Behold, the glorious portrait that needs to be Florida’s new state flag. And if Butterfly by Crazy Town was a human, that’s what it would look like.
The tattooed hunk of hotness in the picture above and below used to be a cook at a Chili’s in Valrico, FL, but was fired for bringing thirty servings of hot, greasy sex to the kitchen. Justin Speekz (who sometimes raps in the Tampa area as J-Speekz, because of course he does) decided that what the eyes of the world really need is some fap material in the form of pictures of him sprawled out shirtless on a prep table at Chili’s. Now you know that Chili’s dipping sauces get their saltiness from armpit drool. J-Speekz took picture after picture of him throwing, “You know you want to dip this jumbo soft pretzel in your skillet queso,” looks while posing shirtless all around the kitchen of the Chili’s he used to work at. He posted the pictures on Facebook, labeled them “Sexy Cooks of Chili’s” and even tagged the location he worked in. Well, you can’t expect J-Speekz to have charisma, sex appeal AND brains.
Eventually, customers of the Chili’s in Valrico found the pictures on Facebook and I guess they don’t like a little AXE-scented pit hair on their burgers, because they complained to management. J-Speekz was fired and now “Sexy Cooks of Chili’s” is the fap-inducing calendar that never was. ABC Action News says that no health codes were broken since the pictures weren’t taken while J-Speekz was making food. But Chili’s still pink slipped him and they released this statement about it:
“Chili’s clearly does not encourage this type of behavior in our restaurants. We maintain very high standards of food quality, safety and cleanliness and took immediate steps to ensure the restaurant continues to follow these requirements. Additionally, we ended this team member’s employment after learning of his conduct.”
“We maintain very high standards of food quality.” Who ever wrote that mess has obviously never eaten at Chili’s.
Whatever. J-Speekz, who probably tells people that he’s the real inspiration for James Franco’s Spring Breakers character, doesn’t need Chili’s anyway. Chili’s will be sorry when J-Speekz next song about this shit titled “2 Sex-E 4 Chiliz” comes out and becomes the #1 most played song in
the world the country Florida Tampa his own iTunes playlist.
And if he still worked at Chili’s, I would. I totally would, because afterward we could eat the baby back ribs he brought home from work.
Just a couple of days ago, that green plastic puddle of sadness looked like this:
The biggest butt plug to hit Paris since Kanye…
That glorious giant ass cork (and CAPTION THIS star) by American artist Paul McCarthy was erected in Paris last week and he told reporters that he got the idea for the piece he calls the “Tree” while joking about how a butt plug kind of looks like a Christmas tree. It’s also a great commentary on how most of us get fucked during the holidays since we’re expected to buy presents for everyone. Some say that Paris is prettiest in the springtimes and I’ve never been to Paris, but I say that it’s prettiest this time of year thanks to that giant butt plug.
All of us butt plug aficionados who appreciate a piece of art that looks like the Jolly Green Giant’s favorite ass play toy loved it, but a group of butthurt bitches in Paris hated it from the beginning. They demanded that it be taken down. The International Contemporary Art Fair (FIAC), who brought the giant butt plug to Paris, refused, so the butt plug haters committed an illegal act against art, taste and ass toys by destroying it. They could’ve gotten rid of it by launching it into space so it’d get stuck in Xenu’s black hole, but they decided to deflate it instead. The police told the BBC, “An unidentified group of people cut the cables which were holding the artwork, which caused it to collapse.”
FIAC plans to restore the giant butt plug back to its glory. But for now, it looks like a sad pile of ass smegma, which strangely enough is what comes after a butt plug. Even in its deflated state, it’s still HIGH ART.
Pics: Getty, Twitter
I think Beyoncé is taking those bobo Bettie Page bangs a little too seriously, because on Friday night she went out for dinner in London in her underwear. And all I have to say is, Bettie Page would NEVER be caught dead in such a matronly negligee! What look is Beyoncé going for, 1950′s Mormon pin-up girl? Not to mention that everyone knows Bettie Page would accessorize with either a whip or a cheetah. Yawncé, you lazy.
Even Beyoncé’s dinner companion Adele doesn’t know what the fuck is going on with Bey’s SANS PANTALONS situation. This is Adele leaving Harry’s Bar in London after her dinner with Bey on Friday night:
“Bloody ‘ell, I fink I just saw Beyoncé’s Yorkshire pudding?”
The only explanation I can think of is that Beyoncé knew that she had to distract us from that jank-ass bang situation wreaking havoc across her forehead, so she pulled a page from Kelly Rowland’s book and drew all the attention to her legs. If Kelly Rowland knows anything, it’s that the best way to disguise some tragic hair is to show off your legs in a pair of barely-there coochie-cutters.
Here’s more of Beyoncé leaving dinner with a camera-shy Joe Camel and a comfers-cozers Adele last night. 1000 points to Adele for not giving a fuck and wearing a cape made from sweatpants to dinner with Yawncé. I’d do the same.
Who dat? Who dat? V-A-G-G-Y!
Iggy Azalea and the paparazzi have put down their shivs, de-Crisco’d their faces, pulled the razors out of their hair and stopped wishing AIDS and Ebola on each other. For now. They’ve kissed and made up (Yes, when I typed that I had the same visual that popped into your head after reading it), because she needs the attention and the paps know that dumb bloggers like me will pay for pictures of her Australian camel toe in orange coochie cutters.
If you’ve been farting corn kernels for the past day or so, then I’m guessing you filled yourself with popcorn while watching the fight between Snoop Dogg and Iggy. Snoop Dogg fired the first shot when he posted a picture on Instagram of “Iggy SANS FARDS.” She got mad and he kept throwing dingles at her including posting that side-by-side picture of her and a White Chick that’s everyone seen. Snoop eventually said he was sorry and Iggy took his apology. But I don’t know if Iggy is totally over it. Iggy probably wore these snatch suffocaters in front of the paps, because she wants to let Snoop know that he can say that from the neck up she looks like a Wayans Brother in white girl drag, but down below she’s got a glorious, glorious vagine.
And you probably didn’t read any of that because as soon as you saw that picture, you ran off to buy a bag of Circus Peanuts.
Erykah Badu decided to do a little experiment and she took her ass to the streets of NYC to sing for a dollar, or two, or three, or in her case almost four. Erykah didn’t disguise herself and she sang in all her Baduizm glory. She sang for a little over 40 minutes and she couldn’t even afford to sniff a Venti Frapp at Starbucks with how much money she made. Most New Yorkers either didn’t know who she was or did know who she was but were all out of fucks to give because they had places to be.
You know, even if she was performing under a giant, lit-up sign that read, “THIS IS ERYKAH BADU,” a lot of New Yorkers would still walk on by. Jesus himself could magically appear before them and they’d stare for a minute before running down into the subway after hearing their train coming.
Erykah also didn’t set herself up well. “I Need Some Money” is not a song to sing when you’re busking on the street. She sounds like a cat giving birth so I probably wouldn’t recognize her either. After about 15 minutes of that, she should’ve gotten the hint and changed shit up. What I mean by that is she should’ve followed one of the most important rules in life: When all else fails, give them class with a side of ass. Qween Amor of Union Square definitely knows what I’m talking about:
A pro-tip for the Porn Iguana: Never pose next to a bitch who is prettier, more glamorous and has better hair than you. Well, but the Porn Iguana’s ironed plastic straw weave still looks better than Beyonce’s wig, so at least she’s got that.
Last night, Courtney Stodden shoved her Tupperware cake saver tits into a clearance section Frederick’s of Hollywood dress and sprayed her face with a makeup gun set to “day-shift Elvira hooker glamour” before going to the Art Hearts fashion show in Hollywood with her Lynne Spears-looking ass pimp mom and her dog/fashion accessory Cupcake Stodden.
Cupcake looks like this crackhead in Brooklyn who once said to me, “Take that ‘sorry’ and shove it up your ass! I’m sure you’ll like it,” when he asked me for a dollar and I told him sorry. Cupcake might have those crackhead eyes because of the camera flashes or maybe she got high from the toxic, lead-based fumes wafting off of Courtney’s face. Or maybe Cupcake’s in a state of permanent shock, because she’s seen the real-life Twisty the Clown known as Doug Hutchison mouth fuck with Courtney Stodden and that image is forever burned into her tiny puppy retinas. Yeah, that’s why.
And now here’s another one for all of you MickeyRourkeInSpandex fetishists out there and by “all of you” I mean “just me.”
You can’t spell spandex without S-E-X and you can’t think of sex without thinking of Mickey Rourke in spandex. Mickey Rourke has done for spandex what Lindsay Lohan has done for the meaning of delusion. He’s taking it to the next level and has already taken us to places we never thought spandex could go. A Starbucks in West Hollywood got a Venti-sized serving of scalding, hot sex last night when Mickey Rourke paid a visit to it while wearing camouflage spandex leggings usually worn by the Lisa Frank Army and what looks like a lace front wig that screams new wave abuelita.
Halloween is only a quick queef away, so if you’re looking for an easy costume that’ll make all the pussies and b-holes pucker, let Mickey Rourke inspire you. For your Mickey Rourke costume all you need is a wig made out of shredded duct tape, a Michael Meyers mask painted orange, a hoodie where the zipper always gets stuck halfway, a pair of spandex leggings and a plastic He-Man breastplate covered with extra greasy pieces of salmon jerky. An instant Mickey Rourke costume! But if you’re going to wear it out in public, you should carry a can of whornet spray with you, because some horny slut will throw themselves at you and the horny slut will probably be me.
This Open Post is going up really, really early, because Allison is out this week and apparently, so is my brain (“This is totally new information!” – you with a sarcasm filter on your mouth). I completely forgot that this morning I have a doctor’s appointment to further investigate why an obese, burping gerbil is still stuck in my froat and refuses to leave (read: Why acid reflux is still terrorizing my insides). While I’m there, I’ll also bring up the fact that I have the memory of a dead goldfish. I’m hoping my doctor will tell me that the cure is more booze and more weed.
So I’ll be back when I’m back. For now I leave you with these pictures of the Patron Saint of Dlisted, Phoebe Price, starting off the Slut-O-Ween season right by teaching the children of the Mr. Bones Pumpkin Patch in West Hollywood how to deliver demure poses while looking like a Hot Topic scarecrow hooker. Patton Oswalt, these are for you!
Dlisted started its day with glamour (thanks to everyone who educated me on the graceful glory of Aerobicise) and its intermission was full of glamour so it’s only fitting that we end with a humongous dollop of glamour.
Millions of people (okay, I may be overestimating by 1 person or 999,993 people) at a mall in Vienna, Austria were showered with sheer beauty yesterday when German designer and Dlisted favorite Harald Glööckler made an appearance at an autograph session. While dressed up like a 75-year-old Palm Beach socialite who considers Klaus Nomi one of her greatest fashion inspirations, Harald left a trace of thick stardust all over the millions of pictures he signed for all of his loyal subjects.
During his autograph session, Harald nearly caused a mass medical emergency. Hundreds of plebs nearly went into cardiac arrest while watching John Travolta’s hairline idol delicately put a tiny glass between his angelic slug lips so he could quench his thirst. It’s like watching a rare ebony unicorn sip from a pond full of melted rainbows under a pink moon. Harald Glööckler sipping water IS magical theater.
And 20 minutes after that picture was taken, the cholita Liberace excused himself to piss into an empty bottle of Cristal that was eventually sealed and shipped off to Diddy’s yacht. Yes, that’s how fine champagne is made.
Sometimes I see Dlisted as a kind of Preserve.us, but instead of curating $50 teaspoons that are exact replicas of the teaspoon Laura Ingalls Wilder used to stir her dandelion tea with while writing Little House on the Prairie on the same kind of paper that Blake SoNoLively wrote her editor’s letter on, I curate the finest in cunture fashions.
Lily Allen took a fashion tip from fellow British jewel, RiRi’s Wednesday matinee understudy Rita Whora, last night at the after-party for her show in Hollywood by wearing an exquisitely made knitted head condom with a one word poem on it. If you put your ear up to that picture, you can practically hear bitches on the street screaming, “We know, Lily! We know! You don’t have to broadcast it on your hat!”
Lily’s beanie (which the government should forcibly sew onto the heads of Chris Brown and Justin Bieber so everyone knows what they’re getting) is so simple, so classic, so understated and so refined. I’m sure Duchess Kate will replace her tiara with it. It’s that timeless.