Jesus in a robe worshiping to a higher dildo tells me that this year’s Gathering of the Juggalos is going to be an especially spiritual experience.
It’s the most beautiful time of the year again! It’s time for the annual Gathering of the Juggalos, which is like Coachella but with a million times more glamour, demureness and refinement. For the past 7 years, the Gathering of the Juggalos was held at Cave-In-Rock, Illinois, but the CDC, Corey Stoll in a busted wig and Hazmat had to shut it down, quarantine it and burn the soil after a demon monster made of Faygo and herpes pus was found. Yes, The Strain is a documentary. So this year, the Juggalos and Juggalettes have gathered at the Legend Valley Music Venue in Thornville, Ohio where they’ll politely sip chamomile tea while listening to the easy listening styles of their idols the Insane Clown Posse and reminiscing about the time they almost murdered Tila Tequila. Or they’ll get plastered on Fagyo and battery acid, punch each other’s eyeballs out in the mosh pit, 69 in the Port-A-Potties and laugh about the time they almost murdered Tila Tequila.
Yesterday was the first day of the Gathering of the Juggalos, so I’m sure there’s much more class and beauty to come. Westword has a ton of pictures, but I’ve thrown in a few pictures below. WARNING: These pictures are NSFW, because there’s nipples and there’s a one hundred percent chance that you’ll get hit in the eyes with a FUPA and it’ll leave you out of commission for the rest of the day. Glamour all up in this bitch!
The normally timid and reserved Nicki Minaj teased the release of her new single “Anaconda” by posting the artwork to Instagram today, and it truly is an example of refined elegance and chaste beauty. In keeping with the snake theme, Nicki wrapped her butter-basted honey baked silicone butt hams in pink rubber bands to mimic a giant anaconda attempting to swallow an over-inflated PogoBall. It’s a bit subtle, but understated imagery has always been a defining characteristic of her work. While a less-modest woman might have agreed to take a raunchy picture with her legs open or her pussy-out, Nicki decided to keep it classy by coyly turning her coochie away from the camera, as if to say: “Let’s leave a little something to the imagination, shall we?” My goodness, such a tease!
And even though it looks trés gauche next to such a demure lady, it’s a good thing she added the parental advisory warning to the lower right-hand corner, otherwise people might mistake it for an advertisement for a finishing school. Of course, Nicki Minja isn’t always such a tasteful classy woman; sometimes (read: all the fucking time) she’s a shady wig-snatching bitch. Like when she took to Twitter yesterday to take some not-so-subtle swipes at Australian rapper Iggy Azalea.
If Nicki is truly striving for greatness, she should have called a bitch out by name. It’s too easy to Twitter hiss in someone’s general direction; you’ve got to challenge yourself! Don’t be cutting corners, Nicki – continue to strive for cunty greatness! Go for the froat next time!
Last month, Ron Teblo, an author and investigator who’s been trying to expose The Long Island Medium’s con artist ways for a while, gave Radar testimonies from former employees and customers of Theresa Caputo who claim that she’s got the psychic skills of a taxidermy cat in a turban and uses tricks to fool people. Theresa’s former employees claimed that before a reading, she gets her people to do research on the dead loved one and uses her stunningly exquisite Wite-Out nails to pull shit out of her ass. In a video Ron made for his site SciFake (via Radar), he claims that Cassandra Cales, the sister of Stacy Peterson, who’s been missing since 2007, wrote him on Facebook and told him about her reading with The Long Island Medium. If your psychic abilities are telling you that the reading was a mess, congratulations! You’re more gifted than The Long Island Medium!
Stacy Peterson went missing in 2007 and her bloated piss bag of a husband Drew Peterson probably had everything to do with it. Drew is serving a 38 year sentence in prison after he was found guilty of murdering his third wife Kathleen Savio. Cassandra told Ron that for months and months, The Long Island Medium’s people kept bothering her to come on her reality shit show for a reading. Cassandra finally gave in and flew to NYC. The session was taped for The Long Island Medium, but it never aired, because it was a wreck from start to finish. Cassandra says that Theresa Caputo gave her no proof that she made a connection with her sister. Not only did Theresa waste Cassandra’s time, but the Jennifer Aniston look-alike with Kate Gosselin-on-roids hair also punched her in the soul by saying that Stacy wants her to stop looking.
“She gave me nothing. She really sucked and wasn’t hitting on nothing. [Caputo] said Stacy didn’t want me searching for her, to put it to rest. It was a hard day for me. I think she was a fake, phony. And lied to me.”
So wait, if this is true, then The Long Island Medium shamelessly took advantage of a vulnerable loved one of a high-profile case to get ratings for her TV show and more attention for herself. Hmmm… I hear a raspy hollering in my ear. It’s either from my neighbor’s fat, old ass cat coughing up another hairball or it’s Sylvia Browne cackling with glee from the beyond. Her legacy lives on!
Even though Kelsey Grammer is technically old enough to start picking out lanais to which to retire to with a cold glass of unsweetened sun tea and scratching his balls all day, he’s once again putting it on hold for finding soggy Cheerios mashed into the carpet and making plastic poo sausages in the Diaper Genie. Kelsey confirmed to ET that his 34-year-old wife Kayte gave birth to his sixth child on Tuesday, a little boy they’ve named Kelsey Gabriel Elias Grammer, adding:
“Our son will be called Gabriel as there is a tradition in our family of going by our middle names. We are blessed and excited to have this lovely young man join our family — he is magnificent!”
Hands up if you read the words “he is magnificent” in the smooth baritone voice of Sideshow Bob.
Even though Kelsey has six kids, he’s really only an honorary member of the K-Fed Club. Kelsey didn’t just start popping off pepaw nuts in the past couple of years à la Kevin Federline: Kelsey also has a 2-year-old daughter with Kayte, two children with elegant Beverly Hills freesia blossom Camille Grammer, as well as two adult daughters from two previous relationships.
Congrats to virile pepaw Kelsey Grammer, congrats to his wife Kayte, and congrats to lucky baby Gabriel, who gets to hear Goodnight Moon read to him every night by the relaxing, hypnotic voice of Dr. Frasier Crane.
In “THIS IS BRAND NEW INFORMATION” news, a California pilot who once worked for John Travolta claims that the darling of Scientology loves dick and the two had a great, big six-year-long gay love affair in the 80s. I know, what other anal bead-clutching SHOCKING revelations is this pilot going to hit us with? Is he going to tell us that the rug on John’s head is made of skinned papillons and that every Friday night he performs Barbra Streisand’s greatest hits in the Scientology bath house? I need to hold onto something sturdy, because I don’t think I can take it.
John’s alleged former gay lovah, Doug Gotterba, wants to make a quick check by writing all about his time with John’s Scientolohole in a new book. John’s lawyers tried to put a stop to the tell-all, but it didn’t work. The Hollywood Reporter says that an appeals court judge in California ruled on Tuesday that John can no longer try to stop Doug from exposing their gay love in a book. John’s lawyer Marty Singer claims that Doug signed a strict confidentiality agreement in 1987, but Doug’s lawyer claims that document is about as authentic as John’s hair. The judge ruled in Doug’s favor and spit out this stream of legal words:
“Although the prelitigation letters may have triggered Gotterba’s complaint and may be evidence in support of the complaint, they are not the basis of the complaint.
[To hold otherwise] would lead to the absurd result that a person receiving a demand letter threatening legal action for breach of contract would be precluded from seeking declaratory relief to determine the validity of the contract. Declaratory relief would be limited to situations where the parties have not communicated their disagreement.”
Translation: Doug can write about doing butt sex with John Travolta.
Doug tells The National Enquirer (of course) that he first met John in 1981 when he interviewed for a pilot job. John gave Doug the job and later gave him other jobs if you know what I mean (and yes, I stopped typing for a second to make the hand signs for “hand job” and “blow job“). Seven months after he got the job, he and John were boyfriends. For years, they traveled all over the world together and Doug claims he’s the one who told John he should get a beard. John took his advice and started dating Brooke Shields.
“Sometimes he’d bring women along as beards, but he would ask me to join him in his suite and we’d spend the nights together. It was our little secret.”
They broke up sometime in 1986, because Doug says that John was a jealous mess and kept accusing him of doing other dudes. John’s lawyer, who has a canned “deny the gay stuff” statement on file, called Doug’s story a ridiculous lie.
Doug claims that he has proof! Doug kept logs and records! Marty Singer can suck on that, because logs and records are solid proof! When I write my tell-all in a few years about how Anderson Cooper and I have had a 10-year-long gay love affair and together we adopted a ginger baby named Rojo Jr. who was raised by her au pair Shauna Sand in the back room of an In-N-Out, everyone will know I’m telling the truth, because I’ll have logs and records as proof. Logs and records!
Hos making a dollar by selling out the celebrities they boned is nothing new and neither are tales of John Travolta’s Scientolohole, but I’m still all for this non-scandalous tell-all as long as it eventually gets made into a Lifetime movie co-starring Teddy Bear the Porcupine as John’s wig. Teddy Bear really needs a breakout role.
Poor lovelorn d-bag Robin Thicke. According to TMZ, releasing a serial killer-y album full of stalker ballads that sold all of 50 copies hasn’t won back the affections of his estranged wife Paula Patton like he thought it would. I know, I’m shocked too; who of us wouldn’t swoon to the moon and back if the human equivalent of gonorrhea wrote you a bunch of songs that sound like a 15-year-old’s crappy LiveJournal poetry?
A source (Alan Thicke’s magic talking penis) tells TMZ that Robin has put their house up for sale and hired an attorney to split up their assets. Paula hasn’t lived in the house since February, but neither she nor Robin have hired a divorce lawyer yet. You hear that Robin? She doesn’t have a divorce lawyer yet! Quick, start recording a follow-up to Paula called Paula Don’t Call Trope and Trope!
Obviously this could all be just another jenga block in the publicity stunt pyramid Robin and Paula have been building since he was photographed with his hand up a skank’s ass, but I think he’s actually selling his house because he was probably having a tough time getting laid. Most true-blue sluts have a sixth sense for detecting the presence of a bottom bitch in the atmosphere (usually by way of a tingle in their pussy or gag reflex). So every time Robin brought a new blonde trick home, they no doubt would freeze upon entry, put their hand to their pussy like a slutty psychic and ask “Did a wife or a long-term girlfriend used to live here? I’m sensing drama. I should go.”
All together now: MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
Yesterday on Today, the One Direction of Australia, 5 Shits of Summer (or whatever their name is), performed and hundreds of crazed tweens lined up for them and some slept on the sidewalk for almost a week to see them. Well, I guess Fifty Shades of Grey is the 5 Seconds of Summer to the boxed wine-drinking, Honda CR-V-driving mom crowd. The trailer that makes Fifty Shades of Shit look like a story about a soulless animatronic serial killer who ties up a homeless librarian with bad bangs was shown on Today this morning and some people lined up while holding signs. Those women only have one fuck to give and that fuck is for Fifty Shades of Grey! A lot of hos who read mess read it in the back of a darkened closet with a flashlight and anytime someone came into the room and turned the lights on, they’d scream, “TURN OFF THE LIGHTS! I don’t want you to see me like this!” But not these moms. They proudly read that shit on the subway during rush hour and they are not ashamed to show up to Today on International Fifty Shades of Grey Trailer Day and show their faces in the daylight.
And I shouldn’t say that only moms lined up, because I see that man in the turquoise polo. On the outside, he’s saying, “I was dragged here, I’m just their ride, I don’t know what a Fifty Shades of Grey is,” but on the inside he’s squealing, “OH GOD YES OH GOD YES! I’m Gay for Grey!”
If moms are lining up for the trailer, I can only imagine what the premiere is going to be like. It’s going to be more chaotic than a 75% off “everything must go” sale at Chico’s.
And who ever came up with the idea for this sign should be handcuffed and jailed:
Matt Lauer winking while holding a gigantic pair of handcuffs with his toddler hands? That’s Fifty Shades of NOPE.
via @TODAYshow (Thanks Cara)
This morning, the first full-length trailer for Fifty Shades of Grey (aka the Walmart version of Secretary) was supposed to premiere on the Today show, but it was deemed “too hot for morning TV” and all the horny mommies were told that if they wanted to see the hot hardcore action, they’d have to disable the Net Nanny and watch it online. There must be a bunch of busted thermometers at NBC, because nothing about this trailer is “too hot” for the Today show. Kathie Lee Gifford has had on-air hot flashes that were hotter than this lukewarm trailer.
Literally the “hottest” scene was when Dakota Johnson appeared wearing a wool cardigan and I thought “Damn, if it’s warm enough in that office for every other bitch to go sleeveless, Dakota Johnson must be hot as fuck.” Other than that, I have a hard time remembering the rest of what happened in the trailer, because it was boooorrrinnng and I fell asleep. I actually had to throw on some Lana Del Rey to wake my ass up. The trailer is 2 and a half minutes long, and most of that time is dedicated to Beyoncé moaning “Crazy in Love” like a narcoleptic zombie and Jamie Dornan looking like he just woke up from a botched lobotomy.
Meanwhile, a million middle-aged pussies just exploded fire like an active volcano from all the XXX hotness.
And here’s the star of the hottest, raunchiest, nastiest mainstream porno of all time looking like Fifty Shades of Prairie Hipster with her boyfriend in New York City yesterday.
I am never calling that game-playing, asshole again. Sure, he’s got the body of a Greek statue but he’s a total mindfuck. – Voosey
His brother Shit-for-Brains is playing out back. - johnny boy
via Boing Boing (Thanks Skip)
SprayCake, the microwavable spray cake batter that us lazy asses and the Mama June set have been dreaming of for centuries!
Humanity has reached peak evolvement, because we no longer have to sprain our hands while mixing powdered cake batter with tap water and we no longer have to bite our finger tips off while anxiously waiting for our ovens to shit out a fully baked caaaaaaake. Microwavable spray cake is FINALLY here. Two students at Harvard named Brooke Nowakowski and John McCallum came up with the idea for a class project and brought it to life. They are now the most important Americans who ever existed and I’m not even mad that they didn’t give credit to the real genius who gave them the idea: WEEEEEEEED.
Brooke and John tell CBS Boston (important interview below) that they researched to see if a patent for microwavable spray cake has ever been filed and they couldn’t believe it when they discovered that no such patent exists. Sure, crap like Warm Delights and Batter Blaster (I know, that’s the title of my favorite bukkake porn too) exists, but nobody has EVER put cake batter in a whipped-cream can. All you have to do is spray that cake batter in a microwavable container, nuke that shit for 60 seconds and out will come a freshly baked cake that probably tastes like the yeast infection a piece of cardboard would produce after doing itself with a dildo made of sugar. Delicious!
Brooke and John are working on patenting their invention and have already found someone to sell it.
I hope that SprayCake comes in a bigger size other than extra small (that’s an extra small-sized can, right?), because when I’m lonely, stoned and sad on a Saturday night, I’m going to stick that can in my mouth and guzzle my way to happiness. And I’m going to be really damn mad if that little can empties before my pain and emotions have fully drowned in spray can cake batter. Jennifer Aniston probably pre-ordered a dozen boxes of SprayCake, just in case….