I'm going to get into Michael Clarke Duncan's snow cone titties instead. Sadly, Michael Clarke Duncan's snow cone titties almost rode on an ice cold cloud to heaven this morning after he went into cardiac arrest at his house in L.A.
According to TMZ, 54-year-old Michael Clarke Duncan's heart started freaking out just before 2 this morning. Not only did I learn today that when the Virgin Mary shows herself on a tree in West New York, she sort of looks like a wooden vulva, but I also learned that Omarosa has been wet humping on Michael Clarke Duncan for years. I did not know this. And when the world almost lost MCD this morning, Omarosa saved him. Omarosa is usually trying to verbally kill hos with the cuntiness that comes out of her mouth, but today she used her mouth to save a life. Omarosa resuscitated MCD by giving him CPR. MCD was shuffled off to the hospital and he's now in stable condition.
Over one year before psycho killer (qu'est que c'est!) Luka Rocco Magnotta was arrested in Berlin for killing and dismembering a Chinese exchange student, the Barbi Twins, Ron Jeremy and an American animal-rights group put together a sting operation to catch that crazy bitch for viciously torturing kittens on videos he posted to the internet. Somebody please memorize that sentence and pitch it to David Lynch, because that mess needs to be a movie.
The Globe and Mail says that the animal-loving Barbi Twins and the animal abuser hunters at Rescue Ink asked Ron Jeremy to catch Magnotta in a scheme I hope they called To Catch A Kitten Predator. Since Magnotta was a bottom shelf porn actor in Canada, the plan was for Ron Jeremy to lure him to Hollywood with promises of a role in a big-budget porn movie. Once Magnotta got to the set, the Barbi Twins would've teetered out on exquisite lucite heels, beat him with their justice-serving tits and then the dudes from Rescue Ink would've turned that evil kitten murderer over to the police. But since Ron Jeremy is all dick with zero balls, he backed out. In an interview last year, Ron explained it like this:
“That’s a little bit out of my league, don’t you think? It’s like an episode from some TV show. The [guy] comes to the set with lube in one hand and his schmeckle in the other thinking he has a job, and the cops tackle him to the ground. That’s good for the movies. That doesn’t work in real life. I told Sia [one half of the gorgeous Barbi Twins] I’m willing to do things and help, do public service announcements, or whatever it takes. But I’m not a law-enforcement agent. How do I catch somebody?”
Ron said that he was completely into the plan until Sia Barbi warned him that Magnotta might be capable of fucking up humans too (she was right). There were plans to set up a fake porn casting call to bring Magnotta in, but those plans were farted away after Ron said that he was too busy. Rescue Ink eventually abandoned all plans to catch that crazy even though they spent a long time gathering information on Magnotta to give to the police.
And that's your hourly dose of WHAT IN THE FUCK. The whole scheme is ridiculous, but I wish Ron Jeremy would've went through with it. It could've (but probably not) stopped Magnotta's reign of terror and my wish of waking up to the headline "The Barbi Twins Awarded Badges of Bravery By President Obama" would've come true.
And if the Barbi Twins still want to catch a kitten abuser, there's always Martha "Kitten Face Eater" Stewart....
I've made jokes that the blueprint for Katie Holmes' I QUIT THIS BITCH mission had clips from Sleeping with the Enemy, The Wire, Alias and Not Without My Daughter in it, but The Los Angeles Times (via UsWeekly) says it really did. Since Katie couldn't queef on her bed sheet without Scientology scientists immediately rushing in to confiscate the sheet for testing, she had to be stealth when making her divorce plans, because Scientology was watching her every twitch. If the High Priestess of Scientology, Tommy Girl, ever found out about Katie's plans to not renegotiate her marriage contract, he would've given her another lobotomy with a protocol droid and sent Suri to live in a boarding school on the edge of Xenu's intergalactic volcano.
The Los Angeles Times says that Katie hired three law firms in three states and even had one of her friends buy a prepaid cell phone so she could have covert conversations in secret places Scientologists never go like pharmacies, strip clubs with titties and ice cream parlors with gay people in it. UsWeekly says that one of those down low conversations might've been with the second member of The Tommy Girl Ex-Beards Club, Nicole Kidman. Apparently, Nicole "lent Katie her ear" during all of this. Since Nicole's ear is entirely made of plastic and is completely detachable like her face, I totally picture her sending it to Katie via FedEx and Katie talking into it while hiding out from Tommy under bed.
Before Katie told Scientology to take her e-meter and shove it up their asses ("Okay! That sounds fun!" - David Miscavige), I thought she was nothing but a boring bowl of soggy cornflakes whose brains must've been made of broken Christmas ornaments if she willingly signed up to a Bride of Xenu, but all the stealth moves she made during her divorce have given me a new appreciation for her. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that she's suddenly great at making life decisions all the time, because obviously she isn't. I mean, look at that denim sack of a dress she wore while hanging out with Suri and her mom yesterday.
Oh, and Katie gave her latest FUCK YOU to Scientology by going back to the Catholic Church and joining St. Francis Xavier in NYC. From HuffPo:
“Everyone is thrilled to have Katie join us,” a member of the church's choir told me. “She has not yet attended a service, but when she does she will be welcomed with open arms.”
The church, located on 16th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, is known for inclusive thinking and its welcoming of many gay and lesbian Catholics. Its mission statement indicates that the Roman Catholic Church parish “strives to be a prophetic, welcoming community, inclusive witness to the presence of Christ Jesus in our midst.” Its website proclaims that it is a respectful community, “where seekers and their questions are welcomed, where injustice is challenged, where the poor, the alienated and marginalized find a home, and where people are refreshed, reconciled and renewed.”
You might be thinking, "Oh well, at least the Catholic Church won't stalk and threaten a bitch if she wants to leave." But have you ever told your Catholic abuelita that you don't want to go to Sunday mass? Scientologists ain't got shit on a Catholic abuelita.
Snooping on a piece is a full-time job and forces you to ignore whatever sanity you have left in order to find out the truth according to your delusions. When I was 18, I had this boyfriend who I swore was passing his peen to other whores even though I had zero proof of this and he constantly denied it. Trying to figure out if he was dipping his dick in side ass turned me into a crazed, psychotic ninja. In my defense, I was 18, so I always had to live inside of a Mary J. Blige song. It was always extra EXTRA dramatic. I tried to figure out the password to his Hotmail account, but I couldn't and I think I locked him out of his account a few times by trying (sorry for that, first real boyfriend). The question to re-set the password was "What was the name of the street you grew up on?" I got my answer by playing the porn star name game with him. You know, I told him to pair the name of the street he grew up on with the name of his first pet to get his porn star name. He gave it to me, I got in and didn't find shit! He asked me if I re-set his password and I lied. Did not finding any evidence of side-dicking make me breath a sigh of relief and move on? Nope. It made me crazier and I was convinced he had another e-mail account I didn't know of.
I made fake profiles of dudes I thought were his type on several gay dating sites and waited for him to answer. He never did. As I waited for my boyfriend to fall into the Internet dick-trap I set, I tried to check the voicemail on his phone every time I was alone with it. Dude finally caught me and practically super glued his phone to the inside of his ass cheeks by taking it with him wherever he went including the bathroom. The lowest point came when I told myself that I had to get his voicemail password. I listened to the sound the keys on his cell phone made when he punched his password in it next to me. I tried to recreate that sound and it didn't work. That sound I tried to recreate is now known as the INSANE SLUT Symphony.
Even when one of my friends tried to fuck some truth into me by saying to me, "Um.... if you can't trust the bitch, maybe you shouldn't be with him. And you're crazy.", I didn't stop. Eventually, we broke up and it wasn't because of another dude, but it should've been because of another dude. I'm talking about a dude in a white coat who should've dragged me to the nearest mental hospital for being an insecure, crazy bitch. And that leads me to Jools Oliver....
Jools Oliver has been married to British chef and warrior against fatness Jamie Oliver for 12 years. They have four chirruns together named (Note: If you're currently writing a children's book about gay raver animals who live in the Enchanted Forest, here's your character names) Poppy Honey, Daisy Boo, Petal Blossom and Buddy Bear. Jools and Jamie have both said that they have a happy and trusting marriage. Jools told People in 2008 that she doesn't think Jamie will ever cheat on her. But recently, Jools said in an interview that she always checks Jamie's e-mail and Twitter accounts to make sure he's not humping tricks behind her back. From the Daily Mail:
‘Yeah, I’ll check his email. I’ll check his Twitter. I’ll check his phone. Everything seems fine,’ she said. ‘He says I’m a jealous girl, but I think I’m fairly laid-back, considering.’
Her confession comes as a particular surprise as she and Oliver have previously spoken about their absolute trust in each other.
In fact, Mrs Oliver was once ridiculed for saying she was certain he would never cheat on her during his long absences filming cookery programmes.
In a 2008 interview, she said: ‘I am very secure. People say “Oh you can’t trust a man 100 per cent,” but I’m afraid I say I can.
‘They say every man will have an affair, but I really don’t think mine will.
‘Actually, I know he won’t.’
Dear Jools, take it from my 18-year-old crazy self, nothing good can come from snooping. Besides, Jools shouldn't spend her free time reading her husband's private e-mails. She should spend her free time Googling, "how naming your kids after The Wuzzles could turn them against you in the future."
Now Brad Pitt isn't the only Pitt with a foreign endorsement deal. Virgin Mobile Australia hired Brad's brother Doug Pitt to star in a new campaign that will give him a taste of his brother's lifestyle. Um. Doug gets a taste of Brad's lifestyle every year when he's flown on a private jet to Brangelina's French chateau to eat Chicken McNuggets with the child army in the private McDonald's Angie had built in the basement. But seriously, I don't know if Doug is turning up the dork all the way for show, but damn he's like equal parts Kevin Spacey in American Beauty, Brad in Burn Before Reading and every white suburban dad I've ever met. What I'm saying is that he's my new favorite Pitt.
But still, am I really supposed to feel sorry for Doug? Doug has better fashion sense than Brad and if that's really his house, then he's living it up in a McMansion in a fancy ass neighborhood. Doug's chonies probably smell like the potpourri sash his wife leaves in his underwear drawer and that is called LIVING THE DREAM. Doug is doing better than fine. Come on, Virgin Mobile Australia, where's the "Meet Solange Knowles" campaign?
"....I couldn't get the scent of butt syrup, curdled goat milk, burnt barley and lube designed to smell like Matt Lauer's saliva off my fingers for days. Don't ask me how I know about that last one."
So You Think You Can Dance's Mia Michaels was a choreographer on Cock of Ages and one of her jobs was to turn Tommy Girl into a hot-blooded heterosexual thrusting sex machine. I heard that Mia got Tommy to thrust his Thetans off by holding a rubber replica of David Beckham's butt in front of him. Yes, they had to remove the butt in post-production, but that took less work than getting Tommy to thrust on his own. Anyway, Mia tells Vulture that she got so close to Tommy that at one point her hands went somewhere not many women have been before: his Scientolobush. Surprisingly, when Mia's fingers touched Tommy's pubic beard, his crotch Thetans didn't bite at her hand.
"I watched him transform physically from being a classic sexy man into a rock star. And it was awesome watching the transformation.
My hands were all over him at all times, but when you're working, you don't think about that. My hands were inside his pants at one point, pulling him, pulling his pubes, and it was just part of the choreography. It was just very funny, because when you're in the dance, it doesn't matter. It's about if it's right, and if it is, let's go with it."
What kind of choreography calls for pube yanking? That's some Fifty Shades of Grey: The Ballet kind of shit.
I take back what I said about OctoMom's self-love porn. The image of Mia Michaels staring into Tommy's eyes as she touched his dick mane is the most disturbing thing that has hit my mind today. I bet as Mia's fingers hovered above Tommy's Scientolopeen, she thought to herself, "I've only been with men, but for years they've been saying that I love to do lyrical moves with my tongue on lady labia. Maybe I should explore that more..."
Here's Tommy shooting scenes for Oblivion with Olga Kurylenko in NYC yesterday. I don't know how I should knowing that Tommy grows his pubes out and doesn't get a Brazilian wax next to John Travolta on Scientology spa Sundays.
"Aaaaaand 1...2.. flash that ring to give Star Magazine a photo for their next 'JEN & JUSTIN ENGAGED!' cover story" is what Jennifer Aniston said to herself 4 seconds before this picture was taken. Nobody said that whoring for tabloid stories isn't hard work.
Before Justin Theroux flew to France with Jennifer Aniston in a private plate, checked into the finest hotel in Paris, ate the finest meals at the finest restaurants and took the finest shit in the finest toilet in Europe, he was in L.A. at the premiere of that Rock of Ages (aka the propaganda film secretly titled The Tommy Girl Really Does Love Pussy Movie), which he co-wrote. You'd think that the reporters at the premiere would ask the rockabilly Eddie Munster about his writing process and if it's true that the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was his inspiration for the line "I just threw up in my pants," but no. (Side note: Yes, the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has inspired me to write about butt batter all day.) They asked him about Jennifer Aniston instead. Go figure. Justin said this shit when Extra brought up Aniston:
"Could not be happier. I always go to bed thinking I'm the luckiest guy in the world."
It's like he siphoned those words straight out of a multi-millionaire lottery winner's mouth! Not counting the hos who are about to put a spoonful of Burger King's bacon sundae in their mouth, this bitch is the luckiest dude in the world. Justin is soon going to live in a $21 million Bel Air mansion, he rests his skull every night on a pillow stuffed with cashmere-wrapped baby swan feathers, can take an elevator down to the Cabbage Patch nursery in his basement, has the most energetic b-hole ever from washing his asshole on a SmartWater bidet AND he's with a woman with impeccable fashion sense. I'm talking about those jeans and that Operation wishbone piece necklace. Aniston wears that necklace to remind her of all the special Saturday nights she spent playing Operation with her Beanie Babies. (SPOILER ALERT: The BBs won every game.) So of course, Justin is lucky. I bet his anus lips are shaped like a four-leaf clover.
Normally, I'd only bring up the topic "Does God exist?" if we were lying on my living room floor, passing the bong around, but I'm making an exception for Morgan Freeman! The God who succeeded George Burns as our Earth God is the host of The Science Channel's "Through the Wormhole" ("Note to self, find a new title for my memoirs." - John Travolta) and in an upcoming episode they get into the existence of God. While talking to Morgan Freeman about the show, The Wrap asked him if he believes in God. Morgan got deep and said he thinks that God is something we invented so musicians would have someone to thank when they win awards and I'd have a name to take in vain to give my abuelita a reason to slap me in the mouth.
Did we invent God?
So there isn't a God up in the sky somewhere. We came up with God ourselves.
Well, here's a scientific question: Has anybody ever seen hard evidence? What we get is theories from our earlier prophets. Now, people who think that God invented us think that the Earth can't be more than 6,000 years old. So I guess it's a question of belief. My belief system doesn't support a creator as such, as we can call God, who created us in His/Her/Its image.
Would you consider yourself an atheist, or agnostic?
It's a hard question because as I said at the start, I think we invented God. So if I believe in God, and I do, it's because I think I'm God.
"Have we ever seen hard evidence?" Stop playing, MorFree! Look in the mirror and there's your proof. Is Morgan Freeman, who is obviously God in human form, trying to throw us off his trail or is he being extra bold? I would pray to God (aka an 8X10 glossy of Morgan Freeman hanging over my dresser) for guidance, but I don't know what to believe anymore! Just pass me the bong...
I think I'm the only one who didn't know that Steve Madden is an actual person and not just some random name a huge corporation came up with for their shoe line. I honestly didn't know this. But this is coming from a dumb stupid bitch who up until I was 17 or so really thought that when I put my ear to a conch shell, I can hear the waves crashing onto the beach where the shell was found. I wish I was telling you a joke. I really believed that the huge shell your grandma keeps on her coffee table is like a direct telephone connection to the ocean. Like sea magic at work! Who did I think I was? The little fucking mermaid? I wish I could blame it on drugs, but I can't. It's just my natural dumbness. So when I call a dumb bitch a "dumb bitch," I'm totally projecting.
So, Steve Madden the person has worked with the double, double toil and trouble twins for five years and most recently he worked with them to bring the Italian brand Superga to the states. At the opening party for Superga's first US store in NYC, Steve Madden told Fashionista that everything they say about working with trolls is true. They cackle behind your back, nip at your ankles when you disobey them and threaten to eat the hair on your first born's head if you look at them funny.
“They’re very demanding, they’re very tough. You know, just tough, tough. They want what they want. And so we worked hard to get that done. They are difficult. They are exacting. They are a pain in the ass. But they’re very good though. No. They’re awesome. They’re very grown up, very worldly. And I’m very immature. So we meet in the middle.”
Demanding and tough? Steve Madden is just being dramatic for the sake of being dramatic. How hard could it be to work with those demon children? If they don't get what they want, they just put their heads together and force you to stare into their eyes as their irises project images of your gruesome demise if you don't do exactly what they say. That's not being tough at all!