I know, even while surrounded by water, George Clooney is still thirsty as hell.
The morning after George Clooney and Amal Alamuddin gave American Vogue its future cover while posing in a photo shoot masquerading as a wedding, they served up some old Hollywood glamour realness as they left the Aman Hotel in Venice, Italy for a post-wedding night brunch this morning. George and Amal flashed their wedding bands and waved at their adoring fans as they rode the S.S. LOOK AT US to the Cipriani Hotel where they had brunch with all the famous people who went to their wedding. George Clooney continued to give us “second tier Cary Grant in To Catch A Thief” by wearing a grey suit and Amal wore a Giambattista Valli Couture dress that was covered with some shit that looked like oozing herp sores made of frosting. Basically, Amal’s dress looked like Parasite Hilton’s wedding cake.
George and Amal will stay in Venice tonight and tomorrow he’ll officially become somebody’s husband for the second time in his 53 years on Earth when he marries Amal in a civil ceremony. I’m sure that civil ceremony will be broadcast live on the Jumbotron in Times Square and afterward, they’ll cruise down the part of the Grand Canal that will be closed off for them and he’ll scream “I’m the King of the World” before kissing Amal on cue in front of the camera crew who’s documenting it all for the PBS “docu-series” about their love.
One of my friends said that George is probably being so public about all of this, because he wants the world to “get to know” Amal and to “get to know” them as a couple, because he wants to be the Democrat Ronald Reagan and is planning to run for public office. That makes sense, because they do need pictures for the slideshow that will play behind them as they dance the first dance as President and First Lady. I’m only for it if George Clooney makes Brad Pitt his Vice-President, because this country needs and deserves a permanently stoned VP. (“Um, excuse you, you uneducated whore, but what do you think national treasure Joe Biden is?!” – you “Good point. – me)
Dean and Cristy Parave, the devout Christian bodybuilding swingers from America’s #1 purveyor of pure foolery, Florida!
After I threw up that post the other day about the Duggars and all of their fun-hating, screwed-up rules for dating and sex, a few crazy Evangelical types splashed holy water in my face through e-mail by telling me that I AM NOT A CHRIS-CHEN-UH and need the word of the lord in me. I told them all to deep throat a holy dick, but maybe I do the lord in me and these two charbroiled, ripped, Christian Florida jewels are the ones to do it. Dean Parave (heh, his initials are DP) found Jesus after he couldn’t take being a junkie and alcoholic anymore, and a few years later he found his stunning wife Cristy at a bodybuilding competition. They married in 2007 and became swingers after meeting a couple at Home Depot (it’s always Home Depot). Now when Dean and Cristy aren’t lifting for Jesus, they’re spreading the word of the lord while spreading their legs for their neighbor’s wife or husband. Dean says that he knows the bible says thou shalt stick it in his neighbor’s wife doggy-style, but it’s okay to stick it in your neighbor’s wife doggy-style as long as your neighbor is into it.
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If you’ve ever been to an Oktoberfest, you know it’s nothing but a beer-soaked sausage barf-scented MESS. Don’t ask me how many times I’ve seen a drunk guy who smells like sauerkraut farts piss into a tyrolean hat, empty the piss into the street, forget he pissed into it, and put it back on his head, because the answer is TOO MANY TIMES. Thankfully, there are still some people out there who treat the celebration of Oktoberfest as the important holiday that it is (Oktoberfest is beer’s birthday, right?). Case in point, Edona James. I was looking through some pictures from Day 7 of Oktoberfest 2014 in Munich, Germany, and every one was like eating a bratwurst topped with boring, boring, drunk, and boring, until I stumbled upon the soft-focus elegance of Edona James and her bony butt cheeks, and I was like “Dankeschön! Finally something worth looking at!”
I wasn’t familiar with Edona James before today, so I did a bit of research, and all I could find is this video describing her as an “Albanian who crossed the rainbow” (hot) her website, which is all written in Albanian (also hot), and several NSFW Instagram pictures proving that she’s every inch the stunning silicone-stuffed creature as I suspected she was. That’s probably why I couldn’t find any pictures of Germany’s current reigning queen of class and sophistication Micaela Schäfer at Oktoberfest; she knew she couldn’t compete with the high-levels of refined thong-flashing beauty and good taste being served up by the Albanian CoCo, so she stayed home.
Here’s more of your new life inspiration (I know she’s mine) at Oktoberfest yesterday. Pour one out for the St. Pauli Girl, because I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before she’s fired and replaced by Edona James:
Does anyone have a watch? I need to call the official time of death of true love. If an elegant British breasticle goddess can’t make it work with a bulgy burmese python-thighed super stud, then what hope do the rest of us have? I’d shed a single lumpy dick-shaped tear, but I’m far too depressed to summon the saline needed.
According to the Daily Mail, Kelly Brook – the “WHO??” of all whos (I know nothing about her, and yet I love her) – and the come-to-life M.U.S.C.L.E. figurine David McIntosh have called it quits on their engagement, thus killing my dream of seeing Kelly and David’s beautifully tacky wedding and subsequent messy divorce. Kelly confirmed the sad news yesterday on Twitter:
It's a sad Day but I wanted to share with you that David and I are no longer engaged. I love and respect him and wish him all the best.
— Kelly Brook (@IAMKELLYBROOK) September 26, 2014
She also went ahead and deleted all pictures of him from Instagram, which is a damn shame, because if Instagram needs more of anything, it’s bulgy beef jerky jocks.
So it sounds like they’re really done. How rotten! I was looking so forward to seeing David’s XL pig-in-a-blanket peen stuffed into a pair of too-tight tuxedo pants. Not to mention I’m starting to think I’ll NEVER see Kelly’s exquisite saline crumpets wrapped in Chantilly lace; this is Kelly’s 4th cancelled check of an engagement. I don’t pray much (unless you count every time I get to the top of a drop on a roller coaster and start weeping and pleading with Jesus not to take me to heaven), but I’m going to pray tonight for Kelly and David’s busted relationship. Because if there’s anything I need more of in my life, it’s pictures of Kelly being escorted around Beverly Hills by David’s trouser banger and beans.
And that’s how you lose $50 in the Dlisted office pool. I bet all my money that George Clooney was going to get up this morning, put on his best hitchin’ suit, start sweating profusely, text “ABORT! ABORT!” to an unlisted number, and wait for a helicopter flown by Leo DiCaprio and a dozen 25-year-old models to rescue him and fly to Bang-A-Ho Island where he can be single forever. But he didn’t do that, and now Michael K is happily skipping to the liquor store to buy $50 worth of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and top-shelf boxed vodka. THANKS GEORGE.
According to Us Weekly, People, and all the middle-aged C’loonies screaming “IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!!” on Facebook, George Clooney got married to his very fancy human rights lawyer fiancé Amal Alamuddin in Venice, Italy today. The two tied the knot in the 16th century Aman Canal Grande hotel and the ceremony was conducted by the former mayor of Rome, Walter Veltroni. And all of George’s famous friends were there: Matt Damon! Rande Gerber and Cindy Crawford! Emily Blunt! John Krasinski! Kaa from The Jungle Book! Bill Murray! Bono! No word on whether or not Brad Pitt and St. Angie made an appearance, but I’m guessing they were a no-show since I haven’t heard of any 16th century Venetian religious statues of Jesus weeping tears in the past 24-hours.
And now you can begin preparing yourself for the millions of hourly Mr. and Mrs. Amalooney wedding updates we’re bound to receive. Amal wore a dress! George gave a toast! Bono ate the fish and then barfed in the bathroom!
Here’s George and all his famous friends boarding water taxis to take them to the Academy Awards of weddings earlier today:
All right, cloud hackers, this time you’ve gone TOO FAR! Anna Kendrick’s tiny field mouse titties are none of your business! If you want to see rodent nipples so badly, go ask Pharrell if he’ll show you his rat nips.
According to BuzzFeed and Page Six, The Fappening Pt. 3 happened this weekend and more stolen celebrity pics were leaked onto the internet once again like a recurring drug-resistant yeast infection. This time, the cloud hackers released more pictures of Jennifer Lawrence, as well as nipple pics of Cara Delevingne, Mena Suvari, Kelli Garner, Misty May Treanor, and 87 non-nude pictures of Anna Kendrick. That’s how desperate the basement-dwelling neck beards of the internet are for pictures of their imaginary girlfriend Anna Kendrick; they don’t even need nips to fap. Although you know a part of them was disappointed that out of 87 pictures, there wasn’t one of her playing the cups song on her chocha.
I haven’t seen any of Anna’s stolen pictures, but if she’s fully-clothed in all of them, why did they need to steal 87? Is the cloud hacker trying to cater to more specific online niche communities, like dudes who can only get off to pictures of women in a variety of pants or ladies who like to lady fap to women wearing clothes they may already own?
And is this what it has come down to? Each weekend a new batch of pictures is released until every pervert on the internet has fapped their dicks right off their bodies? How many more stolen nipple pics do you need, internet? There’s only so many celebrities! Eventually the cloud hackers will run out of people to steal pictures from, and then what? What will you do then? Fap to stolen nipple pictures of famous cartoons? I don’t want to live in a world where I one day have to type the headline: “She-Ra, Cheetara, and Heather from Denver The Last Dinosaur latest victims of online cloud hacker.“
You may file this news under “Oh my god I’m so old grab my Werthers and run me an epsom salt bath” or simply just shed a tear that Socks the Cat didn’t live long enough to be an uncle (Unky Socks sends his love from Kitty Heaven, I’m sure). Shortly after midnight last night, former first daughter and owner of legendary teen girl hair Chelsea Clinton announced on Twitter that she had finally evicted the baby who had been renting a room in her womb for the past 9 months, and now her and her husband Marc Mezvinsky are the parents of a baby girl named Charlotte Clinton Mezvinsky. Which also means it’s time to crack open a bottle of sparkling moonshine, cause BUBBA IS A PEPAW NOW!
Marc and I are full of love, awe and gratitude as we celebrate the birth of our daughter, Charlotte Clinton Mezvinsky.
— Chelsea Clinton (@ChelseaClinton) September 27, 2014
Charlotte Clinton Mezvinsky sounds like the name of a high-powered Upper West Side real estate agent who always wears Christian Dior Poison, goes by “Char-Char” when she’s drunk, and won’t show you anything under $4.8 million. I love it! 30 years from now, she could star in a reality show about the cutthroat world of lady condo brokers. It could be called Billion Dollar Bitche$ (I assume condos will be a billion dollars in the future).
And I know Chelsea is only one-half hee-haw, but I was sort of hoping she might pay tribute to Bill Clinton’s Arkansas upbringing by at least giving her baby a southern-fried gravy-slathered middle name, like Britnee or Amber or Bobbi-Jo. Charlotte Bobbi-Jo Mezvinsky has a nice ring to it!
(via Page Six)
This patient, side eye-throwing fluffy white fur friend who wants that piece of watermelon more than he wants anything in the world.
This riveting and suspenseful clip with a sad ending from Korean YouTuber 우끼끼 has over 650,000 hits, because people really relate to that fluffy white fur friend. We’re all just a fluffy white dog, patiently waiting for life to give us a piece of watermelon. But don’t be this dog. Learn from this dog. Don’t sit there as life eats up that delicious piece of watermelon after dangling it front of you like the cruel trick it is. Before life eats up that watermelon, jump on life, scratch at its face, take that watermelon and run to the kitchen to get some hot sauce for your piece of watermelon. Really, who the hell eats watermelon without salt and hot sauce?
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