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.
One Grouchy Anonymous Oscar Voter Calls Meryl Streep’s Performance In August: Osage County “Bottom-Drawer”
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.
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.
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.
Good news today for all the dentist’s waiting rooms in Hell; according to Jezebel, a “well-placed source” informed them that Vogue was in L.A. yesterday with their widest-angle lenses to shoot Kim Kardashian for a possible magazine cover. Before you get too excited, when I say ‘shoot’, I mean with a camera: not shot with a gun, shot with a load of jizz (“Been there, done that, made a million from it” – Kris Jenner), or shot into space. I know, I’m sorry; take off your party hats and save the noise makers for another day. But keep those fingers crossed!
This is great news for Kanye West, who’s been pestering Anna Wintour to give his My First Dumpy Stepford Ho Doll a Vogue cover for what seems like years now, because Kanye is smart and knows Kim isn’t capable of anything greater than simply letting someone take her picture. And even then, we’re not exactly dealing with a genius. I don’t know who the photographer was, but I have a feeling he spent most of the day saying: “Kim, stay awake honey. You gotta look alive. Kim, can you open your eyes a little more? Kim? You asleep? You need a nap, Kim? Can someone inject Kim with a syringe full of methamphetamine? We need her to look…how do I say this…not like a Botoxed sloth.” And someone should have told the people at Vogue that a photo shoot was completely unnecessary; they could have just Photoshopped a too-tight beige Margiela dress onto a picture of Jen from The Dark Crystal and saved themselves the agony.
I know you’re dyyyying to see what Kim’s Vogue pictures look like, but nothing will be released until Anna Wintour speaks with Kim’s agent, Satan J. Jackal. So until then, here are picture of Kim filming Keeping Up With Kows You Kould Give A Krap About with Khloe, who – I’ll say it – looks great (if you need me, I’ll be getting a CATscan, since I clearly have a brain tumor), and their little sister Marla Hooch (What a hitter!):
UPDATE: And a millisecond after I hit the publish button, TMZ says that Prince has dropped the lawsuit. Prince has either grown a sliver of a heart, or he put a hit out on those fans instead, or the lawsuit had a typo in it and he meant to sue them for $1 billion each. I’m going with the last one. Anyway, here’s the original post.
Things that Prince loves: Dunk-a-roos, sexy people, New Girl, Jehovah, grape-flavored lip chap for his anus (I’m taking a wild guess with that one) and perfectly manicured staches shaped like an upside down, headless man hugging the sky.
Things that Prince still hates: Non-sexy people and fans putting his music on the internet without a signed permission slip from him.
A little over ten days ago, Prince lined up 22 of his fans and one by one he climbed up a 4-foot-tall step ladder in front of them and slapped them in the face with a lawsuit for linking to videos from his concerts in the 80s and beyond. The Wrap says that Prince is suing 22 fans, mostly Facebook users, for copyright infringement and has accused them of “up to thousands of separate acts of infringement and bootlegging.” The fans allegedly put up links to Torrent sites and other places where you can download unauthorized clips of Prince performing in concert. Some of the fans set up pages or blogs devoted to sharing the clips. The Purple One doesn’t like it and wants $1 million from each of them and wants a permanent injunction to stop them from continuing to link his shit. Here’s a small piece of the ten million page lawsuit, which was filed in San Francisco on January 16th.
“Defendants, rather than publishing lawful content to their blogs, typically publish posts that list all the songs performed at a certain Prince live show and then provide a link to a file sharing service where unauthorized copies of the performance can be downloaded.
[The defendants] constitute an interconnected network of bootleg distribution which is able to broadly disseminate unauthorized copies of Prince’s musical compositions and live performances”
Suing his own fans for $1 million each?! Prince is the kind of cold-hearted, melodramatic, petty little evil villainess who Charles Dickens had wet dreams about. That bitch has always been mean and he’s getting meaner.
Well, he’s probably going to lose…… unless he shows up in court. The defendants will be at their desks, thinking they got this, and then all of a sudden the doors will magically open and a cloud of purple smoke and crying doves will flow into the room. At first the defendants will only see the top of a sparkly afro and as it gets closer and closer they’ll see Prince’s face as he throws them the meanest, cuntiest, bitchiest look they’ve ever seen. He’ll throw a side-eye that even Jehovah doesn’t want to witness. When that mean little purple gnome throws you a side-eye, you immediately declare yourself guilty and throw all your jooree and money at him before running for your life.
(Pic via VMan)
Pour out a can of Coors Light for the dirtbags and the dirtbag-adjacent in your life, because today is the day the music of a thousand parking lots and monster truck rallies died. According to TMZ, Poison’s glue-sniffing, pussy-obsessed, good at fixing cars and getting two girls pregnant at the same time younger brother, Mötley Crüe, are getting a divorce. Did you just hear that? It’s the sound of thousands of metal dudes dragging a trash can into the yard so they can throw a book of matches and a bottle of lighter fluid to their acid wash jean jacked with the Theatre of Pain patch on the back. Then, while it’s still burning, they’ll retreat to their Pontiac Fiero to blast Home Sweet Home and cry. I’m sorry Darrell and Steve and Randy; what god giveth, god taketh away.
The band held a press conference today in Hollywood to announce they were hanging up their 30-year-long open penicillin prescriptions to retire to Paradise City (where the grass is green, the girls are pretty, and Axl Rose is the head of the Department of Sanitation). Of course, they’re getting in one last tour before they officially officially retire, because coke and hookers don’t come cheap. So you still have one last time to see Tommy Lee mouth the words ‘do it for the groupies’ over and over again as he clings to life on that drum kit roller coaster.
And the only good thing to come out of their retirement is that Vince Neil will now have enough time to follow his true calling: acting as a cautionary tale/ghost of christmas future for young sluts like Adam Levine. “Trust me kid, that rash won’t go away. By the way, did you know that you can get pink eye from snorting coke out of chick’s asshole?”
Because I live in the land of the past known as the West Coast, the Grammys aren’t on live here (fuck you, CBS!). Even though it’s happening almost four farts away from my house, I can’t watch that cesspool of fuckery as it happens. So I’m watching the Grammys through clips. I tried watching a live feed of it, but it was so blurry and janky that it could’ve been a live stream from John Travolta’s colon cam for all I know. You know, mostly full of shit, but a sparkle from a shard of glitter here and there.
Anyway, Beyonce and Jay-Z opened the Grammys and it was like House of Dereon: After Dark. Beyonce copied RuPaul’s Drag Race by LIP-SYNCHING FOR HER LIFE. She copied Flashdance and Chicago with those stripper chair moves. And she copied a horny cat in heat itching for that Q-tip when she did this move:
But what’s really offensive is that Beyonce copied a chola-on-the-go with that hair. Any chola who’s in a rush, stays glamorous by applying massive amounts of L.A. Looks gel right after getting out of the shower and then she air dries her mop by keeping the windows rolled all the way down while she drives to work. Instant crunchy curls! And Jay-Z got into the copying game by copying the dance moves of somebody’s alcoholic grandpa who just had a stroke and suffers from full-body arthritis.
Most of us figured that the Fifty Shades of Grey movie is going to be as erotic as a lone turd floating in a rest stop toilet (all offense to you sucio SCAT QUEENS who find that erotic), but at least there was a chance that we’d get several shots of Jamie Dornan’s bare ass and maybe a quick shot of his soft dick. But all Wagreens are sold out of coochie moisturizer today, because millions of middle-aged soccer mom snatches dried up as soon as one of the producers of that mess said that it wasn’t going to be explicit. Those horny moms who demand Dornan dick will revolt!
According to Deadline, at a Producers Guild event at Sundance this morning, producer Michael de Luca said that they don’t want an NC-17 rating, so they’ve toned down the fuck scenes and moms don’t have to ask for extra popcorn butter, because they’re not going to need any lube since there won’t be any dick shots.
“We’re going to give them what they expect, which is an intense and erotic love story. A picture is worth a 1000 words. So to be erotic onscreen means I think an image is going to have way more power than reading the words on a page. Not to sound corny, but it is, at its heart, a young love story. I think those things always work,” he said of the blockbuster trilogy of books. No matter what you think about the book, those things are in that story and they are very cinematic. I think people love a good love story and the these two characters endeared themselves to 90 million readers so it’s hard to say that it didn’t connect on a deeper level than just its more sensationalist aspects, but it was the love story that did it for me.”
From what I know about the book, the S&M shit is already about as tame as a kitten whipping a baby bunny with its tail, so the movie is going to be 100% vanilla. It’s just going to be 2 hours of that Ana chick blabbering at the mouth about her inner goddess while Christian Grey looks at her all mean-like. They might as well get Rosie O’Donnell to shoot a cameo and re-package the whole thing as a sequel to Exit to Eden, because what’s the point? This is exactly why I usually just stick to porn. It gives me what I want: hard dick, sweaty ass and rent-a-center furniture.
And I guess this means there will be no tampon scene, which probably gave Dakota Johnson the sads. She wanted that to be the scene they used when she’s nominated for a Best Actress Oscar next year.
Here’s Dakota and Jamie shooting that tame wreck in Vancouver a few days ago.
If your ears can take the sound of Elle Fanning’s butchered-slaughtered-disemboweled-and-drowned-in-water British accent, then watch the newest trailer for the St. Angie Jolie biopic called Maleficent. Part of my already charred soul shriveled up a little while watching this, because it looks like a shitty, mid-budget trailer for a failed ABC pilot called Once Upon A Time In St. Angie’s Cheekbones. The other part of my already charred soul shriveled all the way up while watching this, because I don’t want to see the softer side of Maleficent. Fuck that all the way. I like my Maleficent straight up cunty with zero drops of niceness. I should’ve known this trailer wasn’t going to sit on my soul right when St. Angie popped up wearing Lady CaCa’s leftover face horns from the Born This Way “era.”
And here’s Brad Pitt working Maddox’s old haircut and wearing a vintage Oak Tree black linen suit while strolling through LAX.
lady caca born this way