Normally Blue Ivy Carter wouldn’t degrade herself by participating in such an obvious stunt, but desperate times call for desperate measures. After seeing the pictures of Baby Prince George celebrating his 1st birthday by petting butterflies at the Natural History Museum, Blue Ivy swore there was no way she was going to let the second most famous rich baby in the world steal any attention away from her by releasing pictures of him staring vacantly at a bug. Today may be his birthday, but every day is Blue Ivy Day!
The only problem was thinking of something better to be photographed with than a butterfly, but the best her intern (North West) could come up with was gluing a pair of googly-eyes to one of Beyoncé’s old weaves and trying to pass it off as an exotic rodent. Eventually she decided that the only way she could snatch people’s eyes away from Baby Prince George and his butterfly was to pretend to be an actual butterfly (“You weren’t born with the ability to fly, Baby Prince George? Tsk-tsk, what a shame”), so she had her parents hoist her up and make it look like she was gracefully floating above the peasants. You know, more than she usually does.
Unfortunately, when North West posted the picture to Instagram, she forgot to Photoshop out Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s legs, and the whole thing was ruined. Cut to Baby Prince George and Lupo hunched over the royal iPad and cackling with sadistic glee.
Baby Prince George: 1, Blue Ivy: 0.
I’m making the exact same confused stoner face trying to figure out what in Ice House Hell I’m supposed to be looking at (I want to say “cupcakes”, but I feel like the correct answer is “a representation of the feeling of a crippling meth addiction”).
Billy Bob Thornton appeared on a recent episode of Oprah’s Master Class, and for whatever reason, he whipped out a sharpened french fried potater and went for the jugular of the Food Network show Cupcake Wars. Of all the truly disgusting mind-numbingly bad reality shows he could have hissed at, he picked the one about people trying to make small cakes. HOW MUCH IS PIMP MAMA KRIS PAYING YOU, BILLY BOB??
“We don’t need one show about cupcakes, as far as I’m concerned. But you know what, if you’ve got one, okay, that’s fine, let’s have a show about cupcakes. But does it have to be a fucking competition? Do you have to have Cupcake Wars? And I’m sure people who have been in war kind of take offense to that. Because seriously, it’s not that goddamn dangerous to make a cupcake.”
Damn, shots fired! Welcome to 2014′s newest feud, starring the dude who used to be a dragon tattoo on Angelina Jolie’s shoulder vs. a low-budget baking reality show who’s main viewership comes from owners who left the TV on so their cats wouldn’t get lonely. Who will win?!? It’s tough to say, but right now my money is on a re-run of Unwrapped.
Meanwhile, Guy Fieri just popped a bottle of sparkling donkey sauce to celebrate that there’s someone out there who doesn’t consider him to be the dumbest, most useless thing on the Food Network.
via E! News
Last night was the Hollywood premiere of Guardians of the Galaxy, and for some reason Zoe Saldana showed up wearing one of Jane Fonda’s old high-waisted workout thongs over a sequinned skirt. I’m so confused. Doesn’t she know that if you’re going to wear a rib-grazing throwback thong, you need to give it the attention it deserves? Maybe you wear it over a pair of thick brown Hooters girl tights, but that’s it. Besides, a pair of high-waisted coochie-stranglers aren’t a fashion statement; they’re a symbol. A symbol that represents the Van Halen groupies and Daytona Beach strippers and the 90s beer commercial girls and all the other glamorous raunchy sluts across this great nation. Show some respect for your foreskanks, Zoe! Even Miley Cyrus knows that a front wedgie (NSFW-ish) is an honor and a privilege.
But I will say this – I do enjoy that if you cover the top half of her body and her legs, it looks like a t-bone steak that Liberace would order (“Extra glitter with a side of pizzazz, please”).
Here’s more of Zoe making the questionable decision to wear her underwear on the outside of her clothes but her bra underneath at the GotG premiere last night. Also there was former-pudding bodied hottie Chris Pratt with his muscle-hating wife Anna Faris, a very Tom Cruise-looking Bradley Cooper, and Vin Diesel, who must have huffed the exhaust fumes from his limo on the way there, because he was serving some wasted uncle at the family reunion realness.
Cops Have Advised Justin Bieber’s Neighbors To Put Him Under Citizen’s Arrest The Next Time He Throws A Party
This weekend, Justin Bieber threw a 2-day toddler rager at his condo in Beverly Hills in which the police were called six times for noise complaints and general assholery. Unfortunately for the poor souls who have to share a building with Canada’s constantly itchy butthole, there’s nothing the cops can do to prevent Justin from throwing more loud parties for his asshole friends, since he always turns down the music when they ask him to (sounds like someone was paying attention during the Backyardigans episode on manners).
But according to TMZ, his neighbors are right pissed, because it’s not just the noise; he’s turning their condo building into the island for obnoxious pre-teen shitheads from Pinocchio. TMZ obtained pictures showing the mess he left on the condo’s rooftop lounge, and residents have told them the elevators and hallways reeked of pot all weekend, adding that “There were bimbos lining up to do drugs in the lobby bathroom.” (I literally just pictured Kelly Bundy and her friends).
Despite photographic proof and numerous witnesses that claim Justin Bieber is a pint-sized nuisance, the cops claim they can’t arrest someone for a misdemeanour if they don’t see it happen. But they also claim that it is well within their legal rights to take matters into their own hands, since he’s currently on probation. The police have advised Justin’s condo neighbors that if they witness the human version of Babs Seed the Pony doing hoodrat shit in the building, they can put him under citizen’s arrest. Did you hear that? The police literally just gave Justin’s neighbors permission to ground him. The shade, the shade of it all.
And as much as I want to see a 60-year-old woman tackle Justin Bieber to the ground for smoking a joint in the vestibule, is that picture of the rooftop seriously the “mess” he left? Yikes. You know you throw a lame-ass party when you’re able to make Aaron Carter look like Studio 54 fucked Caligula.
Twilight actress (or for those of you with good taste, that sneaky no-good slut Evie from Thirteen) Nikki Reed announced waaaaay back in March that she had pulled the plug on her marriage to American Idol contestant Paul McDonald, and it looks like she’s finally found a new dick to dry her divorced tears on. Nikki was spotted on Sunday wandering around a farmer’s market in Studio City accompanied by The Vampire Diaries hottie and discount Rob Lowe impersonator Ian Somerhalder.
Nikki hasn’t officially confirmed that she’s hooking up with Nina Dobrev’s leftovers, but cruising the farmer’s market together on a Sunday morning is kind of a ‘more than friends’ sort of thing, right? Strolling around a farmer’s market is some couple shit, like getting side-by-side massages or splitting the Chicken Bellagio at The Cheesecake Factory. Then again, maybe they’re just giving each other casual hand-jobs over heirloom tomatoes. I dunno. I guess they’re throwing me off because Hollywood-types usually announce “HEY EVERYBODY, WE’RE FUCKING!!!” by getting papped grabbing a coffee.
Regardless, get it girl. But also, get him girl…to burn those awful slouchy dirtbag dad sweatpants. Have some damn decency, Ian Somerhalder; you’re at the farmer’s market! Ain’t nobody wanna see a loose dick swinging around while they’re sampling goat cheese.
And now for your hourly update on the state of Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s maybe-crumbling marriage. According to Page Six, the everlasting love between Yawncé and Joe Camel is as dead as the wifi signal in the basement (Unable to join the network “Is there not a box of old weaves I asked you to organize, Solange?”). But because Beyoncé has an ego the size of …well…Beyoncé’s ego, and Jay-Z doesn’t want to admit that one of his 99 problems is, in fact, his bitch, they’re doing everything in their power to keep from getting divorced.
A source claims that Jay-Z hired marriage counsellors to travel with them on their “On The Run” tour, but they’re really only there to help them pretend they don’t totally hate each other as they sing about being sooooo in love night after night. Apparently, once the tour ends, Beyoncé plans on putting everything Jay-Z owns in a box to the left and telling that hussy-chasing camel to hit the bricks. The source also says they stopped wearing their wedding rings a long time ago, and that Blue Ivy was a band-aid baby. Basically, IT’S OVER. Except that it’s not:
“They are trying to figure out a way to split without divorcing. This is a huge concert tour and they’ve already gotten most of the money from the promoters up front.”
The only thing those two whores love more than attention is money, so this must be a tough decision for them. While Stuntyoncé and Jay-Z would no doubt kill for the chance to milk the hell out of a public divorce, they also want to keep counting their money without getting that guilty feeling that comes from swindling gullible fools at $75 a pop. That’s what’s known in the legal community calls a Katch-22, aka ”The Kardashian Connundrum”.
And how dare I refer to Blue Ivy a band-aid baby! I should know better. Band-aids are for commoners. Surely there’s some kind of luxury designer adhesive bandage product on the market. Maybe in France? Oh shit, I spoke to soon…
When George Clooney ties the knot with fancy London lawyer Amal Alamuddin (I love typing her name because it always makes me think of a scoop of ice cream drizzled with TGI Friday’s Mudslide mix) it will be more than just a wedding, it will be a baptism. The second George slips another very fancy ring on Amal’s fancy finger and promises to love, honor, and cherish her while wobbling his head in that charming George Clooney way, it will wash away the years he spent whipping around Lake Como with topless 25-year-old party girls on his jet ski.
Well, at least that’s what he thinks will happen. Regina George called up Variety to bitch about his recent wig-snatching fight with The Daily Mail over some not-true comments about his fiancé and her family (mostly about them being ashamed she was marrying Booker from Roseanne) and he didn’t really say anything new, since there are only so many ways you can say “OMG, they’re like, obsessed with me, right? It’s so pathetic.” But he did end the conversation by reminding us that, yeah, Amal is about to get hitched to Booker from Roseanne, saying:
“I’m marrying up.”
Ouch! George, how dare you? I know Amal Alamuddin is a ~very~ fancy lady, but it’s not exactly his first time at the Pure Class and Refined Sophistication Rodeo. Has he already forgotten about Sarah Larson? Stacy Keibler? ELISABETTA CANALIS?!?! Newsflash, George! It’s not technically “marrying up” if you’ve already had the cream of the crop, aka a coke-gobbling Italian showgirl with a tribal armband tattoo.
Pic: Fame Flynet
Paris Hilton Did An Interview, Because Apparently There Are Still People Who Care About Paris Hilton
I guess news in the UK is slower than the lazy eye of a slow-moving skank, because The Telegraph has published an interview they did with world-famous DJ and former clinic-famous human crotch rash Paris Hilton. The interview was conducted by Helena de Bertodando, aka the shady cunt who carried around a newspaper clipping for nine years so she could call out Emily Blunt to her face. Sadly, Helena never whips out a copy of 1 Night in Paris and asks her to take us back to the glory years of 2004. Instead she just lets Paris free-associate and spit out a rancid Heiress-scented Valtrex cloud of nonsense.
Whoever decided it was a good idea to let the dirty bag of dead crotch crabs known as Paris Hilton hold their newborn should have more than their child taken away. They should be booked into Dumb Fuck General Hospital and have their decision making skills removed and studied by doctors, because only the dumbest of fucks would give their baby to Paris Hilton. Forget about the fact that it could catch a contagious viral infection like Skankfluenza or Wonkitis; do you really want one of your baby’s first memories to be of an obnoxious has-been from 2005 bragging about how she’s now a super-famous DJ in Ibiza?
And yet, a random person still gave their baby to Paris Hilton as she was leaving LAX yesterday. That poor baby. It’s only spent a couple days outside the womb, and already it knows the smell of stale spray-tanner, jizz-breath, and discount drugstore perfume. At least Paris had the foresight to keep her sunglasses on while she was holding him; imagine if he’d seen her wonk-eye up close? That’s the kind of shit you require years of therapy for.
The only other reason I can see for someone willingly handing their baby over to Paris Hilton is if the mother’s name is Rosemary and the child’s father is Lucifer. “Er…are you sure you want to give it to her? Maybe we could give it to a Kardashian or something?” – Lucifer.
When rapper T.I. got into a fist-fight with boxer Floyd Mayweather in Las Vegas on Memorial Day weekend, neither would say why they decided to go all Street Fighter in a Fatburger, but everybody shanked a side-eye over to T.I.’s wife Tiny Harris and assumed that pocket-sized troublemaking muppet had something to do with it. At the time, TMZ speculated that the fight broke out because Tiny had posted a selfie with Floyd’s daughter on Instagram, and that pissed T.I. off. But again, nobody knew why it would piss him off. It was truly a mystery worthy of Jessica Fletcher or Detective La Toya.
Now nearly 2 months later, Floyd Mayweather has come forward to admit that the fight was not, in fact, over the a strawnana shake, as I had previously guessed. TMZ says that during a press conference for an upcoming fight (a legit fight, not a messy drunk brawl in a Fatburger) a reporter shouted out “What about T.I.?”, to which Floyd responded:
“What about the bitch? I was fucking his bitch.”
TINY, NO!!!!…is what I would say if believed that Floyd Mayweather even had the skills to seduce the elegant melted Mariah Carey candle that is Tiny Harris. Tiny ain’t no round-the-way ho like the tricks from Nuttin’ Nyce; Tiny was in Xscape, and Xscape was all kinds of classy. Do you think this bitch sleeps with just anyone? Exactly.
And if T.I. reacts anywhere nearly as strongly as he did the last time someone talked shit about his wife, we’re about 24-hours away from another next-level bonkers Instagram rant, and frankly, I can’t wait. T.I. is the poetic genius who gave us “musty-mouthed syphilis-lipped ugly-ass gremlin baby”, so I look forward to what he has in store to describe Floyd. I’m hoping something like “shit-scooting clap-dripping trash-ass ghoulie fetus”.