This video of a pussy fishing for a pussy (or as Queen Latifah calls it, “a regular Friday night”) is 31 seconds long. I watched all 31 seconds of it and even laughed. It really is 420.
Because Terry Richardson wasn’t going to let Bryan Singer get all the attention for being a creepy pervert ho who promises young things work in exchange for a coagulated cum load to the face, he supposedly Facebook message’d a model and promised her a Vogue shoot if she screwed him. Model Emma Appleton from London tweeted (and later deleted) a screenshot of scab on the fashion industry’s asshole Uncle Terry telling her she can fuck him for a Vogue spread. Well, if she did it, it wouldn’t be the first time someone fucked for a Vogue spread (see: Kanye West letting Anna Wintour tap him with a Lanvin dildo for that nail in the coffin cover). Here’s the screenshot courtesy of Complex:
Of course, a bunch of whores shamed Emma and told her to kiss her modeling career goodbye, so she hit the delete button on her Twitter account, but before she did that, she had a few things to say.
I was like whaaat and he said yes or no? I just said um no I’m not your girl, bye ha. This industry is fucked up. I’ve been modelling for 5 years and I’ve never had this before, it doesn’t make it okay. Beginning to wish I hadn’t posted that…it doesn’t matter who you are or the what the industry is, just be a decent human being. The fact people think this is acceptable blows my fucking mind. See ya.
But Terry’s spokeswhore tells Kate Authur of Buzzfeed that he never sent that message and Emma obviously made it up. I know, it’s hard to believe that the visual definition of “creeper” who makes you want to blow on a rape whistle every time you see him and who has a history of terrorizing models would ask a model to fuck him for a Vogue spread. But you know, that message is out of character for Terry. Since when is he ever up front like that? I mean, based on what I’ve heard, he’d usually just book her for the shoot and at the very end, pull his dick out and cum in her eye without asking, “May I cum in your eye?”
And Posh Spice sort of just got the answer to the question she asks herself every day: Who do I have to fuck to get a Vogue cover?
While looking like a malnourished and derpy bumblebee that flew into a cup of Tang, Denise Richards left a Rite Aid in Calabasas, CA yesterday with Easter shit and a whole lot of bags of circus peanuts which she’s going to melt down and slather onto her skin so she stays the exact shade of Sean Penn’s leathery orange ass lips. Yes, Denise looks like Tan Mom’s overcooked clit and she’s skinnier than the vein on a fly’s dick, but I guess you too wouldn’t really want to put food in your mouth and would lose your appetite if you had Charlie Sheen’s split-open herp sore of a face screaming at you on a daily basis.
Charlie Sheen is threatening to stop Denise’s child support and he’s trying to kick her and his girls out of the house he owns, because his skank trash fiancee is jealous of her. So one of the dangers of dealing with Charlie’s crazy is that it’ll leave you looking like a roasted baby carrot.
As Prince William examined that bilby’s fur to see if it will make a suitable hairpiece, Baby Prince George held a thumb to his mouth as he thought to himself, “Hmm, canz I eat that?”
The hardest working baby in the entire world (I mean, he IS working on a holiday) who is also the luckiest baby in the entire world because he gets to regularly inhale Prince Hot Ginge’s vodka breath, was back at work today at the Taronga Zoo in Sydney. Duchess Kate, Prince William and Baby Prince George are still on their two-week government-funded vacation masquerading as a work trip through New Zealand and Australia and once they’re done they’re going to need another government-funded vacation, because they have never worked this hard in their lives! They were all at the zoo today and Baby Prince George met the animal who is harvesting his daddy’s future hairpiece. Actually, I think Baby Prince George is the one who’s harvesting his daddy’s future hairpiece.
The bilby’s name is George, but his name wasn’t always George. His named used to be Boy, but when Baby Prince George was pulled out of the royal vagine, he was forced to change his name to George as a tribute to that drooling royal. So this is just a special moment between a peasant bilby and the all-powerful royal baby who’s the sole reason for why he had to change his damn name to George. That bilby would throw a side-eye, but he knows he’d be turned into Easter stew if he did.
Hershey’s extremely tasteful and holy gourmet delicacy: The Chocolate Crucifix!
Thousands of years ago, Jesus died on the cross for our sins and according to Hershey, those sins taste like milk chocolate. Works for me! The fully stocked bong next to me and the bowl full of jelly beans, Reese’s peanut butters eggs, Cadbury Creme Egg whites (I’m watching my cholesterol) and Peeps that I plan to stick my head into and not come up until it’s empty or I fall into a diabetes coma tells me that it’s Easter times again! It isn’t officially a religious holiday until corporations are whoring the fuck out of it. Hershey’s contribution is this chocolate cross, which I’m sure has hints of Jesus’ blood and rusty nails mixed in with the milk chocolate taste.
But I’m a little mad and offended. Hershey puts out something special and classy (Side note: It would’ve been extra classy if they put a tiny chocolate Jesus on it) for the chocolate-loving Christian set, but where is their chocolate bong to commemorate my personal religious holiday: 4/20? But then again, I guess everything Hershey puts out celebrates 4/20.
Happy Weedster, everyone!
Pic: Walmart (but you already knew that)
Jessica Lange (65)
Michelle Ryan (30)
Miranda Kerr (31)
Ben Platt (34)
Joey Lawrence (38)
Tina Cousins (40)
Carmen Electra (42)
Shemar Moore (44)
J. D. Roth (46)
Crispin Glover (50)
Andy Serkis (50)
Veronica Cartwright (65)
Ryan O’Neal (73)
George Takei (77)
I know that last week I was instructing you to pack up your things and move to Colorado in order to be closer to that dreamy vending machine that sells weed, but there’s been a change of plans. We’re moving to Canada now. Yes, it’s cold as fuck. Yes, they elect crack-smoking assholes. Yes, the TV suuuuucks (edit: except for Big Brother Canada). But they’ve invented the Pizza Cake, so it will all be worth it.
A restaurant chain in Canada called Boston Pizza (aka Bostons aka Lil’ BoPeez aka My Favorite Restaurant Because I Am Trash) currently has a promotion on called “Pizza Game Changers” where people get to vote which potential new product will be made by Boston Pizza. Half of the ideas are Lohan-level dumb, like the gas-powered pizza cutter or the beard-shaped napkin, and a couple actually seem plausible (you know some gross fuck really wants to eat pizza-flavoured mints). But then there’s the Pizza Cake: six pizzas stacked on top of each other to form a girthy, thick pizza-filled fuck pile.
Even thought the Pizza Cake has more photoshopping than the face of a Kardashian, it’s the only product that looks real and more than 11,000 people have voted for it to be added to the menu. And since it’s Canada, it would be super-rude not to give the people what they asked for, so I’m betting $100 in Canadian Tire Money that the pizza cake will actually be served in Boston Pizzas across the country within a matter of months. Regardless of where you live, go ahead and vote for the Pizza Cake (it’s Canada; it would be rude to check IP addresses) if you want to make a Canadian’s dream come true.
And if the Canadian government is looking for a new national dish, I think they’ve found it. Nothing says “I’ve Got Free Healthcare” like the Pizza Cake.
Well look who we have here, it’s the seven basic bitches: Skinny, Boozy, Aussie, Goopy, Cougary, Bleachy, and McCartney (you know you’re the definition of basic when your nickname is just your last name).
On Friday night, struggling single mother Gwyneth Paltrow treated herself to a night out with her girlfriends at vegan restaurant Crossroads (once again, I feel the need to mention that it is tragically NOT a Crossroads-themed restaurant). Since it’s scientifically impossible to have a group of seven women get together for a girl’s night without taking a picture of it as proof (try it – I promise you it’s impossible), Gwyneth made sure not to leave without uploading a selfie to Instagram of herself, Nicole Richie, Chelsea Handler, Naomi Watts, Sam Taylor-Wood, Gwen Stefani, and Stella McCartney. Hold on a second, Nicole Richie? Color me a Simple Life-shade of confused. When did they become friends? OH MY GOD, WHO CARES. This group of women is the visual form of chasing 2 Ambien with a mug of Sleepytime tea.
Even though I normally cackle with delight in watching Gwyneth Paltrow try to do normal people things (divorces, hot dogs, etc) I actually really like this picture. I know, book me a room at Calmwood. Whatever filter (or lack of filter) Gwyneth used makes it look like the picture was taken during the middle of a seance held at Castle Goopskull using a broken Polaroid i-Zone, and Gwen Stefani is the first poor soul to be possessed by the malevolent spirit they summoned from hell. It’s like Paranormal Activity 4: Snobby Rich Ladies. It’s terrifying. I love it.
After coming down with a case of the sicks and spending most of the week humping on bowls of jello and IV poles, Miley Cyrus was forced to temporarily hang up her bedazzled crotch-suffocating thongs and cancel several of her shows. And now the Associated Press has been told by Miley’s rep (an enchanted box of off-brand Shake n’ Bake) that she’s still recovering, which means that all of her upcoming US shows have been postponed. So, sad news for everyone who had planned on celebrating Easter Week by watching a slutty squirrel mark her territory by rubbing her rodent parts all over the hood of a car (it’s what Jesus would have wanted, right?)
The rep went on to say that Miley will resume her US tour on August 1st by playing seven rescheduled shows and two additional stops, and that her illness hasn’t impacted her European tour, which begins in a little less than two weeks. You hear that Europe? You have less than two weeks to prepare yourselves for Miley’s aggressively antibiotic-resistant viruses.
And Miley’s probably not the only one taking some time off to recuperate; I’m sure there’s a whole floor of the ICU dedicated to treating the antibiotics that survived after being flushed from her system.
“I was told we were just going in to clear up a sinus infection. But once we entered her body, my god, most of us were totally unprepared for what we saw. The viruses, the questionable strains of yeast. I saw my best friend die in a pool of rancid jizz. Even the strongest of us were freaking out.” - One of the survivors
I heard most of them were being treated for PTSD and various rashes. Sad. Get well soon, antibiotics.
The last time we checked in with the former harmless booze-chugging trash rat turned insane anti-Semitic conspiracy theorist known as Tila Tequila, she had sort of disappeared before the release of there second sex tape. Naturally, I just assumed she’d been kidnapped by underground Illuminati lizard-people or an alien possessed by Hitler’s ghost, but as it turns out, she was drying out somewhere. GOOD. If Tila Tequila needed anything, it was for a group of professionals to get her off the sauce, because she was turning into the definition of RIGHT FUCKED UP.
And on Friday, Tila announced on Facebook that along with being clean and sober, she’s also knocked up with a tiny tequila worm. Tila says that she’s 10 weeks pregnant, and she’s already created a new Twitter account where she goes by the name Baby Mama Tila. So far there’s no word on who the baby daddy is, so for now let’s assume it’s an Illuminati lizard (they’re notoriously virile).
Tila is has been known to cry wolf when it comes to announcing pregnancies, so I might need more than a swollen tum-tum and a pair of pregnancy titties to convince me that Tila is actually with worm. I won’t be convinced that she is actually pregnant until I see a picture 6 months from now of a giant-eyed baby poking its head out of her crazy coochie, holding a newspaper from that morning in one hand and a hand-written affidavit in the other that reads “I, Tila’s little baby, swear that I was conceived in, grew in, share DNA with, and am now exiting Tila Tequila.” And even then, I’ll still probably be throwing side-eyes and wondering just how long Tila and that super-smart hired baby have been in cahoots for.