And now thanks to these pictures of panty cream-inducer Mickey Rourke drunk sashaying out of a club in London the other night, you will be having the pastrami hash with a side of burnt canned tomatoes for brunch. You can always count on Mickey to show you that beauty is a half-melted, inside/out Michael Myers mask. On that note, my ass is going away this weekend (and no, I’m not going to weekend jail for my crimes against grammar…. that’s next week) and while I’m away, drunk bitch extraordinary J. Harvey will be filling in the fuckery for me today and tomorrow.
I’m still doing Birthday and Hot Sluts and I might post a tiny bit here and there. I shifted the word “might” to the right by italicizing that shit, because it’ll be hard trying to blog about dumb bitches while guzzling on a can of Corona (yes, I said “CAN“) in the lukewarm and possibly piss-infused jacuzzi of a moderately priced hotel. I’ll be back full-time on Monday. For now, I leave you with these images from the beauty gods of Mickey Rourke. Frolic through his tortured, battle line hairline.