Category: I Don’t Like Jokes

Prince Hot Ginge And Toyota Cressida’s Engagement Announcement Isn’t Far Off

April 4, 2014 / Posted by:

Pieces of ovaries are scattered all over the streets of London today, because Prince Hot Ginge played with a bunch of school children at the newly renovated Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. Chirrun screaming and screeching while playing in a park is a nightmare come to life to me, but throw in a giggling PHG in a suit and suddenly it’s a wonderful dream that made ovaries I didn’t know I had explode. In 80 years when all of those children are on their death beds, they will reflect on their lives and say that the best moment was when they made PHG do an ugly giggle while pushing him on a swing in the park. PHG gave them that, but I hope he also shared his wisdom with them by teaching them how to snort vodka like a pro.

In other PHG news, The Daily Mail says that the Earth may soon have tiny royal gingerlings running around it, because he’s really close to proposing to his piece Cressida Bonas and he can’t wait to get married and have kids. A source close to Cressida’s family (read: her fucking scrunchie) said that the family has been having meetings to talk about the engagement:

“There is a family gathering to discuss an engagement. The announcement will be sooner than many people think. Harry and Cressida will be married. It is all going ahead. It is just a matter of time. Cressie is going to marry Harry. Harry never stops talking about marriage and children, and she’s now got used to the idea. The wedding is likely to take place next year.”

This feels like that Kate Middleton shit all over again. Kate Middleton’s family kept leaking stories to the tabloids about how Prince William was going to put a ring on it at any minute. That mess dragged on forever. I hope PHG doesn’t drag this mess out and either dumps Toyota Cressida for my drunk naranja angel Chelsy Davy or marries her ass.

We’ll be hit with engagement rumor after engagement rumor until PHG puts a ring on Cressida’s finger because he’s sick of THE QUEEN popping her head into his room while they’re boning to make sure the rubber is on tight. THE QUEEN doesn’t want little bastards ruining the pristine royal image of her family. Too late, QUEEN, because I’m sure a lot of us are already pregnant with a litter of royal gingers after looking at these pictures.  I did feel a kick, but that could be from the raw hot dogs I ate for lunch.

Pics: Wenn.com, Splash

Higella Lawson Banned From Coming To The US For Admitting She Snorted Coke

April 3, 2014 / Posted by:

America is finally, finally tackling the real problem that effects this nation of upstanding morals! We must do whatever we can to keep out the rich British women who have admitted to snorting that Lohan powder. They are a threat and if we let them in, they’ll do of all of our coke and then what will our politicians snort to get them through all those meetings?

The Daily Mail says that on Sunday morning, Nigella Lawson tried to get onto a British Airways flight from Heathrow in London to LAX in Los Angeles. Nigella was supposedly coming to L.A. for vacation. Nigella checked in and went through security, but when she got to the gate, she was told to turn her ass around and go home. I’m sure her shit bag of an ex-husband Charles Saatchi (who probably had something to do with this mess) cackled into the sky when that happened. The Daily Mail says that they don’t know the exact reason for why Nigella was blocked from coming to the US, but they think it has everything to do with her admitting in court that she did the bad shit a few times and smoked weed. Amy Winehouse was blocked from entering the US for getting arrested for drugs.

Nigella registered online to get into the US and she answered NO to the questions, “Have you ever been convicted of offenses including taking illegal drugs.” Nigella was never charged by Scotland yard for admitting she did coke. But the US can still ban a bitch for admitting to doing drugs. Nigella is going to fight the ban, because if she can’t come to the US, she’ll lose her job on The Taste which shoots in L.A. Nigella’s spokeswhore refused to say anything about this and a rep for Homeland Security wouldn’t confirm that she’s banned, but the rep did say that foreigners that are labeled as “inadmissible” can apply for a waiver:

In general, an alien found inadmissible will need a waiver of inadmissibility. Depending on the basis of their refusal they may be eligible to apply in advance of travel for a temporary waiver of inadmissibility. The waiver application process can be lengthy.

While Nigella was told she couldn’t come to the US, because she’s a coke-snorting terrorist threat, the Canadian Crisco ball of crack that is Rob Ford twirled onto a flight to the US on a cloud of crack smoke and pussy fumes. I mean, I get that we as a country need to protect our drugs, because we only have so many of them and we need them to get through life, but banning Nigella Lawson after we let Rob Ford in? The official who came up with those priorities was smoking the wrong shit, which was probably provided by Rob Ford. Homeland Security needs to stop wasting their time keeping non-threats like Nigella Lawson out of the US and start using their time wisely by keeping out the real threat to the US: The Lesbeaver. Fight the real enemy!

The NYDN Calls National Treasure Rojo Caliente “Wife Of Sex And The City Star Cynthia Nixon”

March 25, 2014 / Posted by:

The NYDN really needs to check their lipstick before they start reporting highly important news. Referring to Rojo Caliente as “wife of Cynthia Nixon” is not the way you refer to the flaming torch of the five boroughs that spreads light all over NYC. Every news journal should refer to Rojo as “The sparkling ginger unicorn of NYC in a Men’s Wearhouse suit that fills the heart veins of millions with liquid rainbows.” If that title is too long, they need to get bigger paper! You don’t call Rojo “the wife of so and so.” They’re treating our American pot of gold like she’s Jessica Biel or some shit. Illegal, disrespectful and every kind of wrong!

Irresponsible journalism aside, the NYDN reports that Rojo is now part of Mayor de Blasio’s administration and she’ll bring in $120,000 a year as a special adviser for community partnerships in the Department of Education. Rojo’s duties will include a bunch of special adviser shit, but mostly she’ll serve the community by being Rojo and every other day she’ll stand in the park and let the people take in the sunshiney rays that shoot off of her hair.

Rojo and Cynthia Nixon have been on Team de Blasio for almost 10 years and Rojo was a full-time volunteer on his campaign.

Somebody, who obviously hates me, told me that I should get more exercise, so I’ve been trying to run around the block a few times a week. I hate it, my body hates it. Every part of me hurts afterward and it feels like I just got a 100-man train ran on me. (Side note: Remind me to look up if getting a 100-man train ran on me burns more calories than running around the block. I might have to change my exercise plan.) After my run around the block, I “cool down” by lying on the grass and then I wait for death. But now I have a very good reason to pull myself off the grass and keep on living. Because Rojo is special adviser today, which means she’ll probably be Mayor of New York City in 2017, which means she’ll most likely be President in 2024!

And here’s our future leader and first lady at some political event thing two nights ago:

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ROJO 2024!

(Thanks to everyone who sent this in!)

Vogue Calls Pimp Mama Kris “Agelessly Glamorous” And “Apricot-Skinned”

March 24, 2014 / Posted by:

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.

knightmaresandnorthwestvogue

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

Toddler Without A Clue

March 23, 2014 / Posted by:

Because Justin Bieber is always finding ways to remind humanity that he’s forever stuck inside a thick fart bubble of sheer delusion, he threw up a picture on Instagram of him paying homage to James Dean. The Biebs thinks it’s an homage, but that 7.8 earthquake over James Dean’s grave site tells me that James Dean probably thinks otherwise. James Dean died decades before most Beliebers were just a stubborn little jizz fish squeezing themselves through the torn slit in the broken condom over their dad’s dick, so they probably have no idea who James Dean is. They’re wondering why their toddler God is dressed up like the man who makes the pancake wieners their mom lets them eat for special on Sundays.

James Dean perfected the scowl and the Biebs still look like someone asked him what 1 + 1 is just as he sat on a dry jumbo-sized butt plug while suffering from a severe case of the wet shits. (Side question: Is this douche’s toddler bodybuilder body growing or his head shrinking?) This is the new definition of NO and just because bitch has won one Big Wheels drag race on the school playground, doesn’t mean he should start dressing up like James Dean. On a positive note, candy cigarettes look so real nowadays.

The Biebs squirted out this little note about doing himself up in Dean drag:

This is James Dean inspired. Don’t ask me if I smoke ciggys cuz I don’t

Only the baddest bitch on the Montessori pre-school playground calls them “ciggys.”

The Biebs tried it, but when a pug without a cause does a better and badder James Dean impersonation than you, it’s time to stop trying it.

pugwithoutacause

In other Bieber non-news, the NYDN says that on a trip from Panama to Canada on January 28th, he and Bang Bang Tattoos tried to set a Guinness World Record when he got two tattoos while 40,000 feet above. The NYDN has the pictures of his new douche-ified tattoos. The Biebs got the word “forgive” tattooed under his bellybutton and a giant Ed Hardy-like tacky cross tattooed on his chest. I’m trying to figure out how is it possible that the tattooed cross on that anti-christ’s chest didn’t immediately turn upside down and start bleeding out blood.

RIP American Vogue

March 21, 2014 / Posted by:

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.

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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.

Anna Wintour Sat In The Second Row At Valentino And Hell Did Not Swallow The Earth Whole

March 5, 2014 / Posted by:

Not pictured: Kunty Karl barking at his human to take as many pictures as possible so he can run back to the Death Eaters’ lair and cackle about this with his kind.

At the Valentino show in Paris yesterday, Anna Wintour, who normally makes a question mark with her face when you say the words, “second row,” or, “larger than a size double zero,” sat behind the first row. I didn’t think that moment would ever happen in real-life. Seeing Anna Wintour sitting in a row other than the first row tells me that anything in life is possible. Maybe I will actually publish a post that doesn’t have at least 2 fucks up in it! Maybe Lindsay Lohan will actually cut the bullshit! Maybe John Travolta will actually say Idina Menzel’s name right and wear a wig that doesn’t look like roadkill! Anything is possible!

But in a shocking twist, Anna wanted to sit in the second row. Christina Binkley of the Wall Street Journal, who Instagrammed that picture, says that Anna took her ass to the second row when the first row got too crowded. BryanBoy (via The Cut) added that Anna let Vogue’s editors sit in the front row and she gladly sat in the second. Anna’s editors took her up on her offer, to which I say, IDIOTS! It’s kind of like if you went to Outback with Jessica Simpson and she ordered 3 bloomin’ onions to start for the table (there’s only two of you at the table, by the way) and after you’ve eaten 2 together, she tells you to go ahead and have the 3rd one by yourself. She doesn’t want any of it. She’s fine! Whatever she says, don’t do it. IT’S A TRAP! She’ll eventually end up eating it right out of your stomach. So yeah, those Vogue editors are totally going to get it.

Since Anna Wintour sitting in the front row is something that will never happen again, I hope the lady sitting directly in front of her took full advantage of the opportunity by dropping a huge fart. Because when Anna Wintour sits behind you, it’s your duty to lift up your ass cheeks and let a good one go.

And here’s Anna Wintour showing up to Chanel’s messy Supermarket Sweep show yesterday. She sat in the first row, so the world can keep spinning again.

Pics: Splash

One Grouchy Anonymous Oscar Voter Calls Meryl Streep’s Performance In August: Osage County “Bottom-Drawer”

February 27, 2014 / Posted by:

Yesterday, The Hollywood Reporter posted their first of five “brutally honest” Oscar ballots from a voter and after reading it, I learned something new: Andy Rooney’s ghost is an Oscar voter! Because the Oscar voter they talked to sounds like a cranky, crusty ole’ grouch who wears two pairs of chonies all the way up to his nipples, only eats peach yogurt and yells at everything both living and inanimate. I think I just described myself in five years.

The Oscar voter (let’s call him Clint Eastwood, because that’s totally his name) is a longtime member of the Academy’s 377-member directors branch and he loved everything American Hustle, especially Jennifer Lawrence, and he wasn’t really impressed with anything else. He didn’t watch any of the shorts. The entire article is here, but below are some of his picks with his explanation. It’s best if you picture him saying all of this while throwing rocks at the neighborhood dog who’s sniffing on his front lawn.

His Best Picture pick: American Hustle

Why American Hustle and why not 12 Years A Slave: ….with 12 Years a Slave, you don’t even crack a smile, but it was interesting, admirable and well done; I must say, though, that contrary to what some have asserted, it’s not as if it required great courage to make that movie — maybe if you made it in Mississippi in 1930. As for American Hustle, its ambition is not overwhelming, but it takes an interesting subject and very interesting characters and delivers 100 percent on what could be done with it in a very engaging, entertaining, interesting and truthful way. I would not put it in the legendary masterpiece category, but it doesn’t fail on any level.

His Best Actor pick: Christian Bale, American Hustle

Why: Ejiofor was good. DiCaprio has been better; this is a popcorn performance. McConaughey was very good; he’s really doing some great stuff now, and I would give it to him for True Detective. Dern is a great guy and a friend and is excellent in the movie, and if I were not as taken by Bale’s performance as I am, I would have voted for him. But Bale had a much juicier role… It’s the role of a lifetime.

His Best Actress pick: Cate Blanchett, Blue Jasmine

Why: Blanchett has to win this. Bullock is the weak link — she’s just OK. For Streep, whom I love, this is a bottom-drawer performance. Dench is a terrific actress, and she’s very good in this film. Adams I love. But you have to vote for who’s truly the best, and to me, Blanchett — whom I’m normally not that wild about, with the exception of Bandits — is that. She was just a revelation; she was just spectacular.

His Best Supporting Actor pick: Bradley Cooper, American Hustle

Why: Everyone was at least very good, but Cooper was the best. I think this is the best he’s been in anything. If he wasn’t in the category, I’d probably end up voting for Jonah Hill, only because I found him so funny. Jared Leto was good and will win, but he’s getting tremendous points because of the person he’s playing more than the way he played it, which is as close to pandering as you can get.

His Best Supporting Actress pick: His boo Jennifer Lawrence, American Hustle

Why: Lawrence and Hawkins are the two obvious best of the five. Hawkins had a difficult part — it’s not an attractive role, and she’s intentionally overshadowed constantly by Blanchett, but she registers strongly in each scene she’s in. Jennifer was even better — she has that extra level of excitement in every scene she’s in. She just dazzles; she’s always doing something original and bold and surprising and believable. June Squibb was fine. Julia Roberts was horrendous. And Lupita was very good, but a lot of the commotion over her is attributable to people’s tremendous empathy with and sympathy for the role she’s playing.

His Best Director pick: David O. Russell for American Hustle

Why: David O. Russell, hands down. Steve McQueen made an admirable movie, but I don’t think it’s remotely as ambitious or good as his previous film, Shame. Wolf is like Casino and GoodFellas — fun, bubble-gum Scorsese. Payne — whatever. And Cuaron was part of a committee of technicians who made that movie, and I have seen things at the planetarium that were at least as impressive.

Pepaw can shade!

I wouldn’t call Meryl Streep’s performance as “bottom-drawer,” but I didn’t think she should’ve been nominated. (May a gold Oscar statue fall on my head.) Meryl didn’t only chew the scenery. She chewed the scenery, swallowed it, digested it, shit it out and rolled around in it. And I have to agree with him about 12 Years A Slave. That’s what surprised me most about it. I thought that a movie about a man getting drugged, kidnapped, torn apart from his family and sold into slavery would’ve had me rolling with laughter in the aisles. It’s weird how we all didn’t smile and laugh during that movie. “Speak for yourself, you little oriental beaner sissy boy!”Paula Deen 

And if most Oscar voters voted the way this dude did, then the emergency room better prepare a bed for me now, because I’ll be in a booze-induced coma halfway through Jennifer Lawrence’s acceptance speech.

Miley Cyrus’ Canned Chicken Ass Killed Robin Thicke’s Marriage

February 27, 2014 / Posted by:

The world really hasn’t been the same since August 25, 2013. That day, our gag reflexes were destroyed, we all developed a phobia for wet, uncooked pounded chicken cutlets and the almost dead, coked-up, STD-ridden body of Robin Thicke and Paula Patton’s marriage began taking its last breaths after Miley Cyrus twerked on its face. When Paula Patton told everyone that she’s stepping away from the half-melted butt suppository in aviators that is Robin Thicke, I waited and waiting for the inevitable “Miley’s flattened Eggo pancake minis ass wrecked that marriage” story and here it is courtesy of TMZ.

After we all watched Miley rub her ass against Robin Thicke the same way a chihuahua with over-filled anal glands scratches its b-hole against a tree, Paula Patton laughed it off and didn’t understand why some people were pulling their eyeballs out of their sockets and dipping ‘em in boiled holy water. Paula said this on WWHL (via EW) at the time:

“I wasn’t surprised at all. Honestly, they rehearsed for three days beforehand. I don’t know how not to dance with someone having their booty in your … all my friends do it like that. And I don’t really know what the big deal is. I don’t know if they thought Miley was gonna sit down and play piano like Alicia Keys?”

But a source tells TMZ that Paula was raging on the inside and she felt like Robin “disrespected” her when he played along with Miley. The source went on to say that Miley improvised the whole messy act and Paula didn’t know she was going to do that and didn’t like that Robin went along with it. That was the beginning of the end, apparently. Paula’s rage grew when she saw that picture of Robin sticking his hand up a trick’s ass and those pictures of Robin putting his greasy dough face near the face of some barely legal-looking girl in Paris. They started fighting more and more and then Paula cut the cord.

So, TMZ’s source really wants us to believe that Miley is a ho shit genius and made that all up on the spot and it wasn’t intricately choreographed down to every twerk and pussy grab? Please. That mess was more choreographed than Kim Kardashian’s entire life. And Robin was a slut long before Miley’s un-breaded Chicken McNuggets butt came along. Paula probably just didn’t like that he wasn’t keeping his whore-iness on the down low anymore.

But really, Paula waited a long time to dump his ass. I would’ve dialed the divorce lawyer as soon as he strolled out of his dressing room looking like a pimp douche version of Beetlejuice. Beetlequeef.

Graydon Carter On Why Vanity Fair’s GOOP “Takedown” Piece Sucks

February 4, 2014 / Posted by:

Last October, Vanity Fair’s editor-in-chief Graydon Carter said that Christmas was coming early when he announced that a VF reporter was writing a GOOP tell-all piece. The whitest and most pretentious war was born when Goopy Paltrow told all of her friends to keep their mouths shut if Vanity Fair called them, and if they were really a friend they’d ban that low-class trash magazine. Graydon got his hos to sniff up the silver-leafed asshole of Goopy Paltrow’s life for juicy dingles like how she might’ve cheated on Chris Martin with some billionaire. BORING! We all popped the popcorn, covered it with extra processed butter oil and waited and waited and waited and waited and waited for something truly escandaloso. After several GOOP-less issues of Vanity Fair came out, it became clear that VF’s supposed takedown piece was going to be as juicy and scandalous as a picture of Charlie Sheen doing a bump of coke off of a porn star’s clit.

In December, it was reported that Goopy and Graydon Carter had a no heart-to-no heart talk and worked out whatever differences they had. The anti-GOOP piece that was supposed to be a throbbing and veiny 9″ burrito dick of juiciness was really going to be a flaccid pencil eraser dick. Vanity Fair published their GOOP piece in the March issue and Graydon writes in his editor’s letter that it’s not the giant slab of meat that everyone was hoping to gnaw on. Graydon says that it was never supposed to be a takedown piece. VF’s Vanessa Grigoriadis wanted to write a fluff piece on Goopy’s haters and lovers and that’s exactly what she did.

Vanessa turned in her story at the end of the summer. And it was just what had been assigned—a reasoned, reported essay on the hate/love-fest that encircles Gwyneth Paltrow. I thought it perfectly explained the whole phenomenon. But it was such a far cry from the almost mythical story that people were by now expecting—the “epic takedown,” filled with “bombshell” revelations—that it was bound to be a disappointment. What to do? I decided to sit on it for a time.

While Graydon was sitting on that story, Goopy called him to talk about the reaction to VF’s piece about her. She asked him how she could convert the anti-Goopers into pro-Goopers. Graydon should’ve let her know that he could turn all of us GOOP haters into GOOP lovers if she split her fortune between us all and then retired to the Nunavut territory and was never heard from again. But Graydon told her that she could convert the haters if she gained 15 pounds since that usually works for him. Goopy laughed and let him know in so many words that he’s a fat slob who is more than 15 pounds overweight and she was slowly getting fatter just from listening to his fat voice.

In October, Gwyneth called me. We talked for about 20 minutes about the story and her reaction, or over-reaction, to it. At one point, she asked my advice as to what to do to get the “haters” on her side. I suggested putting on 15 pounds. I joked that it works for me. She replied I had put on much more than that. Which I thought was fair and funny. Two months after the phone call, Web sites lit up with news of a truce. We received more mail, much of it now criticizing us for caving. There had also been conflicting reports that Gwyneth had coerced George Clooney into not being on our cover—clearly not true. There were reports that she was trying to scuttle our annual Oscar party, that she was going to organize a competing dinner. The Paltrow camp subsequently denied both claims.

Graydon says that they sat on the story for so long, because it’s boring, pretty much:

The Gwyneth Paltrow saga had clearly just gotten away from us. My instinct was to continue to let it sit until people had forgotten about it, or at least until expectations had diminished. The fact is the Gwyneth Paltrow story, the one we ordered up, as delightfully written as it was, is not the one the anti-Gwynethites expect. That it has generated more mail and attention than many of the biggest stories we’ve ever published only makes the situation more complicated . . .

But Graydon did manage to get in one kick to Goopy’s GOOP by comparing her to Kim Jong-Un, because she dictated to her fancy friends to not talk to Vanity Fair about her. Goopy is probably seriously offended by that comparison, because Kim Jong-Un wears polyester suits. TRASH! Goopy would never.

Basically, Graydon caved in to the GOOP and we should all prepare our eye rolling-muscles, because now that her ego has grown to twice its size she’s going to be GOOPier than ever. And Graydon is dead wrong about the 15 pounds thing. If Goopy gained 15 pounds or 150 pounds, she’d still be an insufferable twat pimple. Shallow Hal proved that.

And instead of publishing their GOOP fluff piece, Graydon should’ve published a 5,000 word piece on how he gets his hair to look like a magnificent silver ski slope of perfection.

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