Just like a male massage therapist’s b-hole when John Travolta tries to tickle it with his finger, John Travolta’s mouth closes firmly shut every time someone brings up the gay rumors and he usually lets his lawyers do the talking/threatening/suing for him. But while talking to The Daily Beast about his new movie The Forger, John dribbled out a few words when asked about the allegations from the pilot who claims to be a former gay lover of Scientology’s friendliest bear. Travolta’s alleged ex gay piece is trying to sell a book about their time together and John’s lawyers tried to stop that from happening, but they failed. The Daily Beast brought that shit up during their interview with John and surprisingly, Scientology goons didn’t rush into the room, grab the recorder from the interviewer’s hand and then drag that bitch to a cell next to Shelly Miscavige’s in a dungeon under a fortress in the desert somewhere. John didn’t deny, but he did say that those bitches are just looking for cash.
Right now, there’s this pending lawsuit from a man who claims to be your former pilot about a romantic relationship. What’s the deal with that?
This is every celebrity’s Achilles heel. It’s just about people wanting money. That’s all. It happens on many levels.
You are a high-profile figure, and as such, it seems like you get targeted a lot more than anyone else with these types of allegations.
Also, I don’t care that much about it. Other people may attack it back more than I do, but I let all the media stuff go a long time ago because I can’t control it. I think that’s why it persists, to some degree.
Do you find it offensive?
I found it most offensive with the loss of my son. I felt like that was the lowest I’d ever felt. Sex stuff is always going to be interesting to somebody, but you stay away from family. You really should. With that, I always felt like the media—not all of the media, but parts of it—went too low there.
Hmmm, no, I think it persists, because whenever John Travolta goes in for a massage, he can’t keep his paws to himself and is always trying to squeeze nature’s massage lotion out of a masseur’s crotch spigot. But whatever. The Daily Beast did ask John the questions that a lot of people don’t ask, but they didn’t ask the question that all of us want the answer to. They didn’t ask John why he continues to be a horrific animal abuser by wearing that parched, tortured, half-dead Lhasa Apso on his head.
Here’s John at the TIFF premiere of The Forger looking like The Operation man with a pile of pubes glued to his face.
In “THIS IS BRAND NEW INFORMATION” news, a California pilot who once worked for John Travolta claims that the darling of Scientology loves dick and the two had a great, big six-year-long gay love affair in the 80s. I know, what other anal bead-clutching SHOCKING revelations is this pilot going to hit us with? Is he going to tell us that the rug on John’s head is made of skinned papillons and that every Friday night he performs Barbra Streisand’s greatest hits in the Scientology bath house? I need to hold onto something sturdy, because I don’t think I can take it.
John’s alleged former gay lovah, Doug Gotterba, wants to make a quick check by writing all about his time with John’s Scientolohole in a new book. John’s lawyers tried to put a stop to the tell-all, but it didn’t work. The Hollywood Reporter says that an appeals court judge in California ruled on Tuesday that John can no longer try to stop Doug from exposing their gay love in a book. John’s lawyer Marty Singer claims that Doug signed a strict confidentiality agreement in 1987, but Doug’s lawyer claims that document is about as authentic as John’s hair. The judge ruled in Doug’s favor and spit out this stream of legal words:
“Although the prelitigation letters may have triggered Gotterba’s complaint and may be evidence in support of the complaint, they are not the basis of the complaint.
[To hold otherwise] would lead to the absurd result that a person receiving a demand letter threatening legal action for breach of contract would be precluded from seeking declaratory relief to determine the validity of the contract. Declaratory relief would be limited to situations where the parties have not communicated their disagreement.”
Translation: Doug can write about doing butt sex with John Travolta.
Doug tells The National Enquirer (of course) that he first met John in 1981 when he interviewed for a pilot job. John gave Doug the job and later gave him other jobs if you know what I mean (and yes, I stopped typing for a second to make the hand signs for “hand job” and “blow job“). Seven months after he got the job, he and John were boyfriends. For years, they traveled all over the world together and Doug claims he’s the one who told John he should get a beard. John took his advice and started dating Brooke Shields.
“Sometimes he’d bring women along as beards, but he would ask me to join him in his suite and we’d spend the nights together. It was our little secret.”
They broke up sometime in 1986, because Doug says that John was a jealous mess and kept accusing him of doing other dudes. John’s lawyer, who has a canned “deny the gay stuff” statement on file, called Doug’s story a ridiculous lie.
Doug claims that he has proof! Doug kept logs and records! Marty Singer can suck on that, because logs and records are solid proof! When I write my tell-all in a few years about how Anderson Cooper and I have had a 10-year-long gay love affair and together we adopted a ginger baby named Rojo Jr. who was raised by her au pair Shauna Sand in the back room of an In-N-Out, everyone will know I’m telling the truth, because I’ll have logs and records as proof. Logs and records!
Hos making a dollar by selling out the celebrities they boned is nothing new and neither are tales of John Travolta’s Scientolohole, but I’m still all for this non-scandalous tell-all as long as it eventually gets made into a Lifetime movie co-starring Teddy Bear the Porcupine as John’s wig. Teddy Bear really needs a breakout role.
Poor John Travolta. Ever since he screwed up Idina Menzel’s name at the Oscars, he’s been down in the Scientology dungeon beating himself over and over again. I think he meant to say that he’s been “beating himself off” over and over again, because he’s needed several massage therapists to knead out the embarrassment of him, a musical theater queen, screwing up a Broadway star’s name at the Oscars. In case you’re wondering, John Travolta’s embarrassment knot is in his prostate.
John Travolta, who’s either not dyslexic or is cured of dyslexia, released a statement today saying that he feels bad about murdering and butchering Idina Menzel’s name. The Gretchen Wieners of Scientology (Tommy Girl is so the Regina George) put it like this:
“I’ve been beating myself up all day. Then I thought, what would Idina Menzel say? She’d say, let it go, let it go! Idina is incredibly talented and I am so happy Frozen took home two Oscars Sunday night!”
People says that Idina Menzel isn’t mad about it. She thinks it’s funny.
John Travolta shouldn’t beat himself up for putting Idina Menzel’s name in a salad tosser, because you know bitch did it on purpose to try throw us off his musical theater trail. He did it last year with Lay Miserahbless. (Side Note: I really want to see Lay Miserahbless starring Adele Dazeem.) But John Travolta should beat himself up repeatedly for putting that tragic pile of electrocuted beaver pelts on his head. Where’s PETA?!
John Travolta has let it go and Idina Menzel has let it go, so let’s all let it go! Everybody let it go! And since John Travolta is in the “let it go” mood, that massage therapist he has his hand on would like him to do just that. Let it go, Jorn.
If you were like me, then you probably didn’t pay close attention to Idina Menzel’s performance of “Let It Go” at the Oscars last night because you were still slow clapping at Miss John Travolta trying to quiet down those rumors that he loves a little massage therapist peen on his tongue by mispronouncing Idina Menzel’s name. What kind of self-respecting musical theater queen fucks up the name of a Broadway star? I see you, Jorn Tromolto. Some people keep saying that we all need to stop, because John Travolta has Dyslexia. I’m pretty sure they’re confusing him with the other Scientology sweetheart Tommy Girl who would never screw up Idina Menzel’s name. The halls of the Scientology Celebrity Centre were filled with the gasps of the boys in the bath house who couldn’t believe that their grand dame committed an illegal gay act by mispronouncing a Broadway diva’s name and the forest was filled with the cries of the guinea pigs whose family members were killed to make John Travolta’s wig.
Even though John put her name through the shredder, Idina went on to perform, but something seemed off. She looked nervous and jittery and it seemed like she couldn’t wait to get out of there. She acted like John Travolta every time Kelly Preston got naked during the Scientology turkey baster ceremony to conceive one of their kids.
Someone on Facebook said that the music was too fast and Idina was obviously pissed about it at the end of her performance. Hmmm, I see what’s going on here. Travolta messed up her name and then the music plays too fast. That wig-torturing, Bonne Bell foundation-wearing evil bitch tried to sabotage Adele Dazeem! John Travolta is probably a crazed Chenoweth fangirl. Figures…
Either the half-dead Papillon clinging to John Travolta’s head squeezed his skull too tight or he was busy thinking of massage therapist dick, because he royally messed up Idina Menzel’s name tonight. Scientology’s very own pretty, pretty princess introduced Idina Menzel’s performance of “Let It Go” (which is what Travolta needs to do to that wig) at the Oscars tonight and he couldn’t have screwed up her name more than he did. A slurring drunk with a lisp would pronounce Chiwetel Ejiofor’s name better than Travolta pronounced Idina Menzel’s name. Hell, if Travolta had to pronounce Chiwetel Ejiofor’s name, he probably would’ve cast some kind of spell on all of us and tomorrow we’d all be fingering a massage therapist’s b-hole.
ADELA DAZEEM? Xenu, please get your child a copy of Rosetta Stone: Broadway Stars Edition.
You truly haven’t lived until you have at least one butt plug story to tell. On the Scientology entry application, the first question is, “Do you have a butt plug story to tell?” If you check “no,” a trap door opens up and drops you into a tiled room where John Travolta is waiting with a wink and a lubed-up butt plug. They instantly give you a butt plug story to tell. They aren’t totally good for nothing.
Anyway, the greatest American who ever existed, Jennifer Lawrence, backed away from her desk, where she was writing the “No Calling People Fat On TV” law that she’ll put into effect when she becomes president in 2017, and went on Conan to whore out that American Hustle movie. Conan asked her what she would be if she wasn’t a millionaire movie star and she said she’d be a maid (uh huh), which led to her telling a story about how a hotel maid found a box of butt plugs in her room once. The box of butt plugs were a gag gift (because I guess they’ll make her butthole gag) from a friend. Before she left her room, she tried to hide the ass corks under the bed. She did a shit job of hiding them, because the maid found them and displayed them on the bedside table. It looked like a glorious nativity scene starring all the Kardashians.
But what I want to know is, who is this “friend” who gave Jennifer Lawrence a bunch of butt plugs for free? Can she give this “friend” my address in case this “friend” is ever in the mood again to gift a ho with a bunch of butt plugs. I’m a size 12.
Every now and again, John Travolta needs to remind Beyonce that she may be miles ahead of him in the lace front game, but he’s quickly speeding up behind her so she better strap-in her wig and hold on tight. The game is far from over.
Somewhere in the middle of a forest in New England, a family of naked silver foxes are shivering their asses off since their fur was shaved off to make John Travolta’s newest wig, but they’re suffering for a good cause, because their fur has elevated his beauty and glamour. While a hot piece (Stunt double? Bodyguard? Personal massage therapist/confidante? Dianetics study partner? B-hole waxer? All of the above?) came up hard from behind him, John Travolta sashayed around the set of his new movie The Forger in Boston, MA. Papa Johnny’s new wig looks like a luscious river of onyx and diamonds, and the Massachusetts wind should feel lucky that it gets to sweep across it. John Travolta’s gorgeous Beethoven-after-a-trim wig really goes well with the ball tickler on his chin.
And there’s no doubt that John got a matching merkin, because the carpet has to sparkle as much as the drapes, but do you think he takes it off and puts it on the chair next to him when he gets a massage?
It’s slower than a Farrah Abraham today, so here’s some pictures of Scientology’s sweetheart John Travolta welcoming the press to his private beach locker room on the Promenade des Planches in Deauville, France today. John is in France to promote his movie Joe at the Deauville American Film Festival and the town welcomed him by giving him and other ELITE STARS!!!! their own beach locker rooms.
John Travolta has starred in a million movies, has been nominated for Oscars, owns the second largest collection of lace fronts after Beyonce and has Xenu on speed dial, but he can now say that he’s finally made it. Getting his own French beach closet a skip away from Debbie Reynolds’ beach closet beats everything.
If Roger Moore sees John Travolta and a massage therapist go into his beach closet, and then hears what sounds like a walrus moaning, groaning and choking on a carrot, there’s no need to call a lifeguard for help. Everything’s fine.
And a really good way to start your weekend is by gazing at the luscious lace front on John’s head.
John Travolta was happier than a Corgi in a kiddie pool two weeks ago when he shot a Ypióca commercial in Rio with a trio of hot, shirtless Brazilian pieces and here’s the finished product. This really is John Travolta’s heaven. A few seconds into his heavenly dream, he comes across a jogging lady and thinks to himself, “Glitch! Glitch! For why is this woman in my idea of heaven?” Then after he strolls onto the sand, he comes across a hard ball which leads him to a bunch of shirtless dudes. Heaven fully reached! John Travolta’s face lights up the same way the face of a parched, thirsty bitch would light up after crawling through the dry desert and seeing a giant Brazilian dick shooting out water in the distance. John Travolta ends his dream by busting out some sweet, sweet moves. I don’t know if he’s doing the Samba, a jacked up version of The Running Man or if he’s just offering the three dudes a handy (at the 0:21 mark). SPOILER ALERT: It’s the last one.
If that picture was a postcard, it’d be addressed to Tommy Girl and it’d say, “You wish you were here, bitch!”
Like Paula Deen at a slavery-themed wedding, John Travolta was filled with pure potent happiness yesterday when he spread his legs and got down next to some topless dudes while shooting a commercial in Rio for a Brazilian brand of booze called Ypióca. Everybody on that beach in Rio now knows what fried Thetans smell like. Because all the Thetans on John Travolta’s itchy itchy anus burned up and exploded when he got hot while being the cheese in that hot piece
panini peenini. Yes, that crap on John Travolta’s chin looks like a beaver’s taint (that the closest he’ll ever get to having a beaver on his chin), but he’s living the wet dream. XENU IS GOOD!
“Rollin’ to the music and shakin’ real fast. Bend over backwards, make me shout. And work that pussy, in and out!”