I don’t care if reading one of Cher’s Tweets makes me feel like a blind person trying to read Braille written in chewed-up dot candies, when I uncross my eyes and finally see what she’s trying to say it makes my everything. Picturing Cher in her don’t fuck with me boots spiking Kim Kartrashian in the triple dirty diaper ass up and down the 405 freeway is a dollop of whipped everything on top of my everything.
When the Kardashian’s “fans” (aka Pimp Mama Kris and Baby Mason working overtime in the Kardashian Kommand Kenter) questioned Cher’s Tweets, she backpedaled a little, but it was too late. Cher has spoken and she got it right the first time! Kick those bitches down the freeway (which probably looks a lot like throwing a hot dog down a hallway).
And if you’re wondering what Cher’s child was up to last night, here he is swaying his polyester-slather fupa with Lacey Schwimmer who looked like Donatella Versace looking into a fun house mirror after my 6th grade Antarctica diorama project (featuring sea foam, seals and albatrosses galore) exploded on her. If you told me that Chaz Rumbas as good as Cher operates a keyboard, I wouldn’t call you a lie teller.