The second Rose McGowan sashayed down the red carpet at the MTV VMA’s in 1998 in a goth dental floss dress and a pair of stripper heels, she was instantly declared a national treasure by the U.S. government, the National Trust for Historic Preservation declared her tits and ass a heritage site, and the Smithsonian commissioned a portrait to hang in the National Portrait Gallery. Sadly, it appears that some high schools have elected to stop teaching the Exquisite Slutty Goddesses chapter in their American History textbooks, because a bunch of treasonous beauty haters came for Rose McGowan on Instagram yesterday.
UsWeekly says that shortly after Rose posted this picture of herself in Afghanistan, not one person asked what the hell she was posing behind (like, is it a drive-thru menu? I’m so confused) because they were too busy shading a bitch for looking like Michael Jackson and telling her to lay off the plastic surgery. Unlike some plastic-faced hookers (*cough* Kim Kardashian *cough*), Rose’s face is the result of a car crash in 2007 that left her face all sorts of mangled and requiring numerous corrective surgeries. And sure, while she’s at Dr. Rad Plastixxx’s Nip & Tuck, maybe she gets him to throw a couple extra collagen injections here and there. Regardless, Rose wasn’t having any of it, and she whooped a trick, Courtney Shayne-style, by responding:
“@katrinabunny coming from, ummm, you. Has anyone stopped to think that Michael Jackson used to be black, and tried to turn himself into a white, possibly Irish person with a cleft chin and a tiny nose? I was born Irish. So fuck off losers.”
Then she threw up a side-by-side picture of Jackson 5-era Michael and baby-dangling Michael with the caption: “Exactly. You dumb fucks. Eat it.” Cut to Michael Jackson in Heaven asking Liz Taylor: “Do you remember me saying anything about wanting to be Irish?”
Here’s Rose leaving an office in NY last week. I don’t really see much Wacko Jacko in Rose McGowan, but I do see a bit of La Toya Jackson, and that’s a high fucking compliment. I’d love to look like La Toya. We all would. Hell, even La Toya has been trying to look like La Toya for the past 30 years.
When Cameron Diaz admitted on Watch What Happens Live back in April that she once took the L train to taco town, everybody immediately shifted their eyes over to Drew Barrymore as if to ask “Well, how was it?”, followed by ”No, seriously, how was it.” However, Cameron has told Harper’s Bazaar (via UsWeekly) that people need to stop picturing her joker mouth going to town on Drew’s lispy pussy, because she would NEVAH do such a thing. Drew is like a sister, but not that kind of sister, you sickos!
“People will always speculate. People like scandal. They like to put a label on something that they don’t understand. It makes them feel comfortable. Mostly they like to guess who it could be. Some media outlet called for a comment and they wanted to know whether I was with Drew. Literally, I said, ‘That makes me want to vomit in my mouth.’ That’s like saying I’m having sex with my sister. Are you crazy? I wouldn’t even ménage with her!”
Even though “I wouldn’t even ménage with her” is the most perfect insult to ever come from the mouth of a slut, it makes no goddamn sense. Of course you wouldn’t have a threesome with someone you weren’t comfortable going down on. DUH! You can’t just sit there scrolling through Pinterest on your phone and hoping that someone will offer to go down on you. Come on Cammy, I thought you had your PhD in Slutology; you should be teaching me, not the other way around.
So now we’re back at square one and we have no idea who Cameron Diaz got her gayelle on with. Eh, let’s just say it was the mask from The Mask (all masks are female, right?).
And here’s Cameron doing her best impression of a rich horny Miami cougar (not hard) in Harper’s Bazaar:
It sounds like humping on useless dicks runs in the family. In her second memoir Candy at Last (couldn’t she have thought of something punnier, like Candy-tails of My Life? Ugh, LAZY) Beverly Hills most glamorous hutt Candy Spelling admits that shortly after her husband Aaron Spelling died in 2006, she began seeing a man named Larry. Unfortunately, the NY Daily News says she had to stop seeing Larry because Larry had a “penile implant” (just writing that gave me the heaves) and refused to power down his android dick. WARNING: I advise you to grab a trash can or a barf bag before reading the next part:
“My bionic man could go on for five or six hours, and there is no woman, middle-aged or otherwise, who wants to have sex for that long. It was like running a marathon.”
She broke up with Mr. “Pump and Dump,” as her girlfriends had cheekily nicknamed him, because he was “getting too attached,” and she just couldn’t stand “those six-hour romps anymore.”
I hear what Candy is saying; no matter how good the dick is, a lack of sleep can fuck with your brain. One time I went two days without so much as a nap and I ended up buying a pair of Crocs, and I wasn’t even getting my judgement pounded out of me through my snatch either. So I can only imagine what kind of next-level questionable shit an exhausted Candy did after breaking up with Larry and his 6 hour dick. She strikes me as the type who would leave unsettling boozy voicemails at 3am.“What the crap, Candy? Stop calling! I’ve got enough Extra Crispy at home, I don’t need any Original Recipe. Besides, I’m more of an In-N-Out guy. YES! Fuckin’ nailed it, Deaner! But seriously, stop calling. Keep it sleazy Mama S.” – The Deaner.
Take comforting in knowing that if you read the words “on the bathroom floor” and immediately started singing Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me“, you’re not alone. Thandie Newton, star of the most important films of the 21st Century, Norbit (RASPUTIA FOREVER) and also other less significant movies like Crash and Interview with the Vampire, revealed on the Today show Thursday that she gave birth to her son Booker on the bathroom floor of her home. And no, it was nothing like the teen pregnancy horror stories your 9th grade sex-ed teacher would tell you as a way to frighten you into using condoms. She says she birthed all three of her children at home in her bathroom because the idea of pushing out her baby in a hospital surrounded by bedpans and lime jello gave her a case of the NOPES.
“I had just associated hospital with being ill, and I felt beautiful and healthy and wonderful when I was pregnant, and being at home is the place I felt most relaxed and comfortable. So for me, it feels normal, but there was a time when everybody had their babies at home and it wasn’t such a big deal.”
Essentially, what she’s saying is that her bathroom floor is clean enough to birth a baby on. Now cut to my bathroom, where at any given moment a tumbleweed of random hairs held together with dust and tampon wrappers and hairpins is bound to roll over your foot. Forget a human baby, my bathroom floor would be considered unfit for a pregnant rat. And just by saying that, I’m sure I’ve jinxed myself and there’s a large, greasy rat momma pushing out a litter of slimy pink babies on a pile of hair behind my toilet as we speak.
I am so SO sorry – I didn’t want that mental image either, but I figured if I was going to spend the next 24-hours dry heaving like Lloyd Christmas, I was taking all of you there with me. I know, I’m an awful, terrible bitch. Please send all hate mail to whatever toilet I’ll be hunched over till I’m able to get my hands on some industrial-stength brain bleach. But back to imagining Tori Spelling and The Deaner with a giant glass bowl filled with minivan keys. According to an exclusive story from Life & Style, (in association with the makers of Gravol, go on) an insider says that several years ago they attended a pool party thrown at Casa del Dirtbag, and things got very gross, very quickly:
According to the source, the couple were knocking back drinks and, after calling Tori the love of his life, Dean proceeded to offer her services to his friend!
“He said, ‘Try her!’ and proceeded to push Tori onto his friend’s lap,” the insider reveals to Life & Style.
Not that Tori resisted. Instead, according to the insider, she eagerly tried to kiss Dean’s friend — who was so mortified, he fled the party!
Mortified? I think you meant horrified. Tori Spelling looks like Janice the Muppet on a good day, so imagine what she’d look like after slithering out of a chlorinated pool? It would be like getting a kiss from Old Gregg. And I think the insider is forgetting a few details, because I also spoke to an “insider” from the same party, and they said this is how The Deaner offered up Tori to his friend:
“Hey man, what’s crappening? You like my sick pool party? I made those tiki torches myself by stuffing gasoline-soaked diapers into a couple empty beer cans I found in the shower. I’m all about DIY: “Dick In Ya”. For serious though, The Deaner’s tryna lose the old ball and chain so he can get his dick wet behind the tool shed. You mind taking her off my hands? Thanks bro.”
And in case that wasn’t enough to turn your stomach, here are some pictures of Pale Man from Pan’s Labyrinth running errands on Wednesday.
Paranormal Activity 2 Paranoid Activity 2 (aka Worse Than Scary Movie 5) actress/beauty pageant contestant/counterfeit swap meet version of Catherine Zeta Jones Natasha Blasick has claimed in an interview with UK’s This Morning that a ghost has had sex with her, not once, but twice. With help from “top Hollywood psychic” (a title we should all aspire to have) Patti Negri, Natasha explains what it was like the first time she experienced spectral rape. Yes, she said ghost rape. And no, I CAN’T:
“I felt something entered the room. I couldn’t see anybody. Suddenly I could feel that somebody touching me. Their hands were pushing me against my will and then I could feel the weight of their body on top of me but I couldn’t see anybody. At first I was very confused then I decided to relax and it was really pleasurable, I really enjoyed it.”
Natasha also says that both times she’s had sex with a ghost it’s been when her husband was out-of-town. Of course.
So let me get this straight: Natasha Blasick, a woman none of us have ever heard of before today (unless you’re a promoter for low-budged Catherine Zeta Jones conventions) claims that when her husband leaves her alone, a horny Slimer sneaks into her room with a ghost boner, immobilizes her so she can’t leave, busts an ectoplasm nut, then leaves? Bitch, if that really happened (it definitely did not, but continue) why aren’t you calling Ghostbusters and pressing charges against that degenerate ghoul?!? Oh right, because you can’t film more crappy direct-to-DVD movies when you’re confined to a padded room at the nuthouse.
And expect The Deaner to use the ghost excuse the next time Tori Spelling catches him cheating: “I went to that run-down Hooters – you know, the one that looks like it might be haunted? And I got a blow job from what could possibly a ghost, but she meant nothing to me, I swear!”
While the rest of us in coach are busy barfing up our complimentary bag of 7 stale almonds or fighting with the headrest TV to pick up any channel besides the one that shows a map with a picture of our plane flying over it, the horny rich fucks of first class are getting their rocks off under cashmere blankets. They don’t even have to leave their seats and try to sneak into the bathrooms like the rest of us! AND they get free champagne? First class really is a better way to fly.
When asked about the craziest place she’s ever had sex, sexy chipmunk swimsuit model Chrissy Teigen told Sorority News (aka Cosmo) that her and husband John Legend made things awkward for everyone trying to enjoy their free foot rubs (or whatever shit they get in first class) by getting gross in their seats:
“We were on our way to Thailand to see my parents, flying commercial first-class. We were under a blanket. We weren’t even in one of those pod things. I feel like we should get a trophy for that.”
I don’t think they give out trophies for smearing your nasty crotch liquids all over the seats of first class while your fellow passengers whisper to each other “They’re definitely fucking under that blanket, right?” But if they did, I’m sure it would be presented by the stewardess who had to touch that jizz-covered blanket when you landed in Thailand.
Chrissy also went on to tell Cosmo that she’s lucky to have met her partner in mid-flight fucking, because he’s pretty much the reason she has a career. Maybe that would explain why Chrissy got 3 Cosmo covers? Who knew John Legend had so much pull at Cosmo. Here’s all 3 covers featuring Chrissy in a variety of shorts (“Try out this sexy new trick on your man’s taint. Hint: it involve shorts!”) as well as Chrissy in a bathtub showing us what the seats looked like in first class after her and John were done with them.
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.
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.
Joe Simpson may be the reigning king of skeeve and sleaze when it comes to acknowledging his daughter’s tits, but Bruce Jenner joined the Not As Wrong But Still Not Right club when he defended Kendall’s nip shot she posted on Instagram. TMZ says a source close to Bruce (Kylie hiding under the stairs using a voice changer app) said he considers her to be a fashion model and that’s just what models do and that he’s proud of her regardless of what she does.
Someone needs to come get Bruce from the laser resurfacing clinic where he’s three sessions away from completing his “useless socialite of a certain age” transformation and knock the glass of Metamucil out of his hand that Kris has clearly spiked with the her special blend of delusion and foolery. “Be proud of your kids no matter what they do” is the motto in the Jenner household and that covers artsy-fartsy tit shots, sniffing your sister’s snail trail juice (the bold warning on the video in that link is exactly what scrolled through my brain just thinking about it) and getting in Twitter pissing matches about the consequences that comes with raw riding Rita Ora. There are even tasteful vinyl decals over the toilets in all the Jenner/Kardashian bathrooms to pay homage to Kim, the family’s raison d’être.
Even though Bruce didn’t comment directly on his daughter’s boob situation, I’m still getting the willies from the Diet version of Papa Joe. Less direct commentary, same full body shudder. Who wants millions of people to look at their kid like that?
If tits and a scowl are what makes someone a model, look for the picture of me throwing shade at the lady who turned the corner into the curtain aisle at Target and caught me trying to fish a stray hair out of my bra on the next cover of Vogue.