Jenni “JWoww” Farley, who may or may not be slowly morphing into the Snickers lady’s long-lost daughter, made an appearance on HuffPost Live to promote the horror comedy film she produced called Jersey Shore Massacre (aka JWoww’s New Face). Since JWoww only gave birth to her daughter a little over a month ago, the conversation turned to the massacre that happened when she pushed an 8lb baby out of her Botoxed to the shore and back vagina. The ghost of Rocky Dennis (copyright: The Superficial) said that while everything is back to normal down there, she’s not exactly open for business:
“I’m not going to have sex for another year or two” she told host Caitlyn Becker. Meilani, her daughter, was born five weeks ago, but the reality star’s remained celibate “because doctors advise waiting until the six-week mark.”
Although she and Roger haven’t cozied up to one another since the beginning of her pregnancy, JWoww admitted she’s not looking forward to resuming sexual activity.
“It’s like virgin status,” she affirmed. “[Roger's] like, ‘Come on!’ and I’m like ‘No — I was stitched. You have to wait!’”
The only thing more unsettling than JWoww’s eye holes (for real, WHAT is going ON with her eye hole situation?!?!?) is hearing JWoww casually say the words “I was stitched” at the 20:00 mark. I just cringed, clamped, clenched, shuddered, all of it. And forget about my vagina; it heard the words “I was stitched”, immediately fell into an unresponsive catatonic state. It’s currently curled into the fetal position on the floor. RIP pussy, it was nice knowing you.
Here’s more of JWoww serving up some entry-level Lil’ Kim realness/melting dollar store cat candle eleganza in New York yesterday.
And now in “It’s not wrong, but it’s not right” news, Fergie – a name I’ll always associate with eyebrow piercings, Von Dutch trucker hats, and those ruffled striped mini skirts – admitted to Chelsea Handler on Chelsea Lately Thursday night that her 11-month son Axl Duhamel is really into French kissing right now, but he’s not practicing his skills on a Playskool Glow Worm like all his other baby friends. Fergie says he’s Frenching on her, and she loves it:
“My son likes to French kiss me a lot. It’s so delicious! He goes in for the kill, but I’ll have to cut that off at a certain age, or else it’ll be weird, a little bit Oediupus.”
Cut to Stephanie Seymour throwing a “Speak for yourself, bitch” side-eye.
Obviously Axl doesn’t know what he’s doing is borderline not-right, because he’s a baby, and babies love to stick their tongues in everything, but I’d be worried about him swallowing excessive amounts of lipstick. Fergie has a face that was built for a trowel and a two-ton tub of spackle, and her mouth is always coated in a thick layer of lead-based paint. No doubt Baby Axl tongues his mama’s alkyd-coated mouth and gets that same dizzy googly-eyed feeling you get when you accidentally sniff too much nail polish, and spends the rest of nap time chasing the Dragon Tales dragons.
But maybe Axl isn’t trying to French kiss her at all; maybe he’s actually searching for leftover tidbits of meth! Axl, no! It’s not worth it! You’re too cute to show up on one of those “Baby Faces of Meth” mug shot collections!
O.J. Simpson Is Obsessed With Kim Kardashian, Says He’s Going To Marry Her When He Gets Out Of Prison
“Terrific! Are you interested in the 3 month or 6 month marriage option? I’ll have Satan fax you over a Kardashian Kontract as soon as possible!” – Pimp Mama Kris.
According to Radar, O.J. Simpson (who sort of looks like Jabba the Hutt being choked by Leia in this picture, right?) has all the other dudes in prison writing letters to Kim Kardashian that start with the words: “Hooker, you in danger girl”, because he’s been saying some next-level creepy shit about his former defense attorney’s daughter. A prison insider (SNITCH!) claims that O.J. has wallpapered his cell with pictures from Kim’s 2007 Playboy spread, reads every magazine article about her that he can get his hands on, and demands silence every time Kim’s airbrushed Droopy Dog face appears on the television. But wait! It gets creepier!
“O.J. said he always thought she was a cute girl when she was younger,” the source said, “but it has only been since he’s been in prison his infatuation with her has grown to a full-blown obsession.”
Ew ew ew ew. Now is a good time to remind you that O.J. and his then-wife Nicole Brown-Simpson used to go on vacation with the Kardashian family all the time in the 80s and 90s, which means O.J. Simpson WAS that pervert friend of their dad (“Hey Kim, I bet you $20 you can’t touch your elbows behind your back!”). The source also goes on to say that O.J. thinks he’s got a chance with Kim, because bitch has a type:
Simpson joked to a pal, “She likes black ball players, I am a Hall of Famer — and I still have my Heisman award,” a dig at Kardashian’s former boyfriend Reggie Bush, who gave back his college football Heisman trophy after it came to light of some unethical dealings he was involved during his college playing days.
And according to the source, it doesn’t matter that Kim is kurrently married to Kanye West; O.J. is eligible for parole in 2017 and he’s already fixin’ on becoming Husband #7 if he’s let out (I think it’s safe to assume that Kim will have been married another 4 times between now and 2017).
“As long as I am in prison, I can’t be with her, so Kanye can have her for now. But when I get out she’s mine.”
Damn, even Marky Mark in Fear is like “Take it easy Juice, you’re coming off a little crazy.” But the thing that’s making me crawl into the fetal position is that Pimp Mama Kris is probably back at Kastle Kardashian weighing out the pros and cons as we speak. “Pro: Publicity. Con: It’s O.J. Simpson. Pro: Attention. Con: Still O.J. Simpson. Hmmm…this is a tough one.”
And here’s the rotten road apple of O.J. Simpson’s eye in the Hamptons having lunch with Khloe Kardashian (who almost flashed us her Wookiee pouch) and the come-to-life Salacious B. Crumb Jonathan Cheban.
Back in April, it was rumoured that pre-pubescent rat boy Justin Bieber had shot a bunch of Calvin Klein ads with Pimp Mama Kris’s backup-Kim Kendull Jenner, but nobody really paid it much thought, since those two attention-desperate teens are always taking pictures in their underwear. But it looks like the rumours were true. The Daily Mail says that Calvin Klein has gone ahead and spit on the legacy of Marky Mark and his funky bulge by hiring Jack Gleeson’s non-union Canadian equivalent to be the baby face of an upcoming campaign.
A Calvin Klein source (whatever the hell that is) told The Daily Mail that Justin Bieber has shot for Calvin Klein and that they “hope the results will be released later this year” and that Baby Bieber’s campaign will be used to launch CK’s new line of upscale potty training pants (needs verification).
Calvin Klein has a rich history of hiring jailbait-looking models for their underwear ads, so it makes sense that they’d hire eternal toddler Justin Bieber to pose in his pull-ups. But it does feel a little weird having Justin model underwear when I’m not entirely sure his balls have dropped yet. Or maybe they really ARE launching a line of CK Juniors? Regardless, Chris Hansen should probably keep his schedule free for “later this year”.
And maybe this explains why Justin Bieber was recently cruising around Disneyland in a wheelchair. I’m guessing he showed up for his modelling gig and went straight for the big boy boxers, only to discover that the pair of XXS men’s undies were still too big for his little baby body. But because he’s a stubborn toddler, he put them on and demanded they start the shoot. Unfortunately, they almost instantly fell down past his knees, causing him to trip and fall and twist his ankle. Calvin Klein didn’t want to get sued, so they shut the little brat up by sending him on an all-expenses paid trip to Disneyland. Mystery solved!
Here’s more of Mahky Mahk Jr. in Beverly Hills earlier today. Oh my god, he can walk again! It’s a miracle!
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!”