If you thought that Duchess Meghan and Prince Hot Ginge naming their son Archie and not giving him a title was cruel and usual punishment, then stop it, he’s a royal, will never have to worry about a negative bank account balance, and can ask his cousin, Future King George, to send any bitches to the guillotine for making fun of him. Besides, you should really direct your sympathy to Amy Schumer’s son, because no amount of Rectiv ointment is going to heal him of the pain he’ll suffer through when he realizes what his alleged name is. That’s if his mom isn’t fucking with us.
A grown ass man is suing his parents for throwing out his porn collection and I have questions. WE ALL HAVE QUESTIONS, like did the parents wear rubber gloves and a mask while touching their son’s porn, and where did they learn how to crack open a safe since he had to have kept that treasure locked all the way up. And I’m judging him if he didn’t.
It is a dark day, because we soon may be without a daily dose of Vanilla Ice stealing shit from nearby homes while shooting The Vanilla Ice Project, and the tip-moistening sight of Mr. Clean’s tattooed handy Canadian brother Mike Holmes in overalls (thank GOD he’s also on HGTV). Because Discovery has announced that in the summer of 2020, the DIY Network will be beaten to death with hammers and thrown into a shallow grave before Chip and Joanna Gaines piss on it while cackling about their impending world domination.
It seems like nowadays whenever Hollywood is looking to cast someone in a big budget or big budget-ish movie, they don’t look for someone who fits the role. They don’t even look for someone who fits the role if you grease them up with Crisco, four kinds of lube, and a prayer before grabbing an industrial-strength shoehorn to shove them into that role. They just look for a ton of Instagram followers, and since Noah Centineo has over 16 million Instagram followers, he’s “in talks” to play He-Man in the reboot of Masters of the Universe. I wonder if during those “talks” a voice of reason popped up to say, “Err, so we’re talking to Noah Centino about playing He-Man? Not He-Child, right? Like this isn’t a Muppet Babies version of He-Man? Also, what drugs are you all on and why aren’t you sharing them with me?”
Late last year, news about yet another Beverly Hills, 90210 reboot/revival/whatever was burped up when Jennie Garth, Tori Spelling, Ian Ziering, Jason Priestley, and Brian Austin Green were papped getting coffee in between laughably pitching to networks. I say “laughably,” because I can only imagine how raw the vocal cords of network executives got as they laughed uncontrollably while Jennie and company seriously pitched a 90210 reboot without The Forever Queen of 90210 that is Brenda Walsh. 90210 without Brenda Walsh is like broccoli without mayonnaise. It’s boring, bland, and nobody wants it. And like broccoli with mayonnaise, if you don’t like Brenda Walsh, you obviously have no taste and don’t know what you’re talking about!
But I guess FOX needed a tax write-off, because they bought the 90210 reboot that will be 100% Brenda-less.
Last week, we all threw several black lace mourning veils over our faces to mourn the death of every member of The Supremes, Gladys Knight, Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, and literally every singer not named Jennifer Lopez, because that was the only explanation for why the Grammy people chose JLo to headline their tribute to Motown. I thought that maybe after the Grammys were hit with a million and one side-eyes for that decision, they’d make the right decision by replacing her with a hastily-made Marvin Gaye hologram or even Rancho Cucamonga’s third most popular The Temptations tribute group performing to a track blasting out of an iPhone 5. Even Diana Ross’ grandson and fucking Jaden Smith did a better tribute to Motown and it wasn’t even a tribute to Motown.
But the Grammys went through with it and JLo delivered the kind of Motown “tribute” you’d see at 2:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday at a 2-star casino motel outside of Laughlin, NV. They should’ve went all the way with that vibe by putting a stale potato bar on the stage, along with a chain-smoking gambling addict who’d yell at JLo, doing double duty as his cocktail waitress, to get his G&T already.