No, I didn’t screw up and accidentally upload an outtake from Lindsay Lohan’s blasphemous Marilyn Monroe photo shoot for New York Magazine. John Malkovich looks a zillion times fresher than LiLo and he has more sexiness in his freshly painted exquisite Sharpie brow than she will ever have. Somewhere up in heaven, Marilyn Monroe knocked on Bert Stern’s door and asked him if they can do over her last sitting because she can’t let John Malkovich show her up like this.
Inspired by Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich from Being John Malkovich, photographer Sandro Miller decided to recreate some of history’s most iconic photographs using national treasure John Malkovich. John Malkovich becomes Marilyn Monroe, Alfred Hitchcock, Andy Warhol, John Lennon, Muhammad Ali, Gaultier, Einstein, Jack Nicholson, the Migrant Mother and many more. John Malkovich also stars as twins that are more creepier than The Shining Twins and the Trollsens. That’s saying a lot. Sandro says that he chose 35 works that have inspired him as a photographer and asked John Malkovich to help him recreate them:
“John is the most brilliant, prolific person I know. His genius is unparalleled. I can suggest a mood or an idea and within moments, he literally morphs into the character right in front of my eyes. He is so trusting of my work and our process… I’m truly blessed to have him as my friend and collaborator.”
The Hollywood Reporter says that all the Malkovich-ized photos that Sandro Miller created will show at the Catherine Edelman Gallery in Chicago from November 7, 2014 to January 15, 2015. Click here to see more of them.
If you’re asking yourself, FOR WHY?!!!! The answer is, because if there’s one thing this world is thirsty for, it’s more John Malkovich! And yes, someone will find a way to fap to that picture above and I don’t judge them at all.
Pics: Sandro Miller
It appears Aaron Carter still has one working braincell in that peroxide-fried Ed Hardy hedgehog head of his (“Damn! I thought I got them all?” – crystal meth). After trying desperately to woo his ex-girlfriend Hilary Duff back into his life on Twitter since January, Aaron Carter has finally taken the hint that Lizzie McGuire wants nothing to do with him or his busted Faces of Florida ass. The Ghost of Justin Bieber Future told Wenn (via E!) that after much thought (read: after Mike Comrie showed up at his studio in the valley with a couple NHL enforcers), he’s decided to cool it with the AXE-Scented Social Media Romeo shit:
“If I’m too open about how I feel then people wanna nag and pick and poke at me. I don’t know Hilary, either. She don’t know me and I don’t know her. I just need to shut up now about it. I think it’s time. She’s got a kid and she’s married and I’m not trying to be that dude. That’s not my intention. Hilary will always hold a very special place in my heart.”
Poor Aaron; he threw Hilary a love party every day for almost a whole year, but she never wanted to come get it. Na na na na, na na na na.
But just because it didn’t work out with Hilary doesn’t mean Nick Jr. should stop trying to pursue all his old girlfriends. For instance, I’m sure Lindsay Lohan would love to rekindle the spray tan-dipped romance they had so many years ago! It has the makings of a classic Hollywood love story! After more than a decade apart, two former tweener messes reunite after flirting online (“Hey sexy, I bored – wan 2 fuck?“) to rub their rash-covered parts on each other in a dirty hotel room and snort anything they can crush up and fit through a straw. Then they’ll hit a rough patch when Aaron catches the Apricot Ashtray trying to steal $20 from his wallet while he’s taking a shit. So romantic! It’s just like The Notebook!
As expected, HBO announced that Colin Farrell, the dirty piece we’d all hit even though his man chowder is probably the consistency of chunky nose snot, will play a detective in the second season of True Detective. HBO also made the entire Internet do the slow wall slide of NOOOOOOOO by announcing that Vince Vaughn and his fried puffed potato face will also star. Vince Vaughn is a perfect casting decision, because the answers to all of life’s greatest mysteries cling to the hairy branches of the weeping willow hanging out of his nose.
Deadline says that HBO also announced that Justin Lin (he directed a few of those Fast & Furious movies) will direct the first 2 episodes which start shooting in L.A. this fall. HBO also queefed up this riveting and highly detailed plot synopsis:
“Three police officers and a career criminal must navigate a web of conspiracy in the aftermath of a murder.”
Colin will play, Ray Velcoro, one of the three cops who’s torn between a corrupt police department and the mobster who owns his ass. Vince Vaughn will play career criminal, Frank Semyon (I’m going to pronounce that SEMEN, FYI), who’s afraid of losing his empire when his move into legitimate business is ruined by the murder of a business partner. Deadline says that Taylor Kitsch is pretty much set for one of the other cop roles and the other cop role, a chick, is still being cast.
Last Thursday, Rosario Dawson, Jessica Biel (WHY?!!!!), Abigail Spencer, Malin Akerman, Oona Chaplin, Jaimie Alexander and Brit Marling all read for the female lead in front of series creator Nic Pizzolatto. Keira Knightley is also being considered for a role, apparently.
The first season of True Detective starred Woody the Bartender from Cheers and the star of Ghosts of Girlfriends Past and everyone had their tongues stuck to that show’s b-hole, so maybe Vince Vaughn will surprise everyone! Just to be safe, the director should make Vince Vaughn shoot every scene while eating an ice cream, because Vince Vaughn sucking off an ice cream is non-stop entertainment.
And judging by the casting so far, I’m guessing that True Detective season 3 will star Kevin James, Hooch from Turner & Hooch and legendary crime solvers Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. I wish.
I should’ve warned you in my headline and I hope it’s not too late, but do not stare directly at the maniacal double twinkle in Paula Deen’s eyes or your soul will emulsify and spend the rest of eternity stuck in her arteries.
After Paula Deen’s Kingdom of Butter crumbled, melted and dripped down into the gutter last year when all that racist stuff she did and said came out, she took her Country Crock tears to Today and delivered a melodramatic, theatrical performance where she cried as though she was auditioning for a novella and painted herself as the martyr of all martyrs. I expected Paula to stick herself to a cross made of mantequilla and sing “The Crucifixion” from Jesus Christ Superstar. Well, the second leg (or is it the third?) of Paula’s national apology tour started up again this morning on Today.
I don’t know who I feel more sorry for in this picture: Tony Bennett, who looks so confused as to why he’s being escorted around by a low-budget Cher, or that security guard who is doing everything in his power not to look at Lady Gaag’s busted titty shields. Nope, never mind – the person I feel most sorry for is the one made out of embroidery thread on the cross-stitch being handed to Gaag. That poor stitched person! You’re either going to end up hanging on a wall in Gaag’s house or being turned into a janky-ass art thong. I pray 4 u, cross-stitch.
Now, I’m not sure if the jazz album Lady Gaag and Tony Bennett made together, Cheek to Cheek, has a theme, but if this picture of the two of them leaving a concert in Belgium on Monday night is any indication, I’d guess that the theme is either “A older gentleman makes the mistake of ordering a hooker from the back of a weekly newspaper he found at the bus station” or “The lady is a tramp…literally“, because Lady Gaag looks like a damn discount call girl MESS!
Okay, sure – she’s at least upgraded her wig to something that doesn’t look like it was fished from the bottom of a trash can at the mall, and yes her makeup is on point (real talk), but what even is that dress??? I don’t even think what she’s wearing can technically be called a dress; it looks more like an organza table runner ripped from Aunt Sandy’s You Can’t Spell Funeral Without F-U-N! tablescape held up with two rubber bands. No to mention the only thing worse than flashing a titty is flashing a set of flying saucer-sized nipple covers. They’re literally the same size as the stickers I used to get at the dentist for having zero cavities.
But I can’t hate on that Mom Thong (“Mom Thongs – Thongs For Moms”) she’s wearing. Everything feels just a little bit classier when a pair of Sears satin-style no-line tummy-tamers make an appearance.
For those of you thinking “Harpo, who dis woman-looking piece of salt water taffy??“, Meghan Trainor is the girl who sings that “All About That Bass” song that’s been assaulting your eardrums for several weeks. She also appears to be what you’d get if a 7th Heaven-era Ashlee Simpson queefed on a bag of Bunny Mix M&Ms. Or a come-to-life sidewalk chalk picture of a birthday cake.
Either way, 20-year-old Meghan Trainor admitted to Billboard that even thought she’s all about that body positivity and loving yourself and shit, she doesn’t want you to think it’s because she’s a feminist (cut to Emma Watson face-palming so hard she leaves a permanent hand-print in her forehead):
Now, Trainor has become a model of self-acceptance for kids across the globe. “I got up at six this morning to reply to fan letters and Instagram posts,” she says. “I don’t consider myself a feminist, but I’m down for my first opportunity to say something to the world to be so meaningful. If you asked me, ‘What do you want to say?’ it would be, ‘Love yourself more.’”
Um, excuse you, Megan-with-an-H, but have you learned NOTHING from Beyoncé?? Feminism is OK now because Beyoncé said it was, remember? You made Beyoncé cry sad salty feminist tears today Meghan.
But honestly, Megan-with-an-H is only 20-years-old; she’s basically a fetus with eyeliner, so of course she’s not a “feminist”. She’s too busy replying to fan letters and Instagram posts to learn what the word means! So instead she just makes some vague excuse for why she hasn’t yet learned the definition of the word. Just like Shailene Woodley! Maybe we should make up a new word to describe someone who isn’t a feminist, but isn’t entirely sure why they’re not? That way they wouldn’t spend so much time making up weird reasons to defend their ignorance. Maybe like, “feminotsure” or “feminaskmeinacoupleyears“. It would save so much time!
The Internet has Lindsay Lohan’d us again. Next you’re going to tell me that Charlo Greene is an actress from L.A., her real name is Kimberly Brown, she’s never smoked weed in her life and that station in Alaska hired her to pull that scripted stunt so they’d beat their rivals in the Anchorage local news ratings war! Then you’re going to tell me that the Frankenstein helmet on The Long Island Medium’s head isn’t a communication device for the dead. What to believe?!
When the story of the 21-year-old demure Florida daisy with a third tit implant made the rounds yesterday, some of us squinted at it the same way I squint at a picture from a Grindr trick that looks like his head pasted on Zac Efron’s body. I wanted to believe, but deep down I knew it was made of one hundred percent pure lies. Something in the third tit wasn’t clean about Jasmine Tridevil’s story. Jasmine wouldn’t give up the name of the back alley plastic surgeon who did it, because she claims they made her sign a confidentiality agreement and her trio of tits situation looked a little too perfect. Well, those truth sniffers at Snopes got to the bottom of it and exposed Jasmine Tridevil and her tres chichi as frauds.
Quick, grab the magnifying glasses! Wait, no – we’re going to need more advanced picture analysis technology than that! Grab your coat, we’re going to the CSI forensic lab! I need Horatio Caine to enhance-enhance-enhance this picture of Beyoncé’s alleged Blue Ivy bey-by bump, because I’m having trouble making out the pillow seams with my naked eye.
Her Highness Beyoncé finally released the home movies music video that played during Bey and Jay-Z’s performance of “Forever Young/Halo” every night of the We Want Money tour, and as you can see the biggest highlight was a grainy clip of Bey and Jay showing off Bey’s fetus factory. Oh boy, my tolerance for these two stunt queens is already pretty low, but this is just bey-yond. I know this is supposed to be real, true proof of Beyoncé renting out her womb to Blue Ivy, but I’m still not convinced. SHOW ME THE RECEIPTS, BEY! Specifically the one for the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Baby!™ lifelike prosthetic third trimester bump you’re wearing.
I’m sure the bump Bey is sporting above is real (no I’m not), but it’s still a little too suspicious. The way Bey is holding her hands reminds me of when drag queens try to disguise the neckline of their breastplate by wearing a distracting necklace. There’s a rubber seam under that arm shadow, I just know it! Of course, we’ll never see the lower seam because it’s covered up by that sexy diaper thing she’s wearing.
But the bigger question here is…for why are Bey and Jay posing like every pregnant couple I’ve seen on Pinterest?? You know the ones, where the woman is always naked and done up in full hair and makeup and the dude looks like he just took a break from playing Xbox Live? “Oh, is this like a special memories kind of thing? Did you want me to change out of my cargo shorts or something?”
And here’s the full video, including a bunch of clips of Blue Ivy being adorable:
“Trust me, you’re the perfect woman for Tom Cruise”. - Steve O
Whisper sweet nothings in my gear. – johnny boy
Yesterday, Buzzfeed posted about a red velvet corn dog (the baked overused tampon-looking ass thing in the top right) made by food blogger The Vulgar Chef and that led me to his Instagram where I got stuck in a giant dumpster of captions that speak to my soul and food shit that looks like a cross between crap found in the bottom of the most used Port-A-Potty at a county fair in the South and gourmet delicacies Mama June would make if she was a contestant on Top Chef. The Vulgar Chef cooks up shit that only looks delicious to your mouth if you’re stoned, drunk or your last name is Spears. But his captions really sell that mess. On the top left is a burger thing that looks like a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a DIY abortion wrapped in a botched circumcision and The Vulgar Chef describes it with these words of pure poetry:
Just entered this fat titty fuck burger into a shitty fucking contest. Ground sirloin, smoked chipotle mayo, lemon garlic butter on fucking everything, Parmesan charred romaine lettuce, and a Kim Kardashian nipple sized slice of smoked Gouda. Yeah Kim. I saw the leaked pictures. That nipple-to-tit ratio is all fucked up. Looks like someone duct taped some salami to a couple of rotten pumpkins. The nipples are almost bigger than the tit area.
On the bottom left is a pickle that looks like it needs a priest, three jumbo shots of liquid Valtrex and a Hazmat soaking bath. Most free clinic doctors in the L.A. area will tell you that pickle is in “post-Paris Hilton condition.” The Vulgar Chef describes this Snooki wet dream like this:
Just your average caramel covered pickle with M&M’s all over that filthy little slut. One of the stranger things I have tasted. I’ve seen chocolate covered pickles, but fuck that shit. The chocolate cock has been jerked for too long. It’s caramels turn to bust a nut.
How is he not writing the menu descriptions for EVERY restaurant? Why is he not on the Food Network but Guy Fieri is? Why am I actually considering making that gross ass, heart attack-inducing hot dog mozzarella ball sandwich on the bottom right? These are the questions we should all be asking today.