Please don’t ask me what I want for Christmas this year, because last night I received the best present I could ever wish for when I opened up Twitter and discovered that my favorite beady-eyed sex possum went trash rat crazy and was throwing around F-bombs like it was two-for-one pitchers of Coors Light night at Hooters. It was the best day of my life; I was like the half-drunk grown-up version of the Nintendo 64 kids.
It all started earlier this week when The Deaner was papped leaving a sex shop in Encino, CA while his wife was laid-up at Cedars-Sinai with an acute case of famewhoreitis. Who knows if he was running errands for himself or if Tori Spelling had asked him to pick up some more lube to help the lies slide out of her mouth easier, but one anonymous person on Twitter thought it was in poor taste and called him out. That’s when The Deaner decided to go full-Deaner and let a bitch know what’s crappenin’:
It was my impression that The Deaner was chill as fuck, so who knows what set him off like that. Maybe it was because there’s no longer enough money in the family budget for Deaner to get his drank on. E! says that ever since Fame Whori hooked up with the Sleazy McUseless, they’ve blown through $18 million, and they’re currently living paycheck-to-paycheck. Damn, poor Deaner! Gold digging has never backfired so hard!
And I know The Deaner said he’s done with social media bullshit, but I just so happened to find a couple things he tweeted shortly after his Twitter meltdown:
You’re right, it doesn’t sound at all like the real Deaner; there’s not nearly enough FUCKS.