This stunning portrait that is probably giving you the vapors will finally prove that America needs a monarchy and our King and Queen needs to be Gary Busey and Courtney Stodden, because they are a couple who is dignity and grace personified! Get on your knees and bow! Actually, you’re probably already on your knees, because that picture scared the shit out of you and you’re praying to Jesus to cleanse your eyes.
While some nothing, who cares event called the Oscars was happening at some piece of trash, low-budget venue called The Dolby Theater in Hollywood, a much more illustrious and important event called the
Annual Night of Zero Stars 24th Annual Night of 100 Stars happened in the Banquet Hall of a Quality Inn in Beverly Hills. The glittery jewels of Hollywood were all there. The Porn Iguana! Gary Busey! Brenda Dickson! Adrienne Maloof! And a hot piece who looks like a Siegfried Fischbacher statue made out of fried bologna!
Okay, the Porn Iguana and Gary Busey aren’t a real couple. If they were, we’d all know, because the stars would fall from the sky to be closer to them and your phone would immediately auto-correct to this picture every time you typed the word “love.” Besides, their love could never be, because her balloon tits would pop every time Gary flashed his horse-teeth-on-roids at them.
And fully take in the Porn Iguana’s “generic Barbie bought on Clearance at the 99 Cent store and left in a dirt patch in the backyard where it halfway melted and became a spider’s nest” beauty.
In case you couldn’t tell from the screams of paranoia coming from the Southern California area, THE STORM OF EVERY CENTURY!!! has hit Southern California. Even though California is thirstier than ever because of the drought and shit, the media is still being extra dramatic and screaming for the National Guard’s help before the falling water ruins everyone’s fake tan! This is a serious emergency. I was watching the news early this morning and saying, “Don’t you fret, Monsieur M’rius,” to all the media whores losing their minds over a little fall of rain (I can’t believe I just referenced Les Miz). Just as I was laughing at the rain panic, my power went out. That’s what my dumbass gets. The electric company said that a transformer blew out and yes, I got the tingles for a minute picturing a Transformer blowing another Transformer. My laptop battery is dying faster than your patience during a Kanye rant and I’m getting WiFi from a hotspot on my phone, so it’s only a matter of time before my laptop and my phone croak out their last breath of power and I’m left in the dark. I’ll cry myself into the fetal position on the floor, because when my WiFi connection dies, so does MY SOUL!!!!
But before that happens, here’s RiRi trying out-Miley Miley in Paris last night by wearing an outfit you’d usually see on a twink sub at a gay BDSM club. But you know, if you’re RiRi and your at a club, you will have a collar around your neck and your alien nips will be breathing in the moist air through a Hot Topic mesh shirt. It’s just the way it is. Pure sophistication.
And here’s more of RiRi’s nips at the club and pictures of RiRi showing up to the Dior show today. I see she’s still auditioning hard for the role of Elvira Hancock in the Scarface remake.
The BET Honors celebrated the careers of Aretha Franklin, Ice Cube and Berry Gordy in DC on Saturday night and the horny butterfly unicorn princess Mimi paid tribute to Aretha’s 8th world wonder chichis by squeezing and propping up her own tits during her performance. Yes, Aretha Franklin’s sleeping walrus chichis could easily eat Mimi’s tits whole and Aretha’s nipples are bigger than Mimi’s chest domes, but it was still a nice and fitting homage. (Although, every damn occasion is an occasion for Mimi to bring her tits out.)
While her oversized concha bread titties tried to hold onto that tit tape and keep from popping out of her elegant gown, Mimi rolled around on a piano like a grizzly bear with fleas scratching its back and yodeled out her new song “You’re Mine.” Here’s more of Mimi looking like a half drunken Capri Sun pouch (copyright: the always right Fresh) dressed up like Jessica Rabbit (“I’m not bad, I’m just Photoshopped that way“) at the BET Honors which airs later this month. Everything about this look is dignified and regal from her armpit cleavage to the top of her Spanx coming out to play.
I have been sitting here for 20 minutes trying to think of something nice to say about Tan Mom, and all I could come up with is the following:
- Her eyes are in the right place
- She is wearing black, and black is a color
- We can’t see any active sores or lesions, so that’s good
- It appears she’s not attacking a drag queen
Even that last one is a bit of a stretch, since I can’t confirm what she did before or after this picture was taken. But if we know anything about Tan Mom – and trust me, we know too much – it’s that she probably got drunk and tried to fight something other than her own personal demons.
For those of you looking at this picture and thinking ‘To what do we owe this awful, filthy-looking pleasure?’ Tan Mom graced everyone with her presence last night at Howard Stern’s 60th birthday party in New York. I guess Howard had a spot to fill on his guest list under the column marked ‘drunk-as-fuck sadness piles’ and since White Oprah’s too busy penning the Great American Novel, he sent a cab over to New Jersey to pick up the next best thing.
And Tan Mom didn’t disappoint; she rolled up to the red carpet looking like a wasted Goldie Hawn hand puppet took a shit on a crate of rotten clementines. She also drew the number 60 on her arm, although it looks more like she had started writing GO but fell asleep before she could finish writing GET ME HELP. As for her mouth: I didn’t know Tyrone Biggums made lipstick. But all of this pales in comparison to when she dropped to the floor to fix her shoes and flashed her Tan Snatch on the way back up. You can see the crotch shot below, and my gut instinct tells me it might be NSFW, but truthfully – I’m not entirely sure we’re even looking at a crotch. It’s more of a David Lynch-ian oven-roasted chicken wing.
Kim Kardashian and Farrah Abraham have both been smeared all over the front page of Dlisted today, so let’s complete the porn trick trifecta with the original talentless fame whore who leaked her own sex tape to become the icon of the ho stroll. While wearing Frederick’s of Hollywood’s version of Jaimie Alexander’s refined Slut Dress, Parasite Hilton made dozens of hos run for safety and put on gas masks when she walked the red carpet at some pre-Grammy party in a dress that let everyone know she probably wasn’t wearing panties. How the County of Los Angeles didn’t declare a nuclear emergency is beyond me. I should’ve warned you in the headline to not stare directly into Wonky’s black whoretex of destruction. If you did, then your soul has probably jumped out of your body and you’re screaming for the misery to end while trying to tear off the herp sores that grew on your eyeballs. It’s like 2007 again!
I need to stop hating, because Wonks is actually doing something nice for her crotch critters. That sheer crotch part is like a screened-in porch for her cooch crustaceans and it’s providing with some much-needed air. That was really nice of her.
I shouldn’t have even bothered to stick Dennis Rodman’s crusted-over scab face on Carmen Electra’s titty knob, because we’ve all seen it. Anybody who has breathed in oxygen has seen Carmen Electra’s nipple. Anybody who has committed cold-blooded murder after getting email #4,907 from LinkedIn in one day HAS seen Carmen Electra’s nipple. Anybody who has fapped to the Property Brothers and felt slightly weird about it afterward HAS seen Carmen Electra’s nipple. Anybody who as a kid told their friend’s mom to drop them off at another house because their front yard always looked fucked up HAS seen Carmen Electra’s nipple. We’ve all done all of those things and we’ve all seen Carmen Electra’s nipple. And everyone who ate dinner at Crossroads restaurant in West Hollywood last night saw it for the ten billionth time.
Because we live in a strange society where running around naked is considered not right and sometimes illegal, Carmen had to put on clothes before going to dinner with Travis Barker. But Carmen got around that whole “must wear clothes in public” shit by putting on a sheer dress that showed the nipples we could all sketch from memory even if we fell into a coma for 10 years and woke up not knowing much.
Carmen and Travis make sense together, but I have no idea what they talked about. They probably sat there pushing their food around until she heard the whistle from the paps she called. They went outside and she posed POSED posed while he got the car. Since she’s done Dennis Rodman on the regular, they drove to the nearest Hazmat facility where they boned on a tarp in a temp-controlled room (Fact: Germs grow in heat) before getting sprayed down with a mixture of bleach, ammonia and liquid antibiotics. Strangely enough, besides the paparazzi shit, that’s pretty much how all my dates have gone too.
Sarah Palin may be an empty-headed fame whore who speaks out of her ass 100% of the time, but it’s moments like these where I appreciate her, because she’s out there keeping refined glamour alive in America. Sarah Palin isn’t only on the front lines of the non-existent War on Christmas, but she’s also on the front lines of elegance.
Dozens of reporters at the TCA press tour in Los Angeles today said to themselves, “I didn’t know there was a Chanel in Wasilla,” when the Governor of Patriotic Sophistication walked on stage in patriotic platform heels. I pledge allegiance to Sarah Palin’s classic style.
Those are the kind of shoes you usually see on a bikini-wearing Craigslist model posing in front of a tricked out El Camino at an outdoor car show held in the parking lot of a strip mall in Alabama. What I’m saying is that Sarah Palin has exquisite taste. But anybody who has seen her frosted pink lipstick, leopard Jersey Shore heels and black hooker wedges knows this already.
Pics: Getty (Thanks, CN!)
Seen above serving up “socially awkward 10-year-old who grew up in a cult her entire life and was forced to smile on picture day at her first day of public school after the compound she lived on was shut down by the feds and her parents were arrested” realness, Brit Brit was probably one of the biggest stars at the completely scripted and useless People’s Choice, I mean Publicist’s Choice Awards last night. Being around humans makes Brit Brit more nervous than when Daddy Spears tells her that she best eat the green beans part of her Hungry-Man Meal, but she agreed to show up and accept the bought-and-paid for award after he promised to buy her a BurritoBox nightstand if she did. Well, Brit Brit’s hamburger bed is about to get a burrito-making neighbor, because she fulfilled her end of the deal by putting on a purdy smile while posing with that crystal butt plug trophy.
As much as I’m happy that Brit Brit’s weave doesn’t look like a pack of bleached ferrets fighting for once, I’ve got the sads at her not posing with Justin Timberlake. JT and Brit Brit were in the same building and they couldn’t recreate one of the most glamorous moments in history by putting on their matching jean outfits and posing together for old time’s sake? Couldn’t Daddy Spears promise to buy Brit Brit a bidet that shoots out Frapps if she did that? It’s what the world needs now.
Here’s Brit Brit using the 20 words she knows (including AWESOME and COOL) to accept her award.
When she walks up those stairs, she looks like she just finished being the pass-around-bottom at an orgy and the numbing lube she smeared on her asshole is starting to wear off. I feel your pain, Brit. (Yeah, I wish.)
Together, they look like what’s on the table during a romantic dinner at a Korean BBQ restaurant.
At last night’s premiere of Grudge Match in NYC, pristine white taper candle Kim Basinger posed next to her co-star, piping hot piece of cajun-rubbed pork jerky Sylvester Stallone, and it’s a miracle that the heat wafting off of his just-out-of-the-oven face didn’t melt her into a puddle of Botox, wax and sad memories of being married to Alec Baldwin. Maybe it’s because I’m a skinny fat fuck who is always thinking about shoving dough, cheese and meat into his mouth (there’s an uncut dick joke in there somewhere), but she looks like a piece of uncooked dough and he looks like a sun dried tomato-stuffed pepperoni meatball. So together they’re like a deconstructed Totino’s pizza roll without the sauce. Delicioso!
Here’s more of Porcelain Basinger and Overcooked Terracotta Stallone with Robert DeNiro at last night’s premiere. Slay me with those brows, Sly!
Actually, this is more like “grandpa issues.”
See, now you know why you keep a stash of moist towelettes from the lunch place your ass orders from in the bottom drawer of your desk. You’re going need them to wipe away this image of the Porn Iguana and a creepy Fred Willard-looking ass skeeze from your eyeballs. It’s the only way to stop the burning.
When Courtney Stodden dropped the human PedoBear Doug Hutchison, she said that she just wanted to be a regular 19-year-old and do regular 19-year-old shit. I thought that meant that she was planning to throw her body on a pile of naked hot pieces covered in drugs. You know, normal 19-year-old shit. (Although, I spent my 19th year on earth hoping to throw my body on a pile of naked hot pieces while trolling for and failing to find available peen on Gay.com.) Well, I guess Courtney’s definition of “regular 19-year-old shit” is injecting foam insulation into her lips, shopping for exquisite lingerie dresses on Hollywood Blvd. and hanging around 53-year-old oldies who always have that “Aren’t you going to finish that drink I made you?” look in their eyes.
The Porn Iguana went to some event in Studio City, CA last night with 53-year-old publicist Edward Lozzi. This all made sense to me when I read that ole’ dude here used to hump on Anna Nicole Smith and Lana Clarkson, the actress that Phil Spector murdered. If Edward has some gold, then I say, work that shovel and dig, bitch, dig. But doing a dude who once did Anna Nicole and Lana Clarkson? That dick is like the bell that summons the Grim Reaper. Run, Porn Iguana, run and while you’re running stop in the nearest plastic surgery clinica to get those red sea tits fixed. There’s not many things that are more tragic than a pair of fighting plastic titty domes who want to be as far away from each other as possible.