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.”