Amy Wino has been seen on the streets of London with a piece who looks like he doesn’t reek of Port-A-Potty water and dog sweat (see pictures of the two here), so this is an upgrade for her. Or if she gets the tingles for bitches who smell like Port-A-Potty water and dog sweat, then this is a downgrade for her.
Anyways, Wino and film director/producer Reg Traviss have been bumping assholes for a few weeks now. They were introduced by a mutual friend, because they live down the street from one another. Wino was planning to re-marry Blaaaaaake a few months ago, but she’s sent him back to the septic tank from which he came from and now she’s resting her crackhive in Reg’s lap every night. A source tells The Sun, “He’s a decent bloke with his feet firmly on the ground. He’s cultured and talented and they talk and laugh about all sorts. And they are openly affectionate in front of friends and family now too.”
Wino’s father Mitch got two young kids to help his fat ass up onto his soap box so he could say that he approves of her new boyfriend, “I’m happy she’s got a new boyfriend. I’m happy she’s moving on with her life. He’s a normal bloke, very nice.”
Dating a dude who most likely wipes his ass crack after he cacas and doesn’t break all your light bulbs to smoke crack out of them is a nice change for Wino. And somebody should tell her that when she goes down on Reg and doesn’t come up with a mouth full of scab skin, that’s normal. No matter what Blaaaake told her.
When Brooke Shields steps out in public, she better watch out for falling flour factories and tidal waves of red paint, because Peta is sharpening their shanks as I type! Seriously, if Brooke thought the voicemails Tommy Girl left saying “glibglibglib” over and over were bad, then she hasn’t seen shit yet.
Brooke recently traveled to Denmark to fulfill her childhood dream of designing a fur coat. HA. YES, as that bitch sat on her potty training potty, dream bubbles filled with images of her handling dead animal pelts danced over her head. Was she Alexis Carrington or Cruella de Ville as a child?! Actually, my childhood dream was to be Alexis Carrington when I grow up, so I understand where Brooke is coming from (not really).
While making her very own coat at the Kopenhagen Fur Studio, Brooke spoke to the IFTF Blog about how she gets a boner for fur. She told them, “Wearing fur may be associated with something grandmotherish. Something you wear when you visit the opera, or if you are a rock star and wear it inside out. But I will advocate that both my generation and the younger generation can wear fur. I will wear the fur garment when I follow my children to school, when I drink coffee and when I sleep.”
Then she took a piece of fur, caressed her genital area with it and said, “My only true love, darling. I live for furs. I worship furs! After all, is there a woman in all this wretched world who doesn’t? ”
I mean, what is Brooke going on about? So she likes fur coats, okay. But sleeping in her fur coat? Drinking Sanka in it? Her unquenchable thirst for fluffy animal fur has made her crazier in the brains. Forget what Tommy Girl said! Eat a med, Brooke. And you can eat it while wearing your fur coat if that helps.
This is apparently a leaked ad for McDonald’s newest attack on your digestive system: THE MCRIBBLES (which is also the sound your asshole is going to make after eating this mess). It’s the McRibs bastard love child who is also made out of corn syrup, beef-flavored corn syrup, bone-flavored corn syrup, corn syrup-fed worms and hair from Ronald McDonald’s dick bush for coloring.
As much as I would love to bite through the fake bone in the McRibble and listen to my bowls weep for their future while it slides down my froat, it’s still not perfect. It needs several pieces of processed cheese, bacon, McNugget crumbles, fries and a few Big Mac patties on top of it. Then throw it in the deep fryer and you’ve got perfection personified! The angels would hold it above their halos and declare it their new savior! Or Satan’s minions would declare it their new savior. I don’t know, one of those.
And hopefully, they will sell this in France because it’s the perfect thing to nibble on when you tell your father that you like peen.
via Gorilla Mask
Sonja Morgan, the proud slut and drunk of The Real Housewives of NYC, was thrown into a cop car early Monday morning after she drove through a stop sign at 2:16 a.m in Southampton, Long Island. Sonja got an F on her sobriety test, and refused to put her lips on a breathalyzer, so she was arrested for DWI. A source tells the New York Post that Sonja was partying all weekend.
In Sonja’s defense, if you had to be around that pack of crazy hyenas all the time you’d be sucking that bottle non-stop too.
Sonja is easily my favorite bitch on that show, because she loves kissing booze as much as she loves kissing peen, but I don’t understand why in the hell she was driving. Sonja used to be married to J.P. Morgan’s great-grandson, so she’s got money falling out of her ass. Why drive yourself? Driving is hard! Based on Countess LuMann’s broke down video and song, it’s obvious she needs fast cash, so Sonja could’ve hired her as a driver. Mah friends.
With allergy season at its worst in years, there have been some changes around the Aniston household – sketts
I’ve never seen so many wrinkled pussies in one place without a bingo game going on. – OurMissC
Unlike Lindsay’s, these hairless pussies have never had coke snorted off of them. – Way
I hate when Madonna, Priscilla Presley, Donatella Versace and all their friends’ plastic surgery warranties expire. – Melinda
Michele Kleier, the star of HGTV’s Selling New York!
Some hos can’t fall asleep without an Ambien paying a visit to their tongue, but my ass can’t drift off into the land of Mah Boos and Rojos (aka dreamland) without watching HGTV. So of course, I’m totally going around with Selling New York, which is a show about fancy real estate agents selling fancy real estate in NYC and beyond. One of the head property pimps on that show is Michele Kleier, the matriarch of GHK Realty.
Michele is not only a professional at walking through houses and commenting on everything (“Oh, look you have a view of a tree!”, “Oh, look you don’t have to eat with the help!” etc…), but she always looks like she just fell out of a JcPenney Salon circa 1988. The eyebrows are fresh, the lips are frosty and every single follicle is covered in something that comes out of a Vidal Sassoon bottle.
I bet Michele even sleeps in her St. John suit (purchased at Nordstrom Rack, thankyouverymuch). I would let her show me apartments I could never afford even if I sold all my relatives’ organs just so I could breathe in her Giorgio perfume. You know, Michele looks like she bathes in perfume, so I can probably smell her if I just stick my head out the window and direct my nose towards the wind.