Well Well Well
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!OOOO!!!OO!O!" is the only thing my keyboard can scream out over the devastating news that Mariah Yeater has tiptoed into the courthouse to quietly cancel her paternity suit against Justin Bieber and she's no longer asking him to spit out some DNA to prove that he is the father of her baby friend. There will be no Maury after-school special. Justin will not join the cast of next season's Teen Mom. The Lesbeaver's kingdom dam (kingdam?) will not come crumbling down from the sonic boom sound of a million crazed Beliebers coo bawling out of their diapers. There goes Bieber's butch bitch cred and there goes the scandal that was supposed to put a skid mark on the House of Beliebers! Even Mariah's baby looks disappointed about the fact that he'll never be a Eater-Beaver.
TMZ reports that Mariah took back the lawsuit last week right before her skeeze bag lawyers dropped her ass. The Lesbeaver was supposed to get DNAed today and planned to sue Mariah for telling lies. Mariah's case fell apart as soon as one of her ex-boyfriends claimed that she accused him of fathering her baby a second before she fame whored her way into the tabloids. Mariah continued to prove that she sucks at scheming when she went on The Insider and claimed she had proof she couldn't reveal at that time. Womp. Womp. So that's that.
Either two things happened: Mariah is insane and made it all up for a quick cashiers check from The Insider and Star. Or Mariah is still insane and Justin cracked open his piggy bank and emptied it out onto her open palms so she can go away. Whatever the case may be, one thing still remains. Us bitter queen losers who live for a scandal like this have been robbed.
Oh, well. The silver lining here is that at least I got to use this picture of Justin Bieber looking like a penis after a botched circumcision left it with raggedy ass foreskin.
What's that saying? A leopard can change its spots? Or is it, a Vanilla Gorilla can't stop being a whore? Well, whatever that saying is, Kat Von D has finally tattooed it to the outside of her brain after a self-realizing journey through the land of obvious showed her the light (and VG's 19th side piece). Kat slipped into the open confessional booth on Facebook where she admitted that she once believed that she could tame Vanilla Gorilla's forever wandering slut dick and prove to the public that he's not just a mutated, lie-filled anal wart with beady eyes and a philandering peen. Kat starts out her Facebook post by saying that if her relationship with VG was a reality show, it would probably be called 19 Skanks and Counting.
Never have I felt so strong about True Love, than I do today. I believe in Love more than anything else, and more than ever before.
Today I encountered the 19th girl to add to the list of people Jesse cheated on me with during this last year.
I kept going back and forth in my mind as to what the best way would be for me to release and let go of any residual feelings remaining from that toxic relationship. All of this may sound petty or immature to some, but I assure you this is coming from a place of pure honesty and love.
There was a time when I was confident and excited at proving the world wrong, because I believed so deeply in people's ability to change for the better. Although this was not a primary purpose in the relationship, I did feel like it would be a positive thing for those who judged Jesse solely based on what they read in tabloids, to see that change is always possible - even in the people who seem hopeless.
I still believe that, even if that change never occurs inside of him - because I see proof of change everyday - in others, and in myself.
I'm far from perfect, but am willing to examine myself, and my patterns of dysfunction, and then put in the work to better myself. It's a daily practice, but it’s working.
Sure, its easy to tell someone, "I told you so” especially if you're criticizing someone from the outside, but that attitude comes from a place called Ego, and not Love.
I know I deserve a big fat "I told you so,” from everyone, and wish I didn't have to say, "You all were more right than you'll ever know” but you were.
Not to worry, I've gladly paid the consequences for every mistake I've ever made, but learned so much from each of them.
Kat then goes on to write that she is sick of being compared to VG's original whore Bombshit McGee, but she's mainly telling us all of this as a way of making peace with herself....and because a bitch could really use some press now that her reality shit show is lying dead under TLC's hoarders pile.
I think it just made me sad today to imagine him still in that dark place - where seeking validation through the attention of women takes precedence over being a good father, a sincere friend, a better coworker, and a happy individual.
I tried my best to go through all of this without venting, or complaining, or fueling more tabloid mumbo jumbo - but this isn't about any of that.
This is about me making peace with myself, and forgiving myself for making some bad mistakes.
I don't want to sink into the feelings of regret, or resentment.
Because right now, for the first time in my life I have felt regret, (for someone like me, who's never felt that before, this is hard to say out loud).
Time is something you can never get back, and what we do with this very present moment is the most real thing we have. So if that's the lesson Jesse forced me to face and learn by all of this, than all I can say is Thank You.
It would be nice to move on now, and kindly thank you all in advance for your support, love, and positivity.
Life is far too grand to focus on the negative and put each other down.
Breaking news: a trash heap ho who tattooed her face so that it looks like the Milky Way gave her a facial had a huge lapse in judgement. Fuck me with a DUH.
Yes, Kat Von D should've seen this coming (the same way her pussy saw a lifetime of stinging as soon as VG's STD stick touched it), but there's really a lesson we can all learn from this. The first time he cheats, shame on him. The second time he cheats, shame on you. The 19th time he cheats, don't fucking WAH WAH WAH about it on Facebook, because we already know, bitch.
With a golden child of infinite light who only eats canary diamonds and only wears baby wigs fronted with lace imported from France on the way, Jay-Z has to hustle harder for that money since the billions of dollars he has in the bank surely isn't enough. Jay-Z's lips are extra chapped today, because of all the heat his ass is getting for selling Occupy Wall Street t-shirts through Rocawear and donating a grand total of ZERO dollars to the movement. The Occupy Wallet Movement: That's how the 1% stays in the 1%!
The Wall Street Journal says that after many complained that Jay-Z is filling his pockets with money from a movement he didn't help to create, the t-shirts were pulled off of Rocawear's website. Before pulling the t-shirts, Rocawear confirmed to Gawker that they ain't giving shit to those OWS bitches:
The 'Occupy All Streets' T shirt was created in support of the 'Occupy Wall Street' movement. Rocawear strongly encourages all forms of constructive expression, whether it be artistic, political or social. 'Occupy All Streets' is our way of reminding people that there is change to be made everywhere, not just on Wall Street. At this time we have not made an official commitment to monetarily support the movement.
The most surprising thing about this is that Rocawear still exists (and yet Cross Colors only exists in Europe today, shame). The second most surprising thing about this is that Pimp Mama Kris didn't come up with it first. That sound you hear of a wet steak slowly sliding off of a wall is Pimp Mama Kris's new face falling off after she punched herself in the head over not coming up with this shit before Jay-Z.
The "While You're Locked Out Of The NBA, Okkupy Kardashian" t-shirt..... What could've been, what could've been....
Page Six reports that at the after-party for the Victoria's Secret fashion show the other night, Leonardo DiCatchAHo strolled in with a gift registry scanner in hand, ready to scan the barcodes on all the models he wants for Christmas. But one source says that 37-year-old Leo (Happy Birfday, Leo!) put down his scanner when his eyes landed on 19-year-old model Karlie Kloss. Leo mostly stayed at his table with Gay Fish, Lukas Haas and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, but his gaze stayed fixed on Karlie's barely legal ass. The George Clooney-ing of Leo has officially begun.
The source said that Leo kept trolling around the party for models before settling into the "boys' table" to stare at Karlie, “He couldn’t take his eyes off her....but it wasn’t clear whether he made a move."
Leo would never make a move at a party. Leo is a born romantic, a total gentlemen and completely traditional. If Leo wants a date with Karlie, he'll order her through the Victoria's Secret catalog and make sure to get a receipt just in case he has to return her for talking too much (that's option "d" on the return order form).
Leo is seriously a beige windbreaker and a moustache away from being that creeper who trolls college campuses looking for young girls he can go up to and say, "Has anybody told you that you can be a model?" One of those creepers types pulled that on my friend once and gave her a flyer for a totally fake modeling agency. This broke ass flyer didn't have a telephone number on it, but it did have an e-mail address that read something like: firstname.lastname@example.org. What kind of sexual predator really thinks that a girl is going to fall for an e-mail address like that? No serious modeling agency would ever use Hotmail.
Meanwhile, a source says that Jakey Gyllenhaal was at the same party and spent 30 minutes talking to Brazilian model Izabel Goulart. Yes, talking. That's what we're calling "a beard fitting" these days.
Months of rehab, whooping a trick in an airport, snorting the bad shit off of Mickey Mouse's inner thigh and allegedly sexing on a piece in front of everyone at a party was not enough to fully scrape away the Disney from Demi Lovato's image, so she decided to scratch off another layer by baring her butt chin cleavage and 19-year-old chest balls at the Latin Grammys in Las Vegas last night. I've always said that nothing says "GROWN" like titty tape and chichi contouring, but couldn't Demi have chosen a better dress for her titties' coming out party?
Dwight from RHOA could let out a hundred How Dreadfuls over this and he'd still need to let out a hundred more before he begins to accurately describe this mess. Somewhere, a 50-year-old novella villainess is missing a boudoir gown to change into right before she seduces her arch rival's husband. There's a reason why the Blanche Devereaux intimates section at Bealls has a "50+ only" sign at its entrance. It takes a certain seasoned slutty abuelita to pull off a dress like this. Stick to the juniors section, Demi.
And I'm guessing every brush in her hotel room went on strike last night, so I won't throw her cold shade for those pre-brushed, straight-out-of-the-rollers quince curls.
Of course, Wilmer Valderrama, the Jack Gordon to Demi's La Toya, was there last night. Just looking at pictures of Wilmer makes me sniff at my coffee cup to make sure I haven't been roofied without permission. Wilmer's gross ass probably made Demi wear that dress since he looks like the type who's into the "slutty senior at a 70s swingers party" look.
My dream of Courtney Stodden and Horatio Cane (as Herman Cane) co-hosting the Oscars at the abandoned spot where the California Santa's Village used to be will have to wait another year to come true, because the producers have stuck their hands into the past and pulled out Billy Crystal. After the talking colostomy hole sore that is Brett Ratner smeared the Oscar's good name (add a dab of sarcasm to that) with his use of the fag word and his talk of jacking his snail dick with Van de Kamp lube, the producers are taking us back to a safe place where all the jokes are G-rated and every category has its own musical medley montage. The Academy confirmed this to Deadline and Billy Tweeted this an hour ago:
Am doing the Oscars so the young woman in the pharmacy will stop asking my name when I pick up my prescriptions. Looking forward to the show
Yeah, yeah, I can already hear bitches screaming that Billy's as boring as a ball of room-temperature dough covered with white flour (which is sort of what his face looks like nowadays thanks to that debil jelly we call Botox), but look at this shit in a positive light. The Oscars will now start at 3pm EST since that's when Billy's demographic eats dinner and now his long-lost twin Richard Simmons will finally gets his time in the shine as Miss Oscar 2011. Richard's already got his ensemble picked out and everything!
For those of you hoping that the 2012 Oscars will have ticking statues that will blow up in the winner's hand when their speech is too long and award escorts cast from Craigslist's "casual encounters" section, you're in for a world of disappointment, because Brett Ratner has pink-slipped himself as the producer of that mess following the rainbow-colored shit storm he created by saying "rehearsal is for fags" during a Q&A. Brett already said to GLAAD, "Like, I'm sorry, brah!" and GLAAD took his apology, but some Academy members still wanted him thrown into a dumpster behind the Kodak Theater. Brett decided to make it easier for everyone involved so he quit that bitch.
A team of publicists and administrative assistants worked for most of the day on a well-written and eloquent exit statement while Brett fucked a can of shrimp in the bathroom. Here's what the talking skid mark on a frat boy's boxers had to say:
An Open Letter to the Entertainment Industry from Brett Ratner
Over the last few days, I’ve gotten a well-deserved earful from many of the people I admire most in this industry expressing their outrage and disappointment over the hurtful and stupid things I said in a number of recent media appearances. To them, and to everyone I’ve hurt and offended, I’d like to apologize publicly and unreservedly.
As difficult as the last few days have been for me, they cannot compare to the experience of any young man or woman who has been the target of offensive slurs or derogatory comments. And they pale in comparison to what any gay, lesbian, or transgender individual must deal with as they confront the many inequalities that continue to plague our world.
So many artists and craftspeople in our business are members of the LGBT community, and it pains me deeply that I may have hurt them. I should have known this all along, but at least I know it now: words do matter. Having love in your heart doesn’t count for much if what comes out of your mouth is ugly and bigoted. With this in mind, and to all those who understandably feel that apologies are not enough, please know that I will be taking real action over the coming weeks and months in an effort to do everything I can both professionally and personally to help stamp out the kind of thoughtless bigotry I’ve so foolishly perpetuated.
As a first step, I called Tom Sherak this morning and resigned as a producer of the 84th Academy Awards telecast. Being asked to help put on the Oscar show was the proudest moment of my career. But as painful as this may be for me, it would be worse if my association with the show were to be a distraction from the Academy and the high ideals it represents.
I am grateful to GLAAD for engaging me in a dialogue about what we can do together to increase awareness of the important and troubling issues this episode has raised and I look forward to working with them. I am incredibly lucky to have a career in this business that I love with all of my heart and to be able to work alongside so many of my heroes. I deeply regret my actions and I am determined to learn from this experience.
What he really meant is: "Blah blah blah blah blah but I still get to jack my pencil eraser dick with the finest imported shrimp grease in the world, fags!"
You know, the Academy doesn't have to look far for Brett's replacement. They just have to tilt their heads and look up a few branches above Brett on his family tree and they'll find his gorgeously perfect grandmother Fanita (the jewel in the picture above). Fanita is the real star of that family. The Oscars should just be 10 hours of Fanita glimmering at the camera while throwing statues at the winners' heads.
If that's isn't a "walk it off, you weak bottom bitch" moment between a kinky bitch and his rough trade strap-on master, I don't know what is.
After trying (and failing) to convince the world through red carpet poses that their relationship wasn't consummated by a pen scooting across a contract, George Clooney and Stacy Kiebler went down to Mehico to get a few golf and fisting sessions in before award season begins and they are EVERYWHERE. Never mind that seeing George in aqua shorts fills me with the same kind of uncomfortableness I felt when seeing my abuelita in Body Glove board shorts and Jellies, he's doing the same shit he does with all of his temporary pieces. He shows them off at his premieres, takes them to Mexico, takes them Lake Homo (typo, I SWEAR, and it deserves to stay), takes them to the Golden Globes, takes them to the Oscars and then takes them to a recycling center where they're spat out into various reality shows. That's how it always works.
I beg Stacy Kiebler to deliver us from BORING and change the script a bit. And she can start by teaching George to scream out "Ayúdame! Ayúdame!" instead of "HELPME! HELPME!" when she's paddling his old ass too hard in their Mexican hotel room. I mean, your safeword should always be in the official language of the country you're in.
"Kimmy, think of the horrific time that big kunt Khloe played a nightmare trick on you by sending the paparazzi to the wrong place and there weren't any flashes waiting for you. Oh how, you kried kried kries..." is what Pimp Mama Kris told Kim Kuntrashian right before she did a choreographed weep weep shuffle through LAX earlier this morning. TMZ says Kim made her way to Minnesota to sit down with her Herman Munster-ish leased husband and the pastor that married them. YES! This is the next chapter in Whores of Our Lives. I know there's some of you out there who called this move days ago, so please give yourself the golden shower medal in seeing through bullshit. (How to give yourself a golden shower medal: lay down face up, find a way to piss up into the air and turn around really fast so the golden shower lands on your nalgas. This is what Kim does when she's feeling down and needs a quick piss-me-up.)
A source (read: Kim's publicist) says that she booked the flight at the last minute, because she wants to talk to Kris Humphries without any cameras and is hoping this will give them the closure they both need to move on. The source also said that there's a small chance they could get back together. And while Kim is in Minnesota, she'll probably cut Kris a $2 million check for the engagement that he bought her (and the one that she wants to keep).
This fraudulent heffa can't do anything without stage directions and a script, so you know what she's doing. Bitch is trying to turn the pitchforks into sympathyforks, because the backlash is starting to fuck with her money. Kim will fly into Minnesota, dress up as Dr. Frankenstein and sneak up behind Kris Humphries as cameras roll. When he mistakes her for his creator and goes after her, she'll scream at all of us, "SEE! He's crazy! He's a monster! I can't live like this! I tried to make it work! I'm the victim! And now I'll stop with all the exclamation points, because they're messing up my sexyface."
If Kim and Kris are really meeting with a pastor and if there is a God, I hope he channels his powers into that pastor's hand and slaps the fake out of both of those stupid bitches.
And here's the Kardashian Fairytale Divorce Special from last night's SNL that could only be more perfect if Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman made a cameo as Scott.
Judge Stephanie gave Lindsay Lohan a full week to turn herself in for a jail sentence that will last as long as the dramatic pause the ATM machine makes in front of Michael Lohan before spitting out an "insufficient funds" note, and that's because she has to once again pull out her medicine ball in a tube sock titties and freckled crab shack for Playboy's photographer. LiLo already put her nipples on display for Playboy in a 4 day-long shoot that wrapped last week, but E! News is reporting that when Hef looked at the pictures, the groan that Linda Blair makes in The Exorcist after she barfs up pea smegma played in his head and he ordered a RE-DO! Then he ordered his day nurse to RE-MASH his prune porridge since his leased blond trick of the moment keeps complaining about bits getting into her chocha when she has to sit on his face while changing his colostomy bag (two birds, one stone, etc....).
A source says that Hef has brought in a new photographer and is changing the entire concept of LiLo's shoot. The shoot is supposed to happen today and LiLo's cooze has gotten the day off, because she's not going to get fully naked this time.
Let's try to do the math without a calculator! Hef's foggy eyes tell him that even industrial-strength Photoshop can't save LiLo's first pictures and now they've excused her vagina from the set? Those two things equals Ryan Murphy offering LiLo's vagina a cameo on American Horror Story as one of the things in the jars down in the basement.
Meanwhile, White Oprah is ejaculating with pride over her daughter's Playboy spread to The Insider and says it will be really fucking classy, "It will be tastefully done. She's been working in front of the camera with Ford Models since she was a little girl so she kinda knows how to work that."
Leave it to White Oprah to reach new levels of GROSS by using the words "since she was a little girl" while talking about her daughter getting ass lips naked in Playboy. The Toddlers & Tiaras moms thank White Oprah for being skeezier than them.