Show Me The Receipts

Just a little over a week after America voted Obama in for another four years, we now know the results to an even more important contest: Channing Tatum IS the Sexiest Man ALIVE! Surprise, surprise. I guess this is People's way of telling us that all the other white men died.

The big difference between last week's contest and this week's contest, besides this one being more important, of course, is that those dictators at People Magazine didn't even let us vote, really. They didn't even take our thoughts (or genitals) into consideration. Whoever's publicist offered up the biggest promise got the title. That title is bought! ("Um, so is the title of President, Michael" - my Republican auntie at Thanksgiving dinner as I try to suffocate myself on a canned cranberry log)

To me, Channing Tatum looks like a stale loaf of Wonder Bread, but he's a stale loaf of Wonder Bread who can really twerk his crust off to Pony, he's everywhere and he seems nice. Channing looks like a caveman, but he's the kind of caveman who'd wink at you before he clubs you over the skull and drags you off to his man cave. Channing tells People that he told his wife about his new title while the two pinched their dogs' anal glands in the tub:

"My first thought was, 'Y'all are messing with me,'" says Tatum, who married actress Jenna Dewan-Tatum in 2009. "I told Jenna after we'd been in the bathtub washing our dogs because they'd gotten skunked."

Says the actor: "She was like, 'What?'"

"Yeah, she calls me [the Sexiest Man Alive] now," he adds. And who can blame her?

The only way I'd completely agree with that cover is if Carrot Top was the star of it, but I still love what People did there. When I first saw it this morning, I read the words "The Women Inside The Petraeus Scandal" and then looked at that picture of Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez. It was so right. I mean, the Biebs is a threat to security.

The mutant testicle that was once attached to The Gingerbread Man's crotch said on Fox & Friends the other day that he will drop a huge October Surprise on Wednesday that may change the election and screw with Obama. Melania Trump is also bracing herself for a different kind of October Surprise, because the only time Donald Trump actually cums is when he thinks he's got some dirt on Obama.

Everyone figured that Trump was just going to squat out another empty fart about Obama's birth certificate, but Radar thinks it's something else. Radar says that some dude approached people close to Romney's campaign and offered them information from Obama's college days. The dude claims to have known Obama in college and says that back then the president closely studied foreign relations by snorting the Colombian good shit. The dude also claims that Obama sold cocaine. I guess you gotta pay off those student loans somehow.

The Romney campaign shooed the dude away, because they didn't want that information coming from them. The dude is willing to take a polygraph, but so far nobody is interested in his story. Radar's source explained it like this:

“At first he wanted to do a book. But there just wasn’t enough time before the election. The people he is involved with have produced other credible information that is damaging to national Democratic figures in the past few years.

The operatives close to the Romney campaign believed the man’s story would be the ultimate October Surprise but they got nowhere. People who would have taken the information to the highest levels of Romney’s campaign just wouldn’t touch it. They don’t want their candidate smeared with this type of activity.”

So the dude might've dropped this not-so-scandalous information into Donald Trump's lap and now Trump is planning to use it. But just like what a stick of dynamite did right before the picture above was taken, this October Surprise will blow up in his face. Calling Obama a cokehead will lead to Obama winning the coveted Lindsay Lohan vote, which will lead to him winning the entire election! Chop this election up into 3 neat lines and snort it up with Obama, because it's done.

And I really hope that rogue hair on the left eventually got away from Trump's head.

You know when someone is spinning this crazy tale and you know it's complete bullshit but it's kind of entertaining watching them elaborate on their ridiculousness so you keep nodding and going "mmmmhmmm, WOW, oh really?" all the while thinking "and then roman candle balls shot out of your ass and spelled TRUTH in the sky? Interesting!" That's the kind of slow dick pulling that is this latest from the Daily Mail.

Just like John Travolta is a sauna hating vagina aficionado without snap-on Lego hair, Tom Cruise is seriously considering cutting ties with his longest relationship, the CO$, to win back the hand of his lady love Katie Holmes and reunite their family according to this article from The Mail. Yes, the Mail is practically the gospel and would never lie tell, so we can all just accept this as fact and know that somewhere in the dimly lit and overly ornate underground $cientology headquarters, David Miscavige is clinging to a tear stained photo of him and his main ho Tom giving heil Hitleresque salutes in better days.

The article says that according to a source who won't identify himself for fear of getting disappeared, Tom is becoming "disenchanted" with the church that has cost him wives, family and career. Well Tom, that would be a great epiphany if it actually happened, but I think it's more like a crack head who blames everyone and everything else as they take another hit behind a filthy dumpster in a back alley instead of in their old comfy digs.

Although if he did actually leave skidmarks on the church as he sped away, maybe I could forgive him a little for the boring ass ball of YAWN that was their divorce. I mean, there we were in the middle of a gossip desert, dying of thirst and rubbing our hands together in anticipation of a long tall drink of clash of the Titans complete with spies, lies, cut brake lines, phone tapping and nightmarish truths coming to light, something that would make the Britney scandal look like a bedtime story, and he donned his highest lifts and pissed all over our dreams. WE HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN TOM. You owe us this.

Two world-renowned fuckery makers joined forces yesterday when Media Takeout reported that The National Enquirer is reporting that Bill Cosby's granddaughter and brow-challenged Raven Symone is scissoring it up with AzMarie from America's Next Top Model: British Invasion. The Enquirer says that the "That's" in That's So Raven stands for Raven having no fucks to give over her family freaking out about this. Raven is in love, doesn't care if anybody knows she loves labia and is close to waving her flannel flag in the air. AzMarie has moved into the $11,000 a month apartment that Raven is staying in while she stars in Sister Act on Broadway. The source put it like this:

“She’s at a point now where she doesn’t care what her family thinks, and she’s in love with AzMarie. She’s a lesbian and wants to live that way. She feels her parents are still trying to treat her like she’s a kid, and she’s told them she’s going to do what she wants.

Raven has hidden being gay for a long time now.But about a year ago, she was introduced by a friend to AzMarie, who is absolutely gorgeous. The two began see­ing each other, and a few months ago, Raven finally got the nerve to ask her to move into her lavish Manhattan condo. When her family found out, they blew their stack and it’s created a gay scandal for Raven. She told her parents she loves them, but her home – especially her bedroom – is nobody’s business, and she was not going to back down, so they needed to accept it, period.”

A gay scandal is always the best kind of scandal. Who knows if this is true, but if it is then I'm into this couple. They're like the lesbian Amber Rose and Kanye but 100% less annoying. AzMarie and Raven both know the importance of a perfect eyebrow situation and their couple name would be AzRave, which sounds like my kind of rave. (I mean, a rave full of adzes? Yes!) But I still won't fully believe this until Raven comes zooming out of the closet on a Segway with AzMarie sitting in a Segway side car next to her.

The sound of a South American surrogate screeching out the words "Poner la epidural en él!!!" (Note: Shit translation provided by Google) followed by the faint sound of velcro ripping off was heard around the air space of Lenox Hill in NYC last night when the rightful heir to the House of Derriere throne was born. Yes, that is the reason why your lacefront floated off of your head last night before quickly falling to the floor like it was bowing. It was paying homage to its new Yaki Savior!

The entire Internet prepared for the golden age after the likes or RiRi, Auntie Basement Baby and Russell Simmons Tweeted the birth of Beyonce and Jay-Z's first child, a daughter. Beyonce and Jay-Z have kept their lips shut about this, because they like to confirm shit the real STUNT QUEEN way. You will really know that the golden child here is when Beyonce opens the Grammys next month by riding in on adorned camel (Jay-Z) and placing her daughter in a manger made of golden weaves as back-up dancers dressed like slutty farm animals do the Single Ladies dance around them.

As for the name, E! News has come up with Blue Ivy and UsWeekly says it's Ivy Blue (cut to LeAnn Rimes in a bikini neighing out the words, "Did somebody say Bluuuuuuuu-ooooh-ooh?". I know both of those names sound like the name of an Eastern European porn star who is trying to make it in the US, but it has REAL meaning! Beyonce and Jay-Z slobber all over the number 4. They were both born on the 4th and they were married on the 4th. IV = 4. (Sidenote: That surrogate is never going to surrogate in this town AGAIN, because bitch was supposed to push out Baby Blue Ivy on the 4th. BABY OVEN FAIL!)

And even though Beyonce and Jay-Z rented out the entire fourth floor of Lenox Hill, forced all employees to hand over their cell phones and taped over the security cameras to keep hos from getting a picture of the new Jesus, Dlisted managed to get an EXCLUSIVE first look at Blue Ivy:

No, no. Princess Blue Ivy will make her picture debut on the cover of a limited-edition version of the Bible. (The cover of People Magazine is for peons.) Check your local pew!

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!

David Gest really needs to keep his bestiality fantasies involving Bubbles, Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson to himself, because the world doesn't want to know the SUCIONESS that slithers around in the gutters of his imagination. Okay, maybe we do, because if he did keep that mess to himself we'd never have this hilariously creepy story about a chimp's toe sucking fetish. This is what David Gest said during a Michael Jackson documentary that's supposed to air in the UK this October:

“Whitney was having dinner with Michael at his Neverland home when she accidentally dropped her knife under the table. While Michael was retrieving it for her, Whitney felt her toes being sucked. She moaned, ‘Michael, is that you? Don’t stop. That’s so sensual’. Yet Michael’s head popped up and her toes were still being sucked. It turned out it was Bubbles."

HAHAHAHA. David needs to show us the receipts or shut his second face, because this really reads like bad fan fiction. Like Whitney would ever use the word "sensual." Bitch isn't Courtney Stodden! Whitney would say something like "Ooooh, baby, suck the dirt out of that nail!" or "Get that jam like your tongue is peanut butter and we're trying to swirl up some Goobers!" or "When you're done there, baby, use that sweet suction cup mouth to suck out my doodie bubble, because I got a boatload with a stuck anchor."

Wait. Maybe that's why they call him BUBBLES?! Shit. Good. Night.

via The Mirror

According to Celebrity Net Worth, selling albums and collecting residuals for playing the title role in Troll has earned Soulja Boy (Google it, you dumb fuck) a net worth of $23 million. $23 million is $23 million, but it's still $32 million away from $55 million. TMZ claims that Soulja Boy dropped $55 million of his own money on a G5 jet. Financing a $55 million jet when you only have $23 million is one of way turning to the last page in Chapter 10.

Soulja Boy's management, who should really reserve the domain Brokeaboy.com for future use, says that the private jet cost $35 million. Soulja Boy spent another $20 million on a new bathroom, custom leather seats, travertine floors, flat screen TVs and a paint job that includes his stupid ass logo on the side. The living ghost of MC Hammer's past bought it as a 21st birthday present to himself.

Is there such a thing as time sharing a private jet? You know, you pay for a small piece of it and every time you fly it a salesperson makes you sit through a 4-hour breakfast where they try to sell you an even bigger piece? Because we all know that gremlin leprechaun's pot of gold isn't that big. I guess we'll never know how he paid for that mess.

Actually, you can ask Soulja Boy that question in 5 years when you're sitting next to him on a Southwest flight to Sacramento, where he'll perform at the opening of a third party cell phone store on a makeshift stage made of upside down garbage cans and plywood. I shouldn't hate. I'm just jealous, because that G5 jet is going to make a perfect backyard planter when Soulja Boy can't afford to fly it anymore.

You know those plastic swan favors you get at weddings that I always go on about? The ones that are usually filled with pastel Jordan almonds wrapped in white netting? You always take that plastic swan favor home and put it on your coffee table where it spends the next few months being a catcher for crap like cherry pits, peanut shells, loogie balls and random toe nails you find on the floor (sometimes they belong to me, sometimes my dog, sometimes I have no idea).

When you're forced to move after you fall behind on your rent and need to get into a new apartment before your landlord screws up your credit by reporting you to a collection agency, you even wrap that plastic swan favor in an old magazine sheet and bring it with you. You don't know why. It's like it hypnotized you with its little plastic eyes and is controlling you to drag it with you through life. Seriously, I have a menagerie of those useless bitches. And now I have another one: PIPPA MIDDLETON!

The royal wedding was a million years ago and Pippa Middleton, the human embodiment of a plastic swan favor, is still sitting on my coffee table staring at me like, "You're in it forever, whore." What's worse is that plastic swan favor is getting her own special on TLC called Crazy About Pippa. Who exactly is crazy about that bland bitch? Can they step forward, because I have a menagerie of plastic swan favors I'd like to beat them in the head with.

Of course, TLC is dragging the tingle in my loins that is Prince Hot Ginge into this. Radar says that in the special, some "insider" claims that one of PHG's nicknames for Pippa is "Foxy Filly." This fraudulent piece of non-information should inspire me to line up my menagerie of plastic swan favors, fill them with cold cauliflower mash (to represent Pippa's unflavored ass) and slap 'em all, but it doesn't. I walked away from that urge and instead decided to look up the true meanings of FOXY and FILLY. It massaged my jealous rage and opened up my third eye (it's winking at you). The definitions are:

fox·y [fok-see]
adjective, fox·i·er, fox·i·est.
1. foxlike; cunning or crafty; slyly clever.

fil·ly [fil-ee]
noun, plural -lies.
1. a young female horse.

Unlike the insane moron bitch who e-mailed me and said that my Prince Hot Ginge obsession should land me in a padded room where the color ginge does not exist, Dictionary.com does not tell lies. PHG is basically calling Pippa a shifty horse. And we all know that shifty horses are in CAHOOTS with plastic swan favors. Makes sense.

Farrah Fawcett just reincarnated herself so that she could drop dead again and roll into a new grave.

Courtney Stodden, the 16-year-old child bride of 51-year-old Doug Hutchinson who makes Ali Lohan look like the freshest newborn in the nursery, stretched out her 15 seconds of fame by taking her tits to a plastic surgeon so that he can examine them and tell the world they're as real as the terror you feel when you watch her in interviews. Dr. Gabriel Chiu is a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who has slipped nearly 10,000 pairs of plastic titty bags into chests and he tells Radar that Courtney's chichis are made from organic materials.

"In my professional opinion Courtney Stodden does not have implants. Her breast are 100 per cent natural and organic. I did four tests to determine that she has not. I looked and carefully examined the four areas where someone would normally have a scar from surgery - the armpit, aureole border, the belly button and the fold under the breasts, and Courtney did not have any scars. If you know how to look for the scars you can find one and I did not find a scar.

I did a breast examination and Courtney's felt like normal breasts. If someone has implants either below or on top of the muscle you can squeeze and felt the implant moving around but I did not feel implants in Courtney.

There is a test where a patient holds their palms in front of their face and pushes their palms together. If there are implants they will rise, but when Courtney did the test, her breast did not rise. No implant was identified.

When a person with implants lies down the implants will stay perky, they won't fall and if they're put in through the armpit they will ride up but when Courtney laid down neither happened. Her breasts fell like natural breasts do."

Does it really matter if Dr. Chiu is telling us that Courtney has farm raised titties even though they look like they're filled with silicone from the Turkey region in 1995 (that was not a good year for silicone, obviously)? Does it also matter if Courtney gets a scientist to tell us that she's not a geriatric alien made of the discarded facelift skin of Real Housewives who bases all of its human mannerisms on old porns from the Spice Channel? It doesn't even matter if this is a publicity stunt (which it is), because I can't stop watching. I've always wanted Christopher Guest to write an entire movie based on Jennifer Coolidge's character in Best in Show and this is the closest thing to it!

I already linked to this yesterday, but in case you haven't seen it yet, please watch Courtney tweak the hell out during an interview with E!. Doug is like Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs and Courtney is what he would look like if he finished that woman suit before Jodie Foster shot his ass down.