The good news is this rumor is coming from the UK tabloid Heat (via the Mirror) which means it’s most likely as fake and fraudulent as everything the Kardashians do and it was also probably leaked (sorry for that word mixed with that picture) by Pimp Mama Kris herself to build up her ~kool mom~ kred. The bad news is that the life-killing image of Pimp Mama Kris’ naked and Photoshopped body sprawled onto the pages of Playboy has already been burned into the deepest part of your brain and side effects of that include stopping fuck times with your piece halfway through to go into the shower and cry while rubbing Irish Spring onto your eyeballs.
Some source (read: either PMK herself or the makers of Dramamine who want to boost sales by giving the public non-stop nausea) said that PMK feels like her body is Playboy-ready and now is the time to spread her KKK maker in Playboy. The source farted this nugget out:
“Kris has been talking about posing for Playboy magazine for a while now. She’s in the best shape of her life and is keen to show it off. The bikini shot she posted on Instagram recently was well received that she’s said, ‘Why not?’”
PMK led Kim Kartrashian down the fame whore path to becoming the fame whore of all fame whores and now she’s following in her prized ho’s fame whore steps. First comes the sex tape, second comes the Playboy spread. Actually, first comes the sex tape, second comes the death of civilization, because I don’t think humanity can survive after a PMK sex tape. But I refuse to believe that Hugh Hefner would let this happen. ANYBODY but PMK on the cover of Playboy! If it happened, Hugh Heffa needs to officially retire from making decisions beyond choosing between tapioca or vanilla and choosing between the bleached blonde with the DDDs or the bleached blonde with the EEEs to screw.
Here’s the Kartrashians at LAX last night before getting on a flight to Korea, and sadly I don’t mean North Korea.
The name “Kendra Wilkinson” should have been the only clue you needed to know that the above statement is a rancid Diaper Genie sausage of a lie. Eloquent essay? Come on guys, she wrote about damp pregnancy shits and being horny all the time.
Kendra Wilkinson, who you may remember as one of the former caretakers of the dusty unfrozen corpse of Hugh Hefner, recently wrote about the third trimester of her second pregnancy for People. And if you’ve ever wanted to know about the greasy ins and disgusting outs of a woman with no filter and no fucks to give, then you’re in luck:
On how her morning begins with waking and baking (bootycakes, that is):
“My food choices are pretty consistent for each meal. I have a high fiber meal in the morning so I can relieve myself (LOL) and get my metabolism started.”
On ripping hot ones:
“Unfortunately, while I’m eating all this healthy food, the only thing I can’t control are the smelly and loud gas noises coming from my body!”
On why her husband, Hank Baskett, keeps postponing their trip to Downtown Poundtown:
“The sex is lacking this pregnancy. Newsflash — I’m a very sexual creature. I love my man and sex, but sometimes I feel Hank is not attracted to me. He tells me that I complain about this pain or that pain every five minutes, so why would he want to touch me?!”
On her underwear being re-zoned as swampland:
“When I cough, I either fart, pee or cramp.”
Of course, it was written for People so she probably had to heavily edit out specifics, like just how many times a day she aggressively rubs her horny Playboy pocket against Hank’s leg, or the exact volume of noxious gas her b-hole is excreting on an hourly basis. But I’m sure if you asked her nice enough on Twitter, she might tell you. Sorry, did I say might? I meant to say: she definitely will in dry-heaving detail.
Vogue is really going full troll for their April Fool’s Month issue with a Hobbit and a Gay Fish on the cover. Just like Ray-J’s boomerang dick over Kim Kardashian’s ass, pictures from the spread have leaked and they’re all made of one hundred percent ridiculousness, but this one of a scared North West and a maniacal Pimp Mama Kris takes it all. A dude with a tattoo sleeve throws a “ha, this is really happening” look as a suffocating Kim tries not to rip that too-small-dress open by breathing and PMK throws a creepy clown whore smile that any child should run from. The “looking for the nearest exit” side-eye that Baby Seaweed is giving tops it all off.
North is scared for her young life, because when you press your ear up to PMK’s face, you hear the sound of Lucifer cackling as his minions chant his name. North is also scared, because the last time she saw PMK holding a baby that close, PMK swallowed the baby whole before screaming about how her dark powers have been rejuvenated. So yeah, North isn’t exactly having a good time.
And seriously, this picture says so much.
Vogue didn’t stop there. The article is also full of foolery. Vogue’s Hamish Bowles did the interview and I’m guessing he strolled in, threw a blank notepad on the floor and said, “Write whatever you want, whores, I can’t with this. I’m going to Fatburger” instead. Because the article is full of delusional dingles like this:
“Anybody need anything?” asks the agelessly glamorous, apricot-skinned Kris, fluttering eyelashes as thick, long, and lustrous as a hummingbird’s wings. “Water? Vodka? Get on my train!” she laughs. “Just kidding!” Kris (who, as Kim notes, “goes by the name of Lovey, not Grandma!”) is an astute businesswoman and an executive producer of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, now in its eighth season. Her home office is stacked with Kardashian product and magazine spreads—there is even a framed copy of her estranged husband Olympic gold medalist Bruce Jenner’s 1979 GQ cover.
Are we sure HAMish didn’t run into Bruce Jenner instead and that’s who he’s describing in that paragraph? If by all of that Hamish means that PMK is “pathetically holding onto her youth,” has skin like Belphegor’s foreskin, eyelashes as thick and spiny as the tarantulas in the afterworld and is a shameless pimp, then he nailed it.
And in almost every picture, North West’s SOS face says it all and then some.
Pics: Vogue/Annie Leibovitz
There must be a 24-hour news feed at Castle Goopskull that alerts Gwyneth Paltrow to every time an actress gives health advice, because it seems like more than a coincidence that a week after Shay-Lean Woodley taught us about clay-eating and vagina-burning, Gwynny has popped out of the woodworks like the jealous weevil that she is to remind Shay-Shay that she is the Queen of Thanks-But-No-Thanks advice.
Just like Jennifer Aniston before her, Gwyneth Kate (btw: how pissed do you think she is that she has such a basic-bitch middle name) gave an interview to E! News that was little more than a thinly-veiled infomercial for Restorsea, the skincare line she’s currently cashing checks from. Since we’ve all heard everything there is to know about skincare 8,000 times (wash face, dry face, put on sunscreen, wait for death) she moved the conversation to the cause of my most current bout of dry heaves, oil pulling:
I use coconut oil a lot I do on my face, on my skin and in my cooking. And I just started “oil pulling,” which is when you swish coconut oil around [in your mouth] for 20 minutes, and it’s supposed to be great for oral health and making your teeth white. It’s supposed to clear up your skin, as well. It’s really interesting; it’s an ancient, ancient technique. I read about it on the Internet.
You read about it on the internet? Goopy, please; everybody knows it don’t mean shit unless you saw it on Dr. Oz. But back to the more important question: what is Katie Paltrow doing with that oil once she’s done swishing it? Does she spit or swallow? (Trick question: as if a penis has ever touched her pristine princess mouth). If I were to use what I know about Gwyneth Paltrow, my powers of deduction say that she’s spitting all that swished up coconut oil into vintage apothecary bottles to sell on GOOP. Who wouldn’t want to own a limited-edition bottle of Academy Award-winner Gwyneth Paltrow’s organic oily mouth jizz? It would go great with your 300-page collection of Gwyneth’s farts.
And I’m still having trouble comprehending the idea of sucking on something for 20 minutes that didn’t buy me a Seaside Shrimp Trio at Red Lobster first.
And now Anna Wintour has officially officially entered the “fuck it” phase of her reign at Vogue. It really happened. Lazy amateur porn star turned fame whore of all fame whores Kim Kartrashian is on the cover the magazine that Pimp Mama Kris is going to roll up, lube up and fuck herself with until the end of time. I guess Kanye West threatened to release incriminating pictures of Anna Wintour buying fake UGGs from Walmart (or swallowing something other than virgin’s blood), because that’s the only reason I can come up with for this happening. That cover looks like the cover of a catalog from a David’s Bridal franchise in the 9th Circle of HELL. But I do love how Kanye’s hands are keeping a safe distance from Kim’s kooch. Of course, Kim is never going to stop barfing and queefing at the mouth about this and she immediately twatted about it. Newsflash, whore, you haven’t breathed for at least a couple of years since your body has been suffocating in a cocoon of Spanx.
Vogue also shat up a behind-the-scenes video which North West makes a cameo in. This is probably the fourth time (I’m being genius) that North has seen her parents in person. If that isn’t a “Harpo, who deez people?” look, I don’t know what is.
And Posh Beckham was just put on suicide watch.
Seen above at the 2014 SXSW Keynote Address looking like a dead Komondor found in a clear trash bag, Lady CaCa’s ass continued to be filled with her own head when she said that it was exciting to see hos debate on whether or not her puke-filled performance of “Swine” was art or not art. Some (read: the Little Monsters who are always butt chugging themselves some Lady CaCa) called it “art” and the rest of us called it sick shit you can see on some Japanese porn site. Demi Lovato, who wrote about her struggle with an eating disorder in her book, called it NOT RIGHT and thinks it wasn’t not funny. Yesterday on the Internet’s most-used blowhorn Twitter, Demi slapped at CaCa for glorifying bulimia and for trying to pass off that shit as art. Sure, I’d rather hear Mary Margaret’s thoughts on this, but I guess Demi will do:
Sad… As if we didn’t have enough people glamorizing eat disorders already. Bottom line, it’s not “cool” or “artsy” at all. Would you let someone bring a needle and shoot up on you? Addiction is addiction. It’s not “shade” and it’s not “hate”. But someone has to come forward and say it and I’ll take the heat for it. @ladygaga you’re SO talented, if not one of the most talented in our industry PERIOD. Dope is INCREDIBLE.. but you don’t have to do that.
Of course the Little Monsters bit at Demi and she kept on, kept on.
All I’m saying is, artists in pop culture have influence on people.. Some of which are people who aren’t capable of understanding the art that is that is expressed by their idols. Young people who are struggling to figure out their identities are seriously influenced by the things they see their idols do. Whether we intend to or not, artists influence people of ALL ages and unfortunately what people see, people do. Hair, clothes and sometimes misinterpreting things, therefore using the excuse of art to engage in self-destructive behaviors. I’ve been through a shit ton.. More than any of you know, and I sympathize for everyone’s struggle. But people emulate what they see celebrities do or let happen. And that’s why I had to say something.. to let the people who don’t understand the art in it, that bulimia isn’t cool, and it won’t get you on stage with your favorite artist. I can’t NOT say anything because I stand up for what I believe in and speak out about mental illnesses. You’re right, nobody asked my opinion but pop culture is a huge part in leading our generation, we have to continue to strive to change the world. No hate, no shade, just love.
Millie Brown, the “performance artist” who pukes for a living and spewed a Shamrock Shake on CaCa’s tits, told TMZ that she doesn’t have bulimia and that Demi needs to check her words, because she isn’t glamorizing anything. Pukecasso put it like this:
There’s a clear difference between using my body to create something beautiful, to express myself and feel powerful, rather than using it to punish myself and conform to society’s standards.
One time my cousin made this disgusting concoction of Berry Blue Kool-Aid, Captain Morgan and some kind of Schnapps. It tasted like the Kool-Aid’s man’s post-asparagus piss. But since it had booze in it, I drink a lot of it. I ended up puking up this dark blue barf into the toilet and strangely enought I didn’t look at it and say, “I created something beautiful. ART!”
Meanwhile as Miley Cyrus sits on the sidelines watching Lady CaCa get tons of attention for becoming a human barf bag, she’s thinking about what she can do to get the spotlights back on her. She’s totally going to bone a horse onstage. I hear those Trace Cyrus incest jokes you’re making in your head and yes I’m laughing.
I made the mistake of watching some of the live-feed of Lady CaCa’s performance at SXSW last night and I closed my laptop after about 15 minutes and watched House Hunters International instead, because if I wanted to see a dirty crackhead flail around while incoherently spewing shit about art and the death of pop music, I’d take the subway in NYC at 4am. Actually, at any time of the day. Yes, CaCa is stealing from subway crackies now.
During “Swine,” CaCa played the drums while professional barfist Millie Brown, who’s been called the barfing Jackson Pollock, drank soy milk dyed bright green from a plastic bottle. This is Millie’s thing. She’s known for spewing colored vomit on canvases. So while looking like Brooke Candy as one of the Matrix Twins, CaCa leaned back and let Millie puke out Slimer’s piss all over her. CaCa has said before that she was bulimic as a teenager, so getting barfed on for the sake of shocking hos was a really good idea. (“Choke on your own rotting shit, you diseased old cow, she’s obviously using art to work through the issues and demons that have haunted her!” – every Little Monster to me)
Because CaCa and Millie weren’t done grossing everyone out, they took their raver exorcism act to a mechanical bull and kept the puke antics coming. ART!
Well, it could’ve been worse. CaCa could’ve sang “Do What U Want” while her best friend Uncle Terry jacked off on her face and her former collaborator R. Kelly pissed on her stomach. But I guess that would’ve been reductive.
And Doritos, who sponsored CaCa’s set, should really ask for their money back. That barf should’ve been burnt orange instead of bright green. Totally off brand.
Yes, more Terry Richardson. Go start running a hot bath now; you’ll want to scrub off the 8-layers of icky that will have accumulated by the time you’re done reading this.
After being accused of some super-shady ‘not-right-would-be-an-understatement‘ shit earlier in the week by former model Charlotte Walters, Uncle Terry – the creature that monsters check under the bed for before they turn off the lights – has finally come forward to defend himself against the allegations. The Huffington Post has published the open letter written by Scary Terry himself (although he probably had help transcribing it from the notes he made on a model’s back in semen) where he tries to clear his name and claim that everything he did was in the name of ART and he had the consent of all parties involved:
“Sexual imagery has always been a part of my photography. Ten years ago, in 2004, I presented some of this work at a gallery show in New York City, accompanied by a book of the photos. The show was very popular and highly praised. The images depicted sexual situations and explored the beauty, rawness, and humor that sexuality entails. I collaborated with consenting adult women who were fully aware of the nature of the work, and as is typical with any project, everyone signed releases. I have never used an offer of work or a threat of rebuke to coerce someone into something that they did not want to do. I give everyone that I work with enough respect to view them as having ownership of their free will and making their decisions accordingly, and as such, it has been difficult to see myself as a target of revisionist history.”
Ugh, so much denial-dipped smug. And that’s just a fraction of it! The whole letter is long as hell, so I’ll give you the TL:DR version:
Boo hoo hoo, I don’t like that everybody’s talking all this stuff about me. Why don’t they just let me live? I don’t need permission, make my own decisions, that’s my prerogative.
Basically Terry Richardson put the Waaahmbulance on speed dial because he’s sick of women coming forward with their True Tales of Casting Couch Terror that paint him as a manipulative creep who preys on naive young girls. Yes Terry, how dare they! How dare they confirm what anyone with eyes has already guessed by looking at a picture of Terry Richardson.
And if after reading his letter, a fuse blew in your brain and you thought “Yeah, maybe Terry deserves the benefit of the doubt” allow me to remind you of this picture; all that’s missing is Roman Polanski, and you’d have the vacation brochure for Molester’s Cove, Satan’s favorite all-inclusive resort in Hell.
Earlier this week, the story of a 19-year-old model’s face-to-jizz encounter with the human version of a white windowless van Terry Richardson went viral and it was one of the many horror stories from women who had to scrub their skin with a Chore Boy after shooting with Lady CaCa’s homeboy. She initially wrote it anonymously on Reddit, but after it went viral she came forward and told her entire story to Vocativ. It’s long, so it’s all after the cut.
If two 8th graders who suffered severe brain and nerve damage from huffing freon out of their parents’ air conditioning units spent 10 minutes choreographing a dance to a John Legend song in a darkly lit garage for the junior high school talent show, they would still place higher than Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez. The thug princess who rules every deposition queefed out (and then deleted) two Instagram videos tonight which will make you cringe yourself inside/out. Justin’s garbage bag gauchos should be illegal in every state, but these videos of their “dancing” looks like scenes straight out of a low-budget, thrown together remake of Save The Last Dance for Disney Jr.
It’s like watching a chihuahua drag around his favorite stuffed chipmunk toy to hump on and I’m glad Justin Bieber didn’t get lipstick from that shit. And if this was a game where we had to guess what their beautiful and delicate interpretive dance is about, I’d guess it’s either about “the exact moment when gonorrhœa infects a vagina” or it’s about a butt plug that keeps slipping out of a baggy b-hole. It’s probably the latter. They’re romantic and artistic like that.