BRB, I need to check to see that there are still laws against cannibalism. Listening to Coldplay usually makes me want to kill myself, and I want to make sure the next time “Fix You” starts playing in the grocery store, I don’t have to be worried that Chris Martin is lurking around the spice aisle with a napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt and licking his chops.
Gwyneth Paltrow’s former hourly organic porpoise facial oil spritzer appeared on Radio 2 to promote what will surely be Prince William’s favorite new album, Ghost Stories. Chris Martin confessed that after Gwyneth demanded he hand over his set of keys to the servant’s backdoor entrance to Castle Goopskull in exchange for the return of his balls, one of the life changes he made was to ditch his vegetarian diet:
“I am not really vegetarian. I eat meat. I was vegetarian for a long time but, for various reasons, I changed. I’d only eat something that I think I could kill. I’d kill a fish. Not a giraffe.”
“For various reasons” – ie. He was sick of sucking on raw strips of coconut bark and imported galangal roots for however many years he was married to The Water Whisperer and he would have cut off his own beautiful angel curls (his source of basic boy bitch power) for a stale Wendy’s JBC.
And I hope Gwyneth doesn’t share the same philosophy as Chris, otherwise every animal on the planet is totally fucked. Do you know how little it would take for Gwyneth to smug us to death? No hunting rifles, no crossbows; just a GOOP.com article about exclusive $1900 apres-bath sheets hand-woven from French cumulus clouds served with an extra-large side of insufferable delusion and self-worth, and it would be like the comet that wiped out the dinosaurs.