Today is the last day of Dlisted. And if anything’s feeling it hard, it’s my delete button since I’ve hit it (and not in a sexy way) at least 800 times while trying to write the first few sentences of this final post. I couldn’t hate goodbyes more if they wore CROCS, and I’m a master at the Irish exit, but this is one goodbye I want to and must make. But be warned, if the love child of an obit and a sad awards show acceptance speech sounds like a Rosemary’s Baby to you, then brace yourself because that’s what this post may turn out to be.
When I started the site in 2005, I was 26 years old, so I was young, dumb, and full of… energy. What did you think I was going to say? This is a family site, sucio! I went hard and worked on the site every chance I got because I loved it and knew how lucky I was. But after years and years with my face glued to my computer screen without coming up for air, a little smegma-covered demon called “burn out” crept in and eventually took up permanent residency right on my neck. I know; who knew that being a bitchy asshole who spews stupid shit on the internet was so exhausting?! I was okay with burnout being my new conjoined evil(er) twin because I had the writers to hold up. Eventually, though, running on fumes caught up with me, and when I saw a new pile of work coming my way, I knew it was time to move on.
Dlisted can still pay its bills, but traffic is an issue, and money woes were on the horizon. So I was advised that to build traffic, which would build revenue, I needed to make big changes and work on technical shit I knew nothing about. Without many resources, all I heard was “more work” and “more work,” so I realized I had taken the site as far as I could. That was last December. At that point, I only decided it was time for me to move on. The site has a hard-working group of writers and a community of readers and commenters who still support the site after all these years and show up for it. So I explored several ways to keep the site going without me, including selling it.
The site went up for sale at the beginning of this year, and I was hoping to find a buyer who knew the site, got the site, and had the resources and drive to try to grow its traffic. I know; I was looking for that in 2023. Do I even read the news? I would’ve had better luck finding a ginger unicorn who shits Orbitz. The buyers who were interested had no idea what a Dlisted was, and I had a bad feeling about handing over the site’s archives, full of my posts and the other writers’ posts. Listen, my Halle Berry post about the Marmadevil who ruined one of my hook-ups is like a precious jewel to me, okay? That’s when I decided that the best decision was to close the site and let it end with me.
Dlisted wasn’t supposed to last 18 days, let alone 18 years. Back in the early-aughts, I was a regular reader of Page 666 (now PerezHilton.com), and Pink Is The New Blog, and both of those sites inspired me to start my own for fun. Dlisted started as a Blogspot site called The D-list because I planned to just write about D-list celebrities. That plan didn’t even last a second. At first, I mainly burped up stories I thought were funny and fictional tales about my friends and family. But when people started to read it, I switched my focus to mainly gossip, pop culture, and fuckery. The site quickly moved off Blogspot and onto its own server, where it became Dlisted. No, I didn’t change the name because Kathy Griffin threatened to sue me (that was a joke that people took as a fact). The reason is a zillion times more boring than that. It became Dlisted because TheDlist.com was taken. BORING!
People seemed into my raunchy meanness, and the site grew fast with much help from link support with other pop culture sites like Lainey Gossip, Celebitchy, Just Jared, Pajiba, and SOW. I honestly still don’t know why it got so big so fast (right time and the right amount of offensiveness, I guess), but it’s crazy to me that a site that was regularly making jizz jokes and had a Hot Slut of the Day was name-checked by the likes of Vanity Fair and The New York Times. But I knew the site really made it when my tia said, “My hairdresser says she readers your site Doolisted.” That’s what I should’ve named it, honestly.
In 2013, I opened up my one-ho show to other regular writers. One of the first entries I read was from Allison, and I knew instantly that I wanted to work with her. She just got it, and I felt connected to her through a damn email. I hadn’t felt a digital connection like that since SugarDaddyTop1969 messaged me on AOL in 1999. Allison and I became partners in gossip blog crime. For ten years, she consistently came up with jokes, takes, and nicknames I wish I had written myself. It wasn’t easy for her to come in, but she still delivered hilarious post after hilarious post. If Allison never came along, Dlisted would not have made it to 18.
Of course, many other highly-talented writers showed up for Dlisted every day and brought it. Mieka is a poet who has made me laugh out loud more than I can count. Ben is always a pleasure and gets me with his elegant dragging. Emily is a comical spark and an all-around joy (don’t tell her I told you this). Not many are as dependable as Kristian, who is my Millennial sage. The phrases that Dominique has made up should go into the dictionary. Michelle, who only joined recently, picked things up quickly and fit right in. Vanessa can whip up a post in a minute and doesn’t miss a beat in it. And J. Harvey was a weekend workhouse and joke master for years. I also have to thank (I told you this was going to be like an acceptant speech) everybody else who ever wrote words for Dlisted, including Adam, Carla, C.J, Deirdre, Harry, the late Jack-N-The-Hat, Jovi, Krista, Kristi, Lahoma, Martin, Megan, Natasha, and Sweetas.
To say that Dlisted would be nothing without its commenters is as big of an understatement as me saying, “I like dick.” The Dlisted commenting community has become a thing in itself. I know that lifelong friendships have been made in the Dlisted comment section, and many have met in real life. I know because they’ve invited me to their meet-ups while forgetting that I don’t really leave my house. Commenters have also schooled me and have made me a better writer. Case in point: I used to write “runner-ups” in The CAPTION THIS Contest post for years until a commenter not-so-gently told me it’s supposed to be “runners-up.”
As for what I will do next, I have emails from readers to respond to. And then I have to do the riveting task of cleaning out my mom’s garage and not because I’m moving into it. So take that, everyone who has written to me, “You write like you’re mad because you sleep in your mama’s basement and are regularly woken up to the sound of her cleaning out the skidmarks on your torn Underoos in the laundry sink.” You’re not SLYCIC. Not yet, anyway. I’ll keep you updated on that. But before I go, I want to thank everybody who has ever put their eyeballs on Dlisted throughout the years. No, I won’t reimburse you for the ointment you had to buy to treat the disease you got from reading Dlisted, but I thank you a million times. Dlisted took me on a path I didn’t think I would ever go on and gave me opportunities I didn’t think would ever come my way, but more importantly, I’ve made lifelong friendships, including meeting my best friend. So for that, I’m forever grateful to all of you.
The site will stay up as-is for as long as possible, but the comment section will close next week. And you can reach me at michaelk@dlisted.com or at @mkdlisted on Twitter.
I wrote at the top that this would be like an awards show acceptance speech, and how can it be if I don’t shout out a higher power? So it’s only fitting for me to end with three important words: VIVA PHOEBE PRICE!
]]>“Do you ever read Dlisted.com?”. I can still remember my friend Addie asking me during a break in one of my college classes. Although since this story takes place in 2005, I’m pretty sure she said the full website address, like Dlisted-dot-blogspot-dot-com. It doesn’t matter, really. The relevant information here is that long before I began writing for Dlisted; it was my dream to write for Dlisted.
Scrolling through the blog in those early years was as close as I could physically get to a religious experience. Every single post made me feel like one of those grandmas that swears she saw the face of Jesus in her toast. It was like magic; you refreshed the page, and a new post would pop up, written by Michael K, saying what you were thinking, or more often, saying what your brain couldn’t come up with even on its hardest-working day. It was lyrical. It was musical. Never had the word “slut” felt like a melody or “chonies” read like a poem. For someone who grew up joyfully wrapped in weird comedy culture, Michael K’s Dlisted was a revelation. From my very first day reading, I thought to myself: “I want to do that.” I wanted to write. I wanted to make celebrity gossip funny too. I wasn’t nearly half as good as Michael K, but I wrote and wrote and wrote, hoping that one day I might be able to make someone laugh with the dumb jokes I was writing in my own attempt at a blog. And the whole time, whenever someone asked what the end goal was, I’d explain that I’d love to write about celebrity gossip and pop culture for a living. “My dream job would be writing for Dlisted.” I rarely said those words out loud because it sounded about as possible as waking up with two heads or driving past a Taco Bell without tearing ass into the drive-thru. But I said them to myself a lot.
In 2013, Michael put out a notice that he was looking for interns, and I applied at the suggestion of my friend Anais (thanks, Anais). I had just quit my latest office reception job and was trying to seriously focus on comedy writing. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I was sure I wanted this more than almost anything. My stomach flip-flopped when I received an email back from Michael K asking for a sample practice post to see if I could be a good fit. I chose to write about Britney Spears’ video for “Work Bitch.” I wrote it in a Starbucks, scamming hours and hours of their free wifi, meticulously freaking out over every word as I sipped the watered-down remains of an iced latte. I wanted it to be perfect. I couldn’t blow this chance at my dream job, and I absolutely didn’t want to eat shit in front of Michael K. I took so long writing it I got a $315 parking ticket for leaving my car in a spot an hour over the time limit. I turned it in, sweating. And that day began one of the most encouraging working relationships turned friendships of my life. Michael responded with constructive feedback. He helped me edit. He gave me notes which turned into greater confidence in my skills. He’s one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Oh lord, I’m about to start crying over my laptop keyboard. And usually, I only do that when my sister sends me photographic evidence of the year I bought a men’s XL flannel shirt from Walmart and convinced myself I looked exactly like Ariana Grande. But I sincerely cannot stress this enough: I am forever a better writer and comedian because of Michael K and Dlisted, no question. Of course, I spent time and a half writing this, too, because I wanted it to be perfect. It’s what Michael deserves! If only I’d been such a perfectionist when it came to spelling people’s names correctly, like There’s-no-H-in-Nicolas Cage or Lord, Give Me The Strength To Spell Matthew McConaughey, without looking it up online.
And you might question how much technical skill there is in writing about reality TV or dumb celebrities, but it’s hard! The jokes have to make sense; the point has to be clear. Michael K has always made it look so easy. But after working with him for nearly ten years, I know it’s the exact opposite. It’s hard work, and he works the hardest. The website existed on a completely different plane of excellence, and that was completely Michael K’s doing. Thankfully, he encouraged us all to thrive and pushed the very best work out of the writers. All I’ve ever wanted to do was make people laugh. Sort of a cosmic thank-you to the years I spent stifling laughter at various office reception desks while covertly reading Dlisted, a way to escape whatever was going on in my own sad, shitty life (and for quite a few years, it was extra crispy extra shitty). Even when I started writing for Dlisted, it was still an emotional support website for me. After my mother died in 2019, I wanted so badly to return to work, and start writing again. It was something I shared with my mom, sending each other links to Hot Sluts like Jan Crouch and Jayne Meadows or laughing about Tom Cruise’s shoes. I wanted to laugh. Dlisted did that for me every day. Dlisted was my grief counseling. I’ll never be grateful enough for the support I received at that time from Michael, the other writers, and this community.
This is my first time writing anything since I gave birth to my giant baby son last July (10 lbs 10 oz – please keep me in your prayers every time I sneeze). And, of course, I would have loved for it to be packed with as many jokes as our publishing platform would legally allow. But I’m feeling sentimental. I’ve had an incredible time writing over the past ten years and almost twice as long reading. Co-hosting Dlisted: The Podcast was pure joy. There were so many recording sessions where I got the stupid laughs and needed to take a breather. I will miss Dlisted so so much. I don’t know what’s crappening next for me. But where do I go from here? I got to work my dream job for ten years, and it was exactly that – a dream. Thank you for reading, thank you for laughing, and thank you for pointing out my endless typos. Thank you for being there for me as much as I could have hopefully been there for you. Thank you, Michael K, thank you, thank you, thank you. Much love, and bye-bye! (Blows Miss Piggy-sized kiss to you all).
Twitter: @allisonmdavey
Instagram: @itsbirtneybitch
TikTok: @itsbirtneybitch
Pic: Paul Drinkwater/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank
]]>I promise I won’t make this too long.
Thousands of years ago (aka 2008), my friend Akona introduced me to the magic that is Dlisted.com. As someone who loves pop culture and entertainment news, I did a deep dive. And once I finally regained consciousness from the beatdown of sarcasm and top-tier writing, I knew I was in love.
As the years followed, I continued to be an avid reader, soaking up all of the classic terms we’ve come to love, like Basement Baby, Chicken Cutlets, White Oprah, and Pimp Mama Kris, which is my personal all-time favorite. Michael K, my long-distance best friend in my head, used the same snarky tone I’ve used with my friends for many years. And as he expanded his writer’s team and put out a call for more writers, I figured, “What the Hell? I’ll give it a shot.” Now, here I am, six and a half years later. Saying Goodbye way sooner than I thought I would.
I have enjoyed every curse word, every moment, every joke, every side eye, and ultimately, every THING about writing for Dlisted. No matter what I had going on in my life (like my former corporate gig where shit wasn’t nearly as fun or funny), I made sure my words and my writing made it to you because that’s how much it has always meant to me. And OH…(pearl clutch and sigh for dramatic effect), you’ll never know how much I am going to miss you. To all of my fellow writers through these past six and a half years, Thank You. THANK YOU. Your humor. Your wit. Your commitment…is unmatched. Every day, we took these stories, pulled our hair up, and slathered our faces with Vaseline for epic street fights of paragraphs and punchlines. And we always emerged victorious.
Now that it’s time to go in our separate directions, we will always be tethered to one another through the time we spend in this beautiful world of handing celebrities their asses on a daily basis. As a collective, we know how to write. But during our time together, we also let the world know we are funny as fuck and not afraid to be the bold voice saying the things that need to be said. And with that, my loves, as I have signed off with Michael on many occasions, I am so glad we had this time together.
Please, keep in touch. You can follow me on Instagram @bentheoutspoken. Or if you’d like to hit me directly with your love (or hate because bitches be hatin’ too), shoot me an email at writer.benrobinson@gmail.com. And remember, I’m a free agent now, so if you want me on your team, I’m available.
I can’t believe it’s over, but as they say, when one door closes, check the window because your stalker might be there trying to break in a different way. Please be that stalker for me. I love you all. Take care. Be kind. Love one another and always…ALWAYS….speak your truth. Your words matter, and your light is needed.
And with that…I’m out. Ben (mic drop).
Pic: YouTube
]]>I’m not a particularly smart woman. I mean, my brain’s a’right, I guess. But it’s not like when I die; anybody’s going to be chasing my corpse around with a mason jar, trying to capture my lobes for science. My shit is 100% USDA-certified Abby Normal. Which is probably why I’m here, honestly, and I suspect, why you’re here too. Michael K rolled out of bed one morning and said to the world, “I am going to create a blog that is so dumb…” and well, the rest, as they say, is Dlistory as of today. Oh shit, I think I’m gonna puke.
When Michael asked if I wanted to contribute a post for the site’s last week, I said, “New phone, who dis?” No, I kid. I said of course, of course! First, I thought to write up a retrospective of some of my favorite posts from the past six years. That’s six prideful years of me walking up to strangers at parties with a smug look on my face all “I write for Dlisted. Dlisted.com? Well, it’s a celebrity gossip site on the internet. It’s actually kind of a big deal. Never mind. Red or white?” I mean, I’ve covered so much! There was the #MeToo movement, PepitoGate, BenAna, Bennifer 2.0, The Lohanaissance, the covid19 pandemic, the Trump administration, the Kanye kandidacy, the fall of the British monarchy, and enough FASHION to choke Beyoncé’s rhinestone horse. And don’t get me started on butt stuff! So much butt stuff. However, sentiment has moved me otherwise.
Having had the opportunity to dunk on fools professionally in #thesetryingtimes has been a joy I can hardly describe. But as ever, none of it matters. Superficially it’s why we’re here, I suppose, but in the immortal words of Jehovah’s Sexiest Witness, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.” And we have one man to thank, Michael K, The Internet’s Sexiest Skinny Fat Blogger, for erecting this glorious cathedral of trash within the sugar walls of which we, his devoted disciples, have found community, sanctuary, and solace; and a sacred place to receive the Sacrament of Our Lady of Cheetos (Cheetos and hot Mountain Dew, duh) for nearly twenty years.
And so in the Holy Spirit of TMI, as Michael K hath preached it, lo these many years; please allow me to re-introduce myself as an Original Sinner in the Church of Dlisted (L. Ron Hubbard ain’t got nothing on MK save tax exemption) and a Michael K acolyte of the highest order (WINK WINK).
The year is 2007. A bitch is having a hard time. Life just in shambles. I’m answering phones at a Chinese-owned biotech company that has only hired me because the owner thinks it’s better for business if the person answering the phone sounds like a competent white woman. However, I am neither of those things. I live alone in a small, dark, SPIDER-RIDDEN bungalow two towns away, and somehow, I’m still fat, even though I ride my rusty yellow Schwinn to work every day because I have no car unless I borrow my mom’s. Who, by the way, is dying. I have undiagnosed ADHD, my cat needs surgery I can’t afford, and I haven’t so much as seen hide nor hair of a dick in years.
Did I mention the spiders? Like, once I saw a BLACK WIDOW just chilling on my windowsill. Which was actually better than when I got held up at gunpoint at my front door (It was OK! The cops were far less professional than the perps by a mile), and I decided not to tell my mom about it because I didn’t want to upset her while she was dying. So yeah, to paraphrase my homeboy, Charles Dickens, it was the worst of times.
I spend my days at work pretending to fiddle with spreadsheets while ripping CDs from home to upload to my iPod and dicking around on the internet. If I’m not on MySpace, I’m on Dlisted, smashing that refresh button like a lab rat looking for a pellet. It’s my poor, addled brain’s sole source of dopamine. Dlisted and MySpace are the scotch tape and dried-up glue sticks holding me together at this point.
The thing about Dlisted is that the guy who writes it is so fucking funny to me. Yes, he’s a complete stranger, but I feel like we are spiritually connected— Him in some office in New York talking shit and telling stories, and me in some other office in California confusing my coworkers with my apparent obsession with spreadsheets and spraying coffee all over my monitor. I feel as though we are twin dumpster fires on opposite coasts burning in the night. It was Rojo Caliente, as I recall, that sent that first shock wave through my medulla oblongata and into my soul. Mind you; it wasn’t the first time I read it. It was probably the 4th or 5th time I read it that I said to myself, “he’s a fool for this!” The connection felt so intimate, the writer so sincere. I am not being hyperbolic when I say this, but I believe that the power of the written word to connect us as a species is as close to divinity as I’ll ever understand. Even if that word is “peen.” Dare I say, especially? I’m gonna go with occasionally.
It’s now 2017. A decade has passed. So has my mom. Everything is different. I’m living in Zurich, Switzerland (!) with my rich husband (!!) and two cats, including the one that needed surgery (the future rich husband paid for it when we had only been dating for a month!!!). As a “trailing spouse,” I’m not allowed to work, not that I’d be able to anyway since I don’t speak German and my primary skills are making inappropriate jokes and, apparently, finding a rich husband (it’s easier than you think, you just have to pick a supernaturally competent and generous one and wait). So I spend my days walking around looking at things and reading the internet, primarily the now iconic Dlisted. It keeps me tethered to reality. A fire burning in the night now a continent away. Life is quantifiably good. But it still, somehow, feels shambolic.
One day, after having looked at one too many fucking cathedrals (seriously, it’s out of control over there. Between the church bells and the birds, it’s no wonder the Swiss have underground tunnels lined with looted Nazi gold; it’s the only place they can get some peace and quiet!), I saw a post on Dlisted that “they” were looking for new writers. I say “they” because I assumed that a big internet celebrity like Michael K would have a “staff” by now doing all the grunt work, freeing the maestro to dazzle us with bon mot while lounging in his penthouse suite, sipping martinis in a fluffy robe like some magical, mystical literary Walter Mercado. Boy, was I wrong, but also pretty much exactly right.
I could think of no higher honor than to be one of the myriad angels I was positive Dlisted(a subsidiary of Sugarbaker & Associates. Member FDICK) must employ to hold Michael’s royal mantle aloft. So, with absolutely no hope of success, I applied. And to my utter surprise/dread/excitement/dread again, I was admitted into the Messy Kingdom. But guys, it turns out The Wizard is just a dude behind a curtain! However, that dude is full of real magic, and he saved my life. Or, at the very least, he’s made it infinitely better. And I have a feeling that if you’re still reading this, he may have done the same for you.
Never in a million years could I have guessed that one day I’d be crying in my coffee instead of spraying my monitor with it as I write a farewell to the blog that held me together in my darkest days. ON that very blog! My mind is still blown. Michael took a chance on me, a disorganized weirdo whose spelling and punctuation are so bad I’m still convinced that I alone am to blame for his damned eye. Because you see (no shade, boss), there’s not a word that gets posted on Dlisted that Michael hasn’t read. Not one. Under his eye (again, no shade), I’ve grown leaps and bounds as a writer. And the practice of trying to keep up with Michael has been humbling, inspiring, and, most importantly, so much fucking fun you don’t even know. Writing for Dlisted has challenged me in ways both profane (coming up with 21 bespoke alternate titles for Top Gun 2) and profound (finally becoming the thing I always wanted to become ((after spending a year in therapy convincing myself that it’s true)). Thanks to Dlisted, Michael, and all the wonderful people who’ve breathed air into and sprayed coffee and god knows what else into this hallowed ground. Without this place, I would not be embarking on my first novel. Shit, did I just say that out loud!? I’m gonna puke.
Eighteen years is a long ass time. That’s the same age as my geriatric cat (yes, the same one from before! Can you believe?). And although Michael may miss leg day with some frequency, I’ve never known him to miss a workday; not a single Humpday, Freaky-Friday, Caturday, Sundae, slut’s birthday, or a mother fucking trick. To me, Michael is a mentor, a mensch, and The Man with the Mercado Touch. He has the uncanny ability to see right through the bullshit and, with unfailing humor and grace, expose the cultural elites for what they are; A pack of horny, insecure weirdos who have no idea what they’re doing most of the time. Stars— They really are just like us! But not Michael. He’s special. And I, for one, would like to thank him, most sincerely, from the bottom of my fart (typo and it stays). Besos to you all.
TL;DR
Pic: 20th Century Studios via Youtube
]]>I cannot believe that after all these years, my time with Dlisted has come to an end. I don’t know how I’ll cope without talking so much shit every morning. I will have to find a similar release, so please follow me on all my socials to see how that goes!–I’m @Kristianidy on many of them. It’s been wonderful making jokes about people hotter and richer than I am, and I will continue to do so even when not being paid. A big, gigantic thank you to King Daddy Michael K!–if Dlistedweres a Housewives franchise, he would be Andy Cohen (minus all the bullshit). We all would not be here if we weren’t enamored by Michael’s hilarity during the rise of online celebrity gossip! He’s a trendsetter, and we’re all just following along.
And, of course, I want to thank EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU for reading, commenting, emailing, and being a part of this wild, wacky, and wonderful journey. It’s been so absolutely magical and amazing.
I’ll see you all at the next gig! Be blessed and beautiful! <3
Pic: Jennifer Graylock/INSTARimages
]]>I’m an anxious person. I hem, I haw, I catastrophize, and I loooathe change. I’d rather have my eyes Clockwork Oranged and be made to watch an entire sports match than face the great unknown. So, like many of you, the news that DListed was shutting down totally bummed me out. Truly the end of an era. But, on the plus side, how lucky were we to get to be a part of it? Hell, I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I actually got to write for Michael K.
The moment I saw Michael’s “Writers Wanted” post back in January 2020, I was petrified. I really, really wanted it. And wanting something that badly is scary. My brain said, “You?! Ha. Ya got zero chance, so don’t even bother. Now, let’s smoke weed and watch six hours of Glee. I said NOW, bitch!” For days, I procrastinated writing my sample article about Cameron Diaz naming her newborn daughter “Raddix.” But, eventually, I bit the bullet, did the work, and applied. I got Michael’s “you’re hired” email in the middle of teaching a Level B improv class. I told the students to take a quick break from zip-zap-zipping, ran to the bathroom, and happy-screamed into my sweater. A moment of pure joy. And it would’ve never happened had I not taken a goddamn leap. So, maybe embracing change, facing your fears, “Yes, And-ing,” and all that other corny improv shit is… good? UGH. Maybe. But I’ll still miss DListed.
I began visiting this site in late 2006, during my first year at university. My cousin had recently turned me on to LaineyGossip, and Lainey must’ve linked to one of Michael’s articles. Discovering DListed was like the first time I tried Catalina dressing on taco salad: I was immediately hooked. I can’t count the number of times Michael’s writing made me belly laugh. Even thinking about his tales from the Barbizon School of Modeling… BAAAHAHAHA. It takes an extremely intelligent, imaginative person to be that snarky and laugh-out-loud hilarious without punching down. That’s what makes Michael and DListed so special. I don’t know if he realizes what a massive influence he’s been for so many of us or even how much his writing helped shape my own comedic voice (read: I stole shit like “read:”). An added bonus? He’s just as kind as you want him to be. Michael, thank you for everything. And please don’t delete any of these compliments.
I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone says; I love celebrity gossip. It appeals to the part of me fascinated with whether or not someone is a “good” person. Like, how big is the gap between who these people pretend to be and who they actually are? We’re constantly being fed so much exhausting bullshit; on TV, in magazines, on social media, at work, blah blah blah. And we compare ourselves to it. When the curtain is pulled back, and the fakes, hypocrites, and assholes are exposed? So validating. Like that time Laura Jeanne Poon got arrested and pulled a “Do you know who I am?” Ahhhh, Bellissima! My happy place is sitting on the couch with my husband, Eli, and our son-cat, Bob Sacamano, and psychoanalyzing The Real Housewives and their various undiagnosed personality disorders (this coming from the girl who dropped PSYC100 after the first class cuz the exam was on her birthday).
If you’d like to keep in touch, follow me at @emrich44 on TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter. But, please, be warned: I do comedy. Now that DListed is dunzo, I’ll continue performing live sketch, stand-up, and improv around Toronto, going out for exciting acting roles such as “Distracted Nurse” and “Judgmental Mom,” and applying for writing jobs. Hell, I’ll write anything. Celebrity gossip, reality TV recaps, sketch comedy, personal essays, dirty limericks, tombstone epitaphs, serial killer manifestos, whatever! But what I’d really love is to get into a TV writer’s room. So, if any Hollywood showrunners lurk in the shadows (not you, Sam Levinson), slide into my DMs. I’ll send you my half-hour pilot. And, yes, that is a threat.
XOXO
Emily Richardson
P.S. I don’t know how to use a semicolon properly; I’ve been guessing this entire time.
P.P.S. Fuck it, I’m ordering a large Mint Oreo Blizzard in lieu of a well-balanced, PCOS-friendly dinner. This is a day of mourning, people!
Pic of my first celebrity crush: NBCUniversal
]]>Where to begin?
Before I started writing for Dlisted, I was flying solo in my love for celebrity and entertainment. Sure, I have some friends who’ll entertain my gossip, but there are only so many times you can bring up Bethenny Frankel in conversation before you actually become more repetitive than Bethenny Frankel. Now here I am, five months after joining Dlisted, seduced by the fun of having a big, vivacious community to talk shit and laugh with, and I’m just going to miss this so SO much. I want to thank all of you for this wonderful and special experience- the writers, the readers, and of course, the man behind the curtain, Michael K! You’ve created such a special place.
If you wanna talk business or just rejoice when Lindsay Lohan has her baby, you can reach me at michelle@dlisted.com or my Insta @meeshmalka.
Well, friends, in the words of Countess Luann de Lesseps, “Be cool, don’t be all uncool.”
xoxo, Michelle
Pics: INSTARImages
]]>One year after Dlisted: The Podcast’s last episode, we’re back and rustier than ever! Allison and I have reunited on the podcast to talk about the end of Dlisted and why I decided it was time for us to give up our corner on the gossip blog stroll. But before we get into the sadness, Allison tells me what she’s been up to in the past year and gives a highly accurate account (read: the opposite of that) of Vanderpump Rules‘ Scandoval and other gossip stories she missed while away. We also answer questions from listeners before my cold dead heart starts to thaw and warm as we say goodbye.
Thank you to everyone who listened to us and supported us. We may be back, but the bad news is, we may be back with our podcast on the life and times “Schena Schaeffer.” Sorry, you have to listen to get it. That’s called marketing!
]]>It’s only fitting that the final Hot Slut of the Day post be about the original: Dr. Dorian Cramer Lord Vickers Buchanan Callison Santi Hayes Laurence from One Life to Live!
The soap opera One Life to Live, which ran for over 40 years on ABC, was an essential part of my childhood and teenhood because it’s the show my mom watched at work during her lunch break. So I tried to keep up with the show so I could talk about it with her, and obviously, one of my favorite characters was the villainous goddess of pure glamour Dorian Lord. Dorian was the main nemesis of the show’s protagonist Victoria Lord (mainly played by Erika Slezak), and she was the hottest thing that little gay me had ever seen. I mean, she was a doctor and a vision of potent seduction, so she could steal your mean while doing heart surgery (I honestly don’t know what kind of doctor she was).
Not long after I started Dlisted, my friend Lahoma, who also wrote for this site once upon a time and knew I was an OLTL fan, said to me, “Make Dorian Lord Hot Slut of the Day; she’s the most gorgeous woman in the world!” So I did just that. On January 31, 2005, Dorian Lord became the first HSOTD. And the rest was HSOTD history. Dorian has been played by Nancy Pinkerton, Dixie Carter (yes, THEE Dixie Carter), Claire Malis, and Elaine Princi, but Robin Strasser’s portrayal of Dorian Lord is the standard. Robin bodied that role for 23 years. After I made her HSOTD, I got one of my most prized possessions:
I always keep it by my front door because if there’s ever a fire, I can grab it while running out. Oh wait, I just heard you say, “But Michael, you stupid fuck, what if the fire starts the front of your house.” Shit, great, now I have to spend my day digging a hole in my front yard to keep this precious artifact safe forever!
Pic: ABC Photo Archives/Disney General Entertainment Content
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