After creaming at the mouth about how much her heart jizzes for Big Sean and how she loves that he wears the pants in the relationship and how she’s always breaking her pussy by constantly riding on his (NSFW unless you work with John Travolta) tee ball bat dick, the plastic hybrid of JLo and Kim Kardashian isn’t going to marry him anytime soon. Star Magazine says that Naya Rivera pressed the stop button on their wedding plans, because Big Sean admitted to her that he dipped his foot-long beef wellington peen (beef willyngton?) into coochies that weren’t attached to her body. But in a statement of words to People, Big Sean ‘s spokeswhore says that he’s the one who broke things off and the rumors are not true. But what is true is that the 99 Cent Store Kim and Kanye dolls who’ve been collecting dust on a clearance shelf are over. The skies are filled with the tears of cherubs who are weeping over the death of true love.
“After careful thought and much consideration, Sean has made the difficult decision to call the wedding off. The recent rumors and accusations reported by so-called or fake sources are simply untrue. Sean wishes Naya nothing but the best and it is still his hope that they can continue to work through their issues privately. We will not be commenting again on this matter.”
This mess could get messier, because earlier today, Naya tweeted (and quickly deleted) this little accusation:
But a source (probably Big Sean’s silo-full-of-cum dick) tells TMZ that Big Sean didn’t steal anything from Naya and he broke off the wedding weeks ago, because she’s controlling and thinks he’s boning pieces on the side, which he says he’s not.
Well, since Naya is in the breaking up mood, she should also break up with the plastic surgeons, the mannequin makers, the wax figure sculptures, the auto painters, the weave masters, the contractors and anybody else who helped her look like a permanently-surprised Kim Kardashian claymation statue in Ron Perlman’s old Beast wig. Shit, she should break up with the part of herself that thought that doing that shit to her face was a good idea.
And here’s Naya at some Marie Claire party last night. Everybody she talked to was probably like, “Do I have some shit in my teeth? Is there a killer clown standing behind me, because why are your eyes all wide like that?”
Goopy Paltrow announced on GOOP today that Chris Martin can now eat McDonald’s all day long on 100-thread count sheets and his asshole is breathing a sigh of relief, because it no longer has to get daily coconut oil and quinoa water enemas. Even the pretentious ass title of Goopy’s break-up statement makes my eyeballs roll right out of my damn head.
It is with hearts full of sadness that we have decided to separate. We have been working hard for well over a year, some of it together, some of it separated, to see what might have been possible between us, and we have come to the conclusion that while we love each other very much we will remain separate. We are, however, and always will be a family, and in many ways we are closer than we have ever been. We are parents first and foremost, to two incredibly wonderful children and we ask for their and our space and privacy to be respected at this difficult time. We have always conducted our relationship privately, and we hope that as we consciously uncouple and coparent, we will be able to continue in the same manner.
Gwyneth & Chris
I’ve read all the blind items that were supposedly about them, so this shouldn’t make me clutch my anal beads out of shock, but it kind of did. Goopy and Chris Martin have been married for 11 years and I figured they’d be one of those cold, WASP bitch couples who’d make each other miserable forever. She’d spend her nights drinking $500 bottles of wine with her only friend, her maid, while he’s out bareback fucking 20-something after 20-something. They’d sleep in separate wings of their mansion and every time they’d go out in public together, she’d say under his breath, “I hate you more than bleached flour,” to him while throwing a fake smile. Shit, I think I just described the last couple years of their marriage.
And “conscious uncoupling ” sounds like a really pretentious way of describing shit coming out of a butt during a bowel movement. Does Goopy ever stop thinking about poop?!
Let us all pull out our pink satin handkerchiefs and wipe the tears that trickle down our cheeks as Johnny Weir put on his rhinestone-encrusted divorcin’ catsuit and solemnly skates a goodbye ice waltz to the husband he bit during a messy fight last January. The swans are sorrowfully howling into the air today (or maybe that sound is my tone deaf neighbor once again loudly singing that annoying Frozen song) and every rhinestone has temporarily lost its sparkle, because the Crystal Enchantress of the Ice has filed for divorce from his husband Victor Voronov. It is a sad and tragic day when the love between a biting icicle and a Russian goes numb and dies like my b-hole whenever I see Johnny Weir in coochie cutters. The Crystal Enchantress of the Ice tweeted this tweet of sadness right before he adjusted his crotch jewels to make sure they sit up real nice in the Chanel leggings he’s going to wear to catch him husband #2.
It is with great sadness that I announce that my husband and I are no longer together. My heart hurts, and I wish him well.
Johnny told Access Hollywood that he’s had the sads for a long time and realized that the only answer to their marriage woes is to get a great big gay divorce. Access Hollywood also says that Johnny and Victor don’t have a prenup. They got married on New Year’s Eve in 2011.
I don’t know Victor’s financial situation and I don’t know if he’s going to try get his hands on any of Johnny’s, but if he is, then he better put on a suit of armor, hold on tight to a crucifix and have an ambulance on standby. Because if Johnny bites during a fight, imagine what that bitch will do when Victor tries to snatch away his precious pink-dyed panda fur coat, his yellow CZ tiara headband and his ostrich feather shrug. We’re all shivering at the thought.
For those of you watch TLC’s Little People, Big World, you’re probably making the same “….and?” face you’d make if I told you that water is wet, the sky is blue and Valtrex sends Lindsay Lohan a commission check every month for bringing them new users. Matt and Amy Roloff’s marriage seemed about as shaky as a mammogram machine that’s got one of Aretha Franklin’s 8th world wonder titties on it. When Amy wasn’t yanking at his nuts, he was being a dick to her. The Roloff’s marriage has most likely been in a coffin for a while, but they’re telling the public now, because their split is featured in a special airing on TLC later this month. Amy and Matt gave this statement to People:
“Though we have weathered many storms together, we recently made the tough decision to engage in a trial separation. Matt remains living on the farm in our guest house and we work together everyday on the farm, on our business endeavors and most importantly, raising our amazing children.”
Matt and Amy have 5 kids together including 20-year-old Molly, 17-year-old Jacob and 23-year-old twins Jeremy and Zack.
We all know what’s going to happen next since we’ve all seen this movie before (see: Jon & Kate). Matt is going to go wild, get himself a pussy pad in NYC, cover his body with the finest couture that Ed Hardy has to offer and he’ll star in a sex tape with one of Miley Cyrus’ back-up dancers before he gets another DUI and then moves into a cabin deep in the woods. (And no, I am not here for your Keebler Elves jokes.)
You might’ve been standing outside today and noticed that a slutty-looking, Drakkar Noir-smelling tornado was humping every piece in its path. Oh, it was just Robin Thicke celebrating the end of his marriage by fucking everything he can. No pussy will be left un-fucked by Robin’s slutty ass. Paula Patton said in a statement to People that after being together since they were teenagers, they are pressing the stop button on their marriage.
“We will always love each other and be best friends, however, we have mutually decided to separate at this time,” the singer and the actress told PEOPLE on Monday in an exclusive statement.
The pair, who first met when Thicke was 14, have been married since 2005 and welcomed son Julian Fuego Thicke in April 2010.
Just like a trick who looks down and sees a rash on her coochie after boning Robin Thicke, we all saw this coming.
Well, I’m guessing that Paula realized that the whole “open” thing wasn’t really working out, because Robin was opening his fly to every trick and ho but her. And she woke up from whatever waking coma she was in and realized that she’s married to the “Blurred Lines” douche. And yes, we should all blame this on Miley.
This picture sums it up. Ramona Singer is all the way lit up and is giving all her love to the camera while Mario Singer eye fucks some sweet ass over yonder with his peen-shaped gaze.
Just a week after Ramona of The Real Housewives of New York City and her husband of 27 years Mario got into a fight at their Hamptons home when she caught him with his side slut turned main slut, she has filed legal papers to officially stab the heart of their marriage with a broken Pinto Grigio bottle. Mario and Ramona have been separated for a while and he’s been humping on some 20-something piece while she does the same thing, but she’s decided to cut the cord completely. Kathie Lee Gifford’s spirit (as in gin) animal filed for divorce in Manhattan’s Supreme Court (which sadly, isn’t led by Fiona “Knotty Piiiiiiiiiiiine” Goode) on Tuesday and she wants their NYC apartment and their fancy house in the Hamptons. Ramona tweeted this yesterday:
“Thank you all for the love & support! For my daughter’s sake, I would appreciate everyone respecting our privacy during this difficult time.”
I love it when a mess who is on a reality show and squirts about her personal shit to tabloids and The New York Post puts a “privacy please” sign over her life. So when Ramona goes on Watch What Happens Live and fills Andy Cohen’s ears with manufactured tears as she cry moans about how Mario did her wrong, I will respect her privacy by changing the channel to House Hunters International. When Ramona shows up on the season premiere of RHoNY and starts squawking about her private shit, I will respect her privacy by changing the channel to reruns of the Puppy Bowl (aka another show where un-potty trained animals slobber and jump on each other). You can count on me, RaMoanAh!
And of course, Jill Kamen Zarin™ piped in about this:
— Jill Kamen Zarin™ (@Jillzarin) January 27, 2014
I should say that Jill Zarin’s assistant piped in about this, because Jill Zarin was unable to tweet since she was too busy furiously rubbing herself while overdosing on gleeeeeeeeeeeeee.
In more “breakups that make you want to punch a cherub and cry for the death of true love” news (served in several puffy layers of sarcasm), Heidi Klum and that bodyguard who went from protecting her and her family to protecting her coochie with his peen have broken up and they’re fucking done professionally and personally. A source (I’m guessing Heidi’s publicist’s first name is Source, it’s Norwegian) tells People that after a year and a half of living the basic cable, low-budget version of The Bodyguard, Heidi and Martin WhateverHisNameIsItDoesntMatter are no longer together and he’s no longer on her payroll. Heidi is free to fornicate with other members of the help! One day you’re in Heidi’s cooch, the next day you’re out.
“Martin was there for her during a challenging time in her life and it was something she will always be grateful for. They are no longer working together.”
“Martin was there for her during a challenging time in her life” is such a professional way of saying “Martin’s rebound dick was good and he fucked the pain of her marriage ending right out of her and she and her vagine will always be grateful to him for that.” The bad news for Martin is that he’s out of a job and had to move out of Heidi’s mansion. The good news is that he never married Heidi’s ass and so he doesn’t have to suffer through the pain of renewing his vows with her every goddamn painful year.
A few months ago, crazy-eyed Ramona Singer of The Real Housewives of New York swore on the secret recipe for Ramona Pinot Grigio (read: turtle piss, white grape juice and meth) that her husband of 27 years Mario Singer stuck his raw 60-year-old peen into his 20-something socialite side piece and knocked her up. The socialite type Kacey Dexter later got an abortion. Ramona denied it all, but I guess she recently wiped the Pinot out of her eyes and is sick of Mario coming home smelling like a snatch that isn’t hers, because she kicked his ass out and hopped on a 20-something-year-old piece herself.
Page Six says that Mario didn’t stop boning Kacey Dexter and Ramona finally kicked him out of their UES apartment recently and she let him stay at their house in Southampton. Ramona hasn’t been crying on her back like an out-of-water trout gasping for air. She went out on a date with some 20-something dude named Travis Millard last Thursday. Everything was Pinot and rainbows until Ramona went to their house in the Hamptons on Friday night and caught Mario with that tramp Kacey. Ramona, being the wine bottle full of 100 proof drama that she is, called the cops and when they showed up she told them that Mario choked her out. Page Six’s source says that Ramona made that part up and neither of them got violent on each other.
No one was arrested and zero charges were pressed. But before the cops left, Ramona threatened them with a good time by offering them a glass of Ramona Pinot. It wasn’t turtle time for the cops, so they declined her invitation and left.
This could be a STUNT QUEEN move to promote the new season of RHoNY, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true. To me, Ramona and Mario have always looked like swingers who shouldn’t be swingers. You know, they are probably a total drag at swingers parties. Mario quickly gets himself a piece to fuck and after Ramona gets completely coked up, she suddenly gets jealous, pulls Mario off of his piece, slaps his peen, slaps his piece’s tits and then gets kicked out. Ramona cries and screams in the car ride home and Mario has to stop at a gas station to relieve his blue balls by jacking off into the bathroom sink. That pretty much sums up their entire marriage to me.
And I know Mario redefines slimey, but I still would.
I’ll wait here as you break up with your piece, break up with your entire family, break up with your dog, break up with your cat, break up with your favorite string of anal beads, break up with your vaporizer, break up with your Beverly Hills Teens DVDs, break up with your entire stash of microwave chicharrones and break up with everything else you love hard, because love won’t keep any of us together.
That sound you hear that sounds a lot like David Beckham letting out a high-pitched cry orgasm is the sound of the entire muskrat community wailing over the divorce of the two people who perfectly captured a regular muskrat date night in a song. The Captain & Tennille gave muskrats a voice! People confirms that 73-year-old Toni Tennille filed divorce papers on January 16th in the city she lives, Prescott, Arizona. As soon as Toni filed papers to legally end her 39-year-old marriage with the Captain, the government should’ve immediately declared all current marriages null and void and made marriage illegal for everyone. What is the point of marriage if the Captain & Tennille aren’t married? The government is probably working on that, but they’re currently crying into a captain hat on the floor of a sauna.
The Captain (born name: Daryl Frank Dragon) tells TMZ that he has no idea why Toni wants to legally quit his 71-year-old ass. They’re still living in the same house.
A few years ago, Toni said that The Captain has a neurological condition similar to Parkinson’s and he suffers from tremors which has affected his ability to play the keyboard.
Why? Why? Why? Why would Toni divorce The Captain’s ass in his hour of need? Why would Toni ruin everybody’s faith in love by doing this? Why would Toni end 39 years of marriage? What’s the point? Can’t she just sleep in another room and ignore his ass the way normal married couples do? I really hope this is some STUNT QUEEN shit. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go hug an economy-sized bottle of tequila while singing this:
Finding out that Lizzie Maguire is going to be a divorcee is like finding a white hair on your ass lip. We’re all old. Hilary Duff’s rep tells E! News that after three short years of being married to Frankenstein’s Canadian monster and former NHL player Mike Comrie, she’s done with being married to him. Hilary and Mike started dating in 2007, they got married in 2010, they made a son named Luca Cruz in 2012 and now they’re going their separate ways. Hilary Duff will no longer get temporarily knocked unconscious when Mike’s brick house head accidentally knocks against her head during missionary and he’ll no longer feel the fear a dude feels when Hilary scrapes those pony teeth against his dick shaft. It’s a sad day. At least we’ll always have this. Hilary’s rep released this canned statement:
“Hilary Duff and husband Mike Comrie have mutually decided to an amicable separation. They remain best friends and will continue to be in each other’s lives. They are dedicated to loving and parenting their amazing son, and ask for privacy at this time.”
Below are pictures from three days ago of the Canadian furniture heir (his family is worth $500 million) giving Hilary a leaf in a park in Beverly Hills. It looks like a sweet moment, but now I know what’s really going on here. Mike gave her that leaf while saying, “Take this leaf, shove it up your ass and savor it, because it’s the only thing you’re going to get from me!” Yes, I live in a bubble where every relationship ends Dynasty-style.