I watched all 3 hours of last night’s American Music Awards and it took a lot of the sweet nectar to get through it. I’m surprised I’m not typing this from a hospital bed as a nurse stands next to me, wringing the booze out of my liver before shoving it back up my asshole. Watching it felt like being stuck in a suburban 10-year-old’s iTunes playlist. It was one shit song after another and at one point I weeped for our nation’s children, because when I was a kid our ears were filled with the artistic melodies put out by real artists like Milli Vanilli and Vanilla Ice.
Taylor Swift opened the crap song buffet with a performance of that “Blank Space” song and she probably gave the best performance of the night. I’m only saying that because it was a wreck from start to finish. Tay Tay recreated her video by playing a crazy-eyed, boyfriend-ruining psycho (read: herself, basically). It works in the video, but it was a mess live. Bitch ran around like an ostrich with mad squirrel disease. It’s like the deranged spirit of Norma Desmond possessed the body of a vintage Barbie.
Tay Tay’s performance looks like it was done on the set of a non-union touring production of Scooby Doo Live. I kept waiting for Shaggy and the gang to come out, pull off Taylor Swift’s mask and reveal that she’s actually Old Farmer Jenkins and it was him killing all those young, hot white men. Tay Tay’s acting wasn’t the only messy part of that performance. At first I thought she was mouthing to a track, but it became apparent that she wasn’t totally lip-synching when an off-key note shot out of her mouth and drop kicked my eardrum.
For the rest of the show, Taylor did what Taylor does: she held court with the “popular girls” (Selena Gomez and Selena’s one-time arch rival Lorde) and busted her out inflatable wind dancer moves in the front row. During Selena Gomez’s ~emotionally raw~ performance in front of a screensaver, Tay Tay did this:
Those duo of side-eyes…. They say everything.
Lorde (aka Emily the Strange with a spiral perm) is thinking to herself, “Cry, bitch, cry more! Your pain feeds my Hot Topic soul” and Taylor is either crying from the raw emotion or she’s crying from the second-hand embarrassment she feels while watching Selena squirt out tears over Justin Fucking Bieber.
And at the end of the show, I made the same face Taylor’s making when I realized that I wasted 3 hours of my night and could’ve watched The Comeback instead.
When I was younger, I wanted so badly to go to the mall and get some glamour shots taken. Sadly, we didn’t have a Glamour Shots®-brand photo studio in the mall closest to where I lived, and I wasn’t willing to settle for the sub-par Classy Clicks at the Sears portrait studio (it wasn’t actually called Classy Clicks, but I can assume it was some kind of lame-sounding Glamour Shots rip-off). So I never got to experience the sheer joy and soft-focus sophistication that comes from putting on a feather boa and gently caressing the right side of your face with your left hand in front of a Glamour Shots camera. I know, you’ll cry for me later, I’m sure.
Of course, that’s the sort of thing you never really get over, and seeing Diana Ross at the American Music Awards last night looking like a glamorous feather boa-wrapped beauty didn’t help. Look at her! She’s EXACTLY what I imagined my Glamour Shots shot would look like: those carefree curls, her chin resting delicately on her exposed shoulder, the coy look in her eyes that says “I’m classy, but also a lil’ sassy.” All that’s missing is a dusty mauve backdrop and a 60W incandescent light bulb illuminating her from behind.
In case you’re wondering why she was at the AMAs and not at home getting a 24k gold facial like she SHOULD be, it’s because she was hired to present Taylor Swift with the Dick Clark Award for Excellence. And no, she didn’t bounce one of Tay Tay’s tittes – we’re not that lucky.
Here’s more of Miss Diana Ross sashaying down the red carpet of the American Music Awards in a coat made from Archimedes’ relatives, as well as everyone else at the AMAs, including gorgeous humanoid Dencia, a silk-wrapped JLo, and Jessie J, who looks like a very fancy makeup consultant:
A few hours before this picture of Dame St. Angie Jolie saying to Brad Pitt, “Bitch, wipe that smirk off of your face and take your bitch ass outside in 5, because I’m not done with you,” was taken, a paparazzo took pictures of the Jesus and Mary of our time having a fight on the balcony of their hotel in Sydney. Please, we all know those two are perfect messiahs who only know how to spread love and peace. That fight was obviously staged to make them look human. What’s next? Leaked pictures of the supposed turd St. Angie dropped in a public toilet to make us think she actually shits?
The Australian tabloid Woman’s Day (via ONTD) put the pictures in a riveting video set to some weird song they bought for cheap. Woman’s Day says that St. Angie and Brad busted out a balcony tussle just hours after they reunited in Sydney. They obviously weren’t over their fight, because some source says that at the Unbroken premiere that night, they were as stiff as the chonies Brad Pitt hasn’t taken off for 3 weeks.
Brad, 50, downed a Crown Lager at the early hour of 10am and the pair were both seen clutching cigarettes as their intense discussion raged on. Industry insiders tell Woman’s Day that the tensions could be down to Ange’s hectic workload in the past year.
By 6pm that same day, Brad and Ange had pasted on happy smiles for the cameras as their first red-carpet event as a married couple and greeted a throng of fans on the way to Sydney’s State Theatre.
Despite arriving together in a black Land Rover, they barely looked at each other at the event –Brad busied himself signing autographs, while Ange focused on speaking to the assembled media on the other side of the road.
The video with the pictures in it is here. Because Brad has his arms wide open, it sort of looks like they’re playing a really boring 2-ho game of charades and he’s trying to describe Kim Kartrashian’s ass on Paper Magazine. The pictures are pretty suspect, though. I mean, did the pap wear a gas mask, because it’s weird that they didn’t drop their camera and pass out on the ground after Brad Pitt released a toxic BO smoke monster by lifting up his arms. And of course that’s not nicotine St. Angie’s inhaling. It’s the dried blood of virgins. She smokes it to recharges her powers.
I can’t wait to see these pictures on the cover of Star over the words, “Brangelina Have NUCLEAR Fight After Brad Gets Caught Texting A Heart Emoji To Jen!”
Maybe it’s because I spent most of my weekend doing pre-Christmas things (hanging a wreath, wrapping presents, getting stoned and eating an entire gingerbread house) but that candy striping sort of makes Iggy Azalea and Jennifer Lopez like the two horniest elves at the North Pole that Santa put in charge of testing the vibrators. They make vibrators at the North Pole, right?
Moving on. So
New Fergie Iggy Azalea and JLo performed their ass anthem “Booty” last night at the American Music Awards, and I know the pearl-clutchers at ABC were worried they were going to bring the R-rated middle-aged stripper raunch by rubbing their poop shutes against each other while miming sex faces, but it ended up being pretty tame. Sure, JLo and Iggy dry humped each other like two skanky ferrets in costumes from the Slutty Showgirl collection, but they were also wearing Hooters tights. Hooters tights! Nothing says “Shows over, boners” like those fugly thick shimmer-knit leg wraps.
But this wasn’t Iggy’s only performance of the night; earlier in the evening she got to act like she wasn’t completely embarrassed to be the Macklemore of the AMAs by beating out Drake and Eminem for the Best Rap/Hip Hop Award. She then followed that up by opening her performance of “Fancy” with a bunch of vaguely Black Panther-y imagery. Needless to say, Iggy Azalea was not Twitter’s favorite person last night:
I see why 50 Shades of Grey needed to do reshoots. – BlairBear
They met on Timber. – Shadeball
Bleona, the Madonna of Albania and the bright spot of sheer elegance at last night’s dreadful American Music Awards!
I’ve been meaning to write about this demure, graceful and rational Albanian blossom ever since I started watching Bravo’s newest staged reality train wreck Euros of Hollywood. If you’ve never seen that mess, you’re probably looking at the title with question mark eyes while wondering what’s it about. I know, Bravo is always so unclear with their titles. Euros of Hollywood is about Euros of Hollywood.
The dudes on Euros of Hollywood are hot, buff, tacky and dumb (just the way we all like ‘em!), but the main reason to watch that trash pile of messiness is for BLEONA! Bleona is like a character that Maya Rudolph would’ve created on SNL. She’s train wreck perfection. She’s as delusional as she is unapologetically bitchy. She’s as sarcastic as she is glamorous. She’s a rhinestone-encrusted disaster and she breaths life into me every time she cuts those other whores with her words of sarcasm.
Bleona tells us at least once an episode that she’s the Madonna of Albania and sells out stadiums in her country. She said (and I’m paraphrasing) that nearly 1 in 3 Albanians have a poster of her hanging on their wall. Bleona’s talent, beauty and glamour is much too big for Albania, so she came to the US a few years ago to conquer the states! But because in America we like our pop stars bland, basic, boring and strangely doll-like (see: Selena, Ariana Grande Latte and Swifty), Bleona hasn’t taken over the charts and she probably couldn’t sell out a free concert in a party space at a small park. If you ask anybody if they know who Bleona is, they’ll probably say, “Yes, of course, it’s delicious with mayo and Wonder Bread.”
But I have a feeling all that is about to change thanks to last night. Bleona, who kind of looks like a second tier Angelina Jolie impersonator circa 1998, shot into the American Music Awards like a fishnetted sparkly star of demure sophistication. She looked like Rose McGowan’s backwash mixed with the inside of Miley Cyrus’ laundry hamper. Bleona proves that the most original way to get attention is to do something that dozens have done before.
If you’re still not sold on Bleona, this will sell you. Here’s what Bleona drives:
A vehicle that’s as understated and classy as its driver. She’s a 14k gold-covered Angelyne. Don’t be too surprised in a few years when Madonna is on an Albanian reality show called Americans of Albania and says, “I am the Bleona of the US. Or I was the Bleona of the US until the real Bleona took over!”
Billy Connolly (72)
Sarah Hyland (24)
Karine Vanasse (31)
Katherine Heigl (36)
Colin Hanks (37)
Stephen Merchant (40)
Shirley Henderson (49)
Garret Dillahunt (50)
Ruben Santiago-Hudson (58)
Linda Tripp (65)
Lee Michaels (69)
Phoebe Price must’ve been booked for a more prestigious event (see: the opening of an El Pollo Loco in Cerritos, the 3 year anniversary of a Popeye’s in Van Nuys, etc…), because the producers of the American Music Awards dipped into the desperate pile when hiring seat fillers for the night. Case in point: Frankie Grande Latte is there.
No, I’m just dripping with gay jealousy as usual. Of course Frankie Grande is there. He’s a worldwide social media mogul and the brother of the most famous pop star that has ever graced this universe. Frankie Grande isn’t nominated (because unfortunately they don’t give out an award for Most Delusional Brother Of A Singing Bratz Doll) and as far as I know, he isn’t presenting anything, so he kept his look demure, modest and subtle by wearing an outfit from the House Of LOOK AT ME’s Spring 2015 collection.
Frankie wore a painted on t-shirt, because how else is going to get attention? He looks like a dancer from a Chippendale’s in Candyland. He also looks like a smug, douchey flamingo who works the morning shift at the MAC counter and the afternoon shift at the airbrush t-shirt place in the mall.
Well, the good news for people at the AMAs is that they have a really good reason to not hug Frankie Grande Latte when he tries to hug them.
Kirk Cameron has been on a roll lately. The child star turned evangelical turd is on a mission to save Christmas (and whatever is left os his diarrhea dingle of a career) and he recently shat up a stocking coal of a movie called Kirk Cameron’s Saving Christmas. Kirk’s latest shit show is only at 8% (with an audience score of 39%) on Rotten Tomatoes and most critics say watching it is like opening up a box full of wet dog caca. Kirk has been begging his “fans” to flood Rotten Tomatoes with positive reviews to bring his movie’s percentage up. It’s what Jesus would want them to do. While in the middle of desperately trying to take his movie from rotten to fresh, Everything Is Terrible posted an entertainingly fucked up supercut of Kirk Cameron and some other dude talking about gays on The Way Of The Master Television.
If You’re A Slob Ass Reporter In Jeans, Don’t Even Think Of Talking To Duchess Kate And Prince William
Duchess Kate and Prince William are coming to the East Coast of the US in a couple of weeks, because they want to spit in the faces of the traitors who busted out of their country a million years ago and they probably also want to fill their guts with Shake Shack. Politico (via The NY Post) says that to prepare for their visit to the US, the British Monarchy has shat up a dress code for any American reporter who wants to talk to their royal highnesses. If you even think about asking Duchess Kate a question while looking like wrinkled, busted up trash, the royal guards will tackle you and drag you away. A dude who happens to be a royal because he was born into it and a chick who clung onto his ass until he married her deserves your utmost respect! Here’s the official dress code from the royal family:
Journalists wishing to cover Royal engagements, whether in the United Kingdom or abroad, should comply with the dress code on formal occasions out of respect for the guests of The Queen, or any other member of the Royal Family.
Smart attire for men includes the wearing of a jacket and tie, and for women a trouser or skirt suit. Those wearing jeans or trainers will not be admitted and casually dressed members of the media will be turned away. This also applies to technicians.
Didn’t this country’s forefathers bust out of Britain because they were sick of being told what to do and now they’re still bossing us around! Duchess Kate isn’t our duchess and Prince William isn’t our prince so why in the hell do we have to wash our pits, put on a clip-on tie and change out of sweats to hang around them? I bet Duchess Kate and Prince William are the type to demand that I change out of my usual home outfit of torn underwear, a shorty robe and mismatched socks when they invite themselves over. The AUDACITY!
I’m sure that when Prince Hot Ginge is involved that dress code is tweaked to read: “and chonies or optional.” Because it’s impossible to keep your chonies on when in the presence of PHG.