I’m hungover from a poorly thought out evening of mixing white wine and the distilled jizz of Satan known as moonshine, putting me on both ends of the “how pansy do you want to look and how shitty do you want to feel tomorrow” spectrum in one fell swoop. This is the closest I’ve been to being an honorary Lohan, so you can bet your ass I’m going to spend the day looking over my shoulder, just in case Dina tries to kidnap and force me into a life of shitty modeling gigs and sleazy overnight stays with international businessmen at Chateau Marmont.
Speaking of Gin Cleaver, she must be giggling into her cereal this morning (RumChata counts as cereal since it tastes like Cinnamon Toast Crunch, right?), knowing cash cow numero uno is standing somewhere with her grimy ass finger in her mouth, poised to receive six figures for a book deal. TMZ says Lindsay is shopping around a tell-all that will cover her career, family, drug use and arrests, all built upon journal entries used as therapy in rehab.
Damn, they just came out of the gate with the lies and jokes on this one. It’s Lindsay. Lindsay Lohan. Lindsay Liar Lohan. Call the book what it fucking is- a “tell-some”- because the black kid was driving, those aren’t her pants, she was wearing that coat when she came in, she’s not an addict and she JUST WANTS TO WORK, DAMMIT!! The only way I’d read that shit is if she goes balls out with the truth and titles it The Crackie Chronicles.