Hotness

And it's world champion corned beef eater Patrick "Deep Dish" Bertoletti. This video from TMZ.com totally clenched it for me. Dude can not only scarf it down (ladies, you know what I'm thinking) but watch him kill two bottles of Manischewitz in just a few seconds. He even has them taped to his hands...now that is the kind of commitment I'm looking for.

Since I am not a professional blogger (read: derr, I couldn't figure out how to post the vid), you'll have to click the link. I tried everything and now my brains have boiled and poured out of my ear holes. Thank Gawd he'll only care about my body anyway.

I love my beer, but I can't even hold a candle to this. Step the fuck off Tara Reid, he's mine! Finally, my soul mate. If he can score the good shit, I'm so on a plane right now.

The noun "glamour" and the name "JLo" go together like Skeletor and solid foods, but Glamour Magazine still defied logic by naming her as one of their Women of the Year in some ceremony at Carnegie Hall in NYC last night. They gave her an ugly trophy that looks like a Target logo orgy and asked her to pose with the Claymation goddess who designed the dress she wore last night. WRONG MOVE.

On her own, JLo mugs the camera like the lens is an extra hung Q-tip and she's a Botoxed Siamese cat in heat. But when you put JLo next to the exquisitely crafted Donatella Versace, her face falls into a state of natural demureness. Bitch looks so "made from the earth" next to Donatella. And we all know that natural is out for 2011! So JLo needs to follow the exit signs and let the glorious Candy Kong Muppet take in all the camera clicks.

JLo also needs to hand Donatella that trophy, because glamour IS a woman who is put together with Silly Putty and whose jowls tells us that she mines for diamonds with her mouth on the weekends. Fall back, JLo! Actually, JLo probably did fall back when she let go of Donatella and down came that bobble head toward her.

If you answered "All of the Above!" you're the clear winner and should reward yourself by rubbing yourself something extra in the shower today! While I was going through pictures from a photo agency earlier morning, I came across these beauties and I really thought that I accidentally skipped into a new browser window and was staring at screen shots from Sean Cody, Corbin Fisher or one of those other fap material sites with names like a Leave it to Beaver character that never was. These two dudes are definitely on step 3 of "Two Snaps, A Twist, And A Kiss!" (Yes, today is obviously Men on Film Day!)

Here's Canelo Alvarez and Alfonso Gomez holding back their true burning desires (Just let me pretend, okay!) as their peen holes share the same breath at a weigh-in in L.A. on Friday before their match on Saturday night. The only way to look at these pictures is by letting this song be your soundtrack:

"Amor prohibido" is definitely what we're all murmuring on las calles.

Just like that dude on Craigslist who tells you that he's got an 8.5 incher with the girth of Neptune's pinched nipple, Kirstie Alley's sense of measurement is about as off as her sense of sanity. Shortly after the fat thetans started to belly flop off of her body during Dancing with the Has-Beens, Kirstie said she was a size 4, then she said she was a size 2, then she said that her retinas have gotten so skinny that she can't even see the dress labels anymore, but she's pretty sure she can only fit into size zeros that have been cut in half and vacuum sealed.

And during an interview with Entertainment Tonight, Kirstie told that the re-worked robotic clone of John Tesh named Mark Steines that she has dropped 10 dress sizes (cut to Kirstie minutes before dropping 10 dress labels onto the floor so you can't say she's lying) and is now 100 pounds lighter. Kirstie's personal e-meter in her cubby hole at the Scientology Center just grew eyes so it can side-eye this heffa. Kirstie said this:

"I've lost 100 pounds. I feel like I'm back in my element and not wearing a suit, a bad suit. And I honestly didn't even realize what I looked like too much. Right before I did Dancing with the Stars, I bought these dresses in size 14 to 4, the same dress, and I said, 'You know what I really want? I really want to be in this dress in a 4.'

The chunk didn't melt off of Kirstie Alley's body (it was later poured into an empty pasta sauce jar and stored in a cabinet next to the Scientology men's sauna for future lube use) with help from the appetite-suppressant known as working as John Travolta's booty hole groomer for the week.

Kirstie says she owes everything to Organic Liaisons, the Scientology-approved weight loss program she came up with. Uh huh, the only liaison you've had is with a lapband, bitch, but I'll let that one pass since Kirstie made my night last night by coming out on the catwalk at the Zang Toi looking like Xenu in first time drag complete with a bacon basket weave. Burn up that barley, Kirstie!

Canadian Brangeloonies and the tortured loved ones they drag to shit like this, gathered at the Church of Brangie's traveling tent revival set up at The Toronto International Film Festival yesterday to worship their gods St. Angie and Brad Pitt live in the flesh. Some Brangeloonies immediately started mumbling in tongues (example: whatangelinadidwasreallyCOOLalalakdafbklallaCOOL) and others offered up their hysterical tears to the sacred vein on Angie's forehead, which might be hibernating in a cocoon of Botox for the month.

Believe it or not, Brad Pitt, who is trying to beat Tom Brady and Ashton Kutcher in a JTT hair-alike contest, nor St. Angie were the stars of last night's Moneyball premiere. Nor was her purse and chain (not to be confused with her ball and chin). Nor skinny Jonah Hill. Nor Anna Faris. Nor David Justice. Nor Stephen Bishop. The real star was the brave Cloonelooney who threw herself into a sea of Brangeloonies. Get some of this:

So now you know what your mama was really doing last night.

Here's Halle Berry celebrating her 45th birthday in Malibu yesterday by getting a b-hole full of clothed lady clit. Or maybe Halle's friend tried to Heimlich the fountain of youth (aka blended dolphin placentas) out of her stomach since that's obviously what she swallows to stay looking like that. That must be it, because every ho wants a perfect body like Halle's, obviously.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Halle is 45 and has the body of a big-tittied fetus who does crunches in the womb all day. Pretty much every site that posted these pictures slobbered at their finger tips about how Halle has a body that most hos half her age would sell their nipples for. I'm not impressed. You too would have a body like that if you spent your days tensing up your stomach while bitching at Gabriel Aubry over the phone, and spent your nights running from an orgasm-blocking Marmadevil.

Besides, did Halle bounce on the double black dildo machine (aka the elliptical) for half of a Lisa Lisa song yesterday like I did? I thought not. Halle couldn't have, because she was slacking off with her daughter and Olivier Martinez at the beach! Lazy bitch is lazy!

You know you're doing something right when your big butch lady friend stops everything she's doing to witness your camel toe hovering in the air like it's about to kick somebody.

RiRi slapped her vacation weave (aka her El Pibe weave) on top of her head and spent the day on the beach in Barbados with her ass out, legs up and mouth open. (Again, RiRi really has an uncanny ability for re-enacting every moment of YOU at the Gay Pride Parade.)

You know I'm a traditionalist with a taste for elegance, so I prefer when bikinis look more like (NSFW) this. But RiRi's two piece is working for me. When you're sitting on the beach eating beef jerky chips and some shit gets stuck in between your teefs, you don't need to ruin your magazine by using its pages to floss the bits out. You just have to call RiRi over, tell her to turn to the side and use her Glide bikini to floss your teeth to relief.

The Jheri curl beard on the face of San Francisco Giants' Brian Wilson is usually the main attraction of his overall look, but at last night's ESPYs in L.A. all eyeballs suctioned themselves to his Spandex tuxedo and matching pencil dick cane.

Brian's Spandex tuxedo makes me wish it was possible for Richard Simmons' nipple leche to successfully fertilize a lesbian penguin's ovary. It's what it would look like if Fidel Castro hugged Klaus Nomi from the back.

Brian explained his mess of an ensemble to the Washington Post like this:

“It's a onesie, so it has built-in gloves that are a little dirty because I've been getting a little awkward here on the carpet. And I've got my cougar cane — my 'plus one' tonight.

And the socks came in the fan mail from a San Francisco Giants fan. You know who you are, thank you. It said: ‘Enjoy.’ That was the letter. And I'm currently enjoying them. Ninja socks.”

My only problem with this is that when a dude wraps the Spandex around him, I expect to get the gift of a basket of bulge and Brian didn't bring it. You'd think that his matching Jheri curl ball bush would make his crotch zone look like 4 hairy hamsters having an orgy under a Spandex blanket. Maybe he slicked that shit back for this formal occasion, But besides that, Brian's Spandex tuxedo worked for all my senses right (except my sense of smell, because you know his taint reeked of rotten cheese curds marinating in a puddle of hobo sweat).

With a thin layer of bald head balm SPF slathered on his head, Jude Law proved that he's the anti-Travolta by going toupee-free in Cannes yesterday afternoon. Jude is wig-free and loving it! I don't blame the former hair citizens on Jude's head, though. Would you rather be sitting on Jude's head or would you rather uproot and mosey down south to sit next to his lucky penny areolas? Exactly.

Besides, that little powder puff of hair on top of his head is sort of cute. Some might see it as a ball of sad without any friends. Not Me. I see it as an afro wig for a giant's clitoris. And who doesn't love clit wigs?

This one has nothing to do with spaghetti, but it does star a speed reading piece of hotness in a periwinkle sweater and some fool who thinks he's in a Spike Lee movie or some shit. Mr. Periwinkle shows us how one should behave on the subway when faced with a ho who insists that you show him respect by calling him...BLOODY LOCO.

How are you supposed to respect a dude who sounds like the junior high school nickname you'd give a girl who got her period at an El Pollo Loco. You know the lady with the thermos is like, "....the hell? Bloody Loco sounds like a complimentary brunch cocktail made from Bloody Mary mix and old cans of Four Loko."

Meanwhile, Mr. Periwinkle knows how to turn a page! DAMN! We'd all hit it until we got bloody loco (I don't know what that means either).

via Buzzfeed