“Oh, look, I just found my new Twitter profile pic!” said Orlando Bloom.
As her soiled diaper lint of an ex-boyfriend Justin Bieber scraps with and throws Instagram taunts at the delicate elf Orlando Bloom, Selena Gomez proves that she’s above all that trash by going to a business meeting in L.A. in coochie-cutting denim panties. If you’re looking at Selena’s chipmunk ass cheeks and are thinking to yourself, “The hell kind of GD business meeting outfit is that?”, you need to immediately update your definition of “business meeting outfit.” I don’t go to that many business meetings, but when I do have to go to a business meeting, I always show up in serious business man shorty shorts, which explains why I’m always escorted out of the building by security.
Selena Gomez usually looks like a rejected member of the Chippettes playing dress up in her mother’s clothes, so I am shocked that she’s actually working a look I fully approve of. Selena looks like a Texas rest stop hooker whore who is hitchhiking and hooking her way through the state in hopes of getting to Las Vegas where she plans to become a dancer in a casino show but will end stripping for quarters at a drive–thru strip club in Reno (think Showgirls without the happy ending). The bruise and the ponytail (which looks like a raggedy dog’s dingle-filled tail) really elevate this look to the upper echelons of class. Selena’s jean coochie cutters is where elegance and demure meet.
If Pee-wee Herman and a Pink Panther ice cream bar jacked off and jizzed on a Mondrian calendar from the Dollar Tree and then baked it in an Easy Bake oven before pulling it out and covering it with Brooke Candy’s watermelon Jolly Ranchers-infused saliva, flat Strawberry Kiwi Shasta, used-up scratch ‘n sniff stickers and barf from a rejected Target commercial, the end product would look just like this video. The Cultural Appropriate Queen (sorry Miley) and her “Japanesy” nails are bringing the ice cream cone twerking foolery in the video for the song that sounds like the most-requested jam during hip hop night at the club where Kids Inc. performs.
And if you’re wondering whether or not you should expose your senses to this messiness by pressing play, I’ll let this still of Katy Perry with faux baby hairs and albino brows answer that question for you:
If you didn’t read any of the names in that headline, you’re probably really confused and wondering why Kate Gosselin circa 2006 is holding hands with Michael Stipe as they make their way to a costume party whose theme is “It Fell Out Of The Butthole Of The 80s.”
This is ScarJo and her sharp-as-all-hell fiancé and the father of her unborn baby Romain Dauriac (that’s “butchering hos with style” in French) strutting through NYC yesterday. The big story here is supposed to be that ScarJo chopped off her hair, dyed it the color of your first-of-the-morning piss and now looks like Mia Michaels. Throw a baggy apron with attached pants (those are no overalls) on her body and she looks like Mia Michaels working as a hostess at a Dexys Midnight Runners theme restaurant that floods a lot. But the real star here is her man’s ensemble. He looks like the new assistant scoutmaster of Troop Beverly Hills.
That ensemble is so wrong it’s right. That outfit is single-handedly ruining every memory you have from the 80s.
1. That hat. In the 80s, you begged and begged your parents to get you a hat like the one Boy George wore. On Christmas morning, you opened up a box and pulled out a hat that wasn’t black and wasn’t at all like Boy George’s. It was all wrong. You wore it anyway and felt like hot shit while doing so. Romain worked that hat better. The memory of your childhood in the 80s is now forever ruined.
2. That shirt. In the 80s, the grandpa you thought hated you came to visit you right after you had your tonsils taken out. He brought you ice cream, read you a story and told you he loved you. He was wearing that shirt, double pleated emerald green pants and green leather loafers. Romain worked that shirt better. The memory of your grandpa in the 80s is now forever ruined.
3. Those shorts. In the 80s, your mom had to come pick you up from summer camp early, because your weak ass was really homesick and caught a little bit of food poisoning. When she got out of the car, you ran toward her, hugged her and accidentally barfed on her shorts. She was wearing those shorts. She told you not to worry about it since she was planning to donate those shorts because they made her crotch look like Jabba the Hutt’s armpit vagina. Romain worked those shorts better. The memories of summer camp, Jabba the Hutt and your mom in the 80s are now forever ruined.
I still have a few of my clothes from the 80s, but I’m going to burn them all now. Because every time I pull out my acid wash jean vest, I’m going to say to myself, “Ugh, ScarJo’s man can work this better.”
Last week, THE QUEEN got caught in a picture taken by two Australian hockey plays who were later arrested by the royal guards, tried for treason and have been forced to work as Prince Phillip’s diaper nurse for jumping into HER picture. Well, at the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow yesterday, Prince Hot Ginge had to show THE QUEEN up and let everyone know that he’s the best photobomber of the royal family. New Zealand rugby coach Sir Gordon Tietjens, Sport Manawatu chief executive Trevor Shailer and sports psychologist Gary Hermansson were taking a picture together when behind them, a panty creaming ginger lighting bolt popped into their picture. Those dudes were probably wondering why it felt like the sun was humping their backs. Fun fact: The dude on the left had a full head of silver hair before this picture was taken, but all of it burned off as soon as PHG jumped in.
I don’t know Sir Gordon, Trevor and Gary, but I hate them and I’m so jealous I could barf all over them. Because they can say that Prince Hot Ginge has bombed them hard from behind while flashing two thumbs up. Who can say that’s happened to them? (Cut to every skinny ass, dirty blonde white trick in Britain raising her hand.)
If you spent some time with Christopher Meloni’s “large bag of pepperonis” bulge today, then I’m sure your genitals tingled themselves raw and are currently huffing and puffing and can barely lift themselves since they’re all out of energy. Well, slap that bitch awake and feed it some Gatorade, because it’s time for round 2 now that Mickey Rourke is here looking like a barbecued rawhide chip in hot neon green Spandex leggings and frazzled abuelita hair. Mickey Rourke is giving us Richard Simmons’ butch grandma hotness.
It’s strange, I don’t remember seeing on the news last night that there was a 40 car pile-up in West Hollywood and dozens of people had to be transported to the hospital after passing out. Because here’s Loki’s soulmate standing outside of a gym in West Hollywood yesterday and you’d think that drivers would’ve been blinded by the glaring sexiness beaming off of his melted tennis ball crotch and lost control of their cars. Then after crashing into each other, you’d also think that drivers would jump out of their cars, take in more of Mickey’s hotness and pass out on the street. And no, I didn’t actually watch the news last night since I was too busy watching 20 episodes of Flip or Flop (which sadly isn’t a gay porn game show), but you’d think HGTV would break in to report on the adventures of Mickey Rourke’s dick.
If Phoebe Price is the freckled heart of San Diego Comic-Con, then Adrianne Curry is the itchy vagina. Every year, Peter Brady’s ex-wife celebrates Nerd Halloween by cramming her pussy into a suffocating chamber of hot spandex hell and slinking around dressed as the arch nemesis of Vagisil. Yesterday, she appeared to be some sort of grey yeast infection-causing cat or Sexy Panthro. I mean, she’s definitely not supposed to be Catwoman; every Z-list ho knows you wouldn’t dare try to upstage the legacy left by the greatest has-been to every put on a Catwoman costume, Sean Young. But to be honest, I can’t really be bothered to with Adrianne, since it’s her two hot friends who matter here.
The chick on the left looks like she’s dressed up as Tigra channeling a Zesty Taco Dorito and a Panama City Beach pole dance instructor (aka GORGEOUS). And the Poison Ivy on the right, well…someone better deliver the news to Phoebe Price, Uma Thurman, Kim Kardashian, and every single redhead sorority girl that’s ever squeezed into a slutty green bustier that Poison Ivy is officially DONE, because nobody can touch the fierce botanical glamour that this hot ho is serving. She had me at random plastic leaves glued to the tits and a circa 2005 Old Navy velvet hobo bag, but she sealed the deal by wearing $0.99 green fishnets with open-toed lucite heels. Fall brides, take note: this is the look.
Here’s more of Poison Ivy, a down-on-her-luck Tigra, and Adrianne, who’s working a serious case of Spanx Leg (when your Spanx are too tight and your leg looks like two Vienna Sausages kissing), as well as Adrianne trying her hand at Poison Ivy on Friday.
Some say that Comic-Con exists so that Hollywood studios can whore out their movies and make a zillionaire more dollars in merchandise. Others say that Comic-Con exists, because mothers of nerds fund it with their own money so that it’ll get their sons out of the basement and they can finally shampoo the carpet down there at their own risk. I say that Comic-Con exists solely to give international supermodel and the forever Queen of Cosplay Phoebe Price a place to display her beauty, talent, creativity and grace to the masses.
For her first day as the reigning ruler of Comic-Con, PP bought all the fake plants in the clearance section of Michael’s and wrapped them around a butchered Forever 21 prom dress to greet her subjects as Poison Ivy (at least I think she’s supposed to be Poison Ivy, but I guess she could also be a chicken cutlet covered in gangrene and fungus. Either way. GENIUS!). Poison Cutlets ruled over Comic-Con while sitting on a plant and almost exposing her red fern ivy. For the second day as the reigning ruler of Comic-Con, PP did herself up as Maleciginge (and I hear you saying, “More like Failificent.” You bitch). I know the St. Angie Jolie documentary Maleficent has made approximately $10 trillion dollars worldwide, but seeing PP as Maleficent made the executives at Disney realize that they made a major, major mistake. Maleficent wasn’t supposed to be some bony ass fairy with a soft spot (gross). Maleficent was meant to be a ginger goddess in a discount rented costume who puts young princesses into a coma with her powerful posing skills. Big mistake, Disney!
WARNING: If you’re going to watch that video, hit the mute button before doing so. If you don’t, the cops will show up to your front door or cubicle after your neighbors report hearing the blood-curdling sound of a high-pitched animal on helium getting choked out. Or the sound of David Beckham getting choked out. Same thing. If there’s a dog in the room with you, that dog will mistake those cries for a dog murder and bust on out of your house immediately. Hit MUTE before it’s too late.
When a family member came back home after being gone for 2 years, the family schnauzer lost its shit, mind, soul, breath and balance. Doggy could not believe that chick was back. If that dog could talk, that dog’d say, “I thought you were dead! I changed your bedroom into a kitting room!” The family says that the dog was so overfilled with emotion and excitement that it fainted. Doggy acted like some once-in-a-lifetime shit just happened to it like it won the lottery or read a sensical thought from Lindsay Lohan.
Before you call the animal police and report this family, they say in the YouTube description that they took their dog to the vet. The vet saw the video, examined the doggy and declared that everything is okay.
The schnauzer was taken to the vet, the vet saw the video, and everything is fine. No worries.
So according to them, the schnauzer doesn’t have a heart condition and isn’t suffering from seizures. Doggy’s heart just got filled with massive amounts of happiness and excitement. Or doggy caught a glimpse of her fanny pack purse thing and didn’t know how to deal with it.
Jesus in a robe worshiping to a higher dildo tells me that this year’s Gathering of the Juggalos is going to be an especially spiritual experience.
It’s the most beautiful time of the year again! It’s time for the annual Gathering of the Juggalos, which is like Coachella but with a million times more glamour, demureness and refinement. For the past 7 years, the Gathering of the Juggalos was held at Cave-In-Rock, Illinois, but the CDC, Corey Stoll in a busted wig and Hazmat had to shut it down, quarantine it and burn the soil after a demon monster made of Faygo and herpes pus was found. Yes, The Strain is a documentary. So this year, the Juggalos and Juggalettes have gathered at the Legend Valley Music Venue in Thornville, Ohio where they’ll politely sip chamomile tea while listening to the easy listening styles of their idols the Insane Clown Posse and reminiscing about the time they almost murdered Tila Tequila. Or they’ll get plastered on Fagyo and battery acid, punch each other’s eyeballs out in the mosh pit, 69 in the Port-A-Potties and laugh about the time they almost murdered Tila Tequila.
Yesterday was the first day of the Gathering of the Juggalos, so I’m sure there’s much more class and beauty to come. Westword has a ton of pictures, but I’ve thrown in a few pictures below. WARNING: These pictures are NSFW, because there’s nipples and there’s a one hundred percent chance that you’ll get hit in the eyes with a FUPA and it’ll leave you out of commission for the rest of the day. Glamour all up in this bitch!
Fresh off of sunning his vacation belly in Miami, Leonardo DiCatchAHo took his ass to St. Tropez where he showed us what a scene in Titanic would’ve looked like if Jack Dawson learned karate from Mr. Miyagi. While waiting for the 20 models he ordered to arrive in a crate, the leader of the Pussy Posse wowed his friends with his totally awesome karate moves. You know, a lot of us have said that Leo is two eyebrow-arches away from becoming Jack Nicholson, but I think we’ve had it wrong the entire time. That ponytail… That beard… The way it looks like his belly is gracefully jiggling as he delivers a serious, serious karate kick. If Leo replaces Lukas Haas with a panda and replaces his usual Victoria’s Secret Angel model girlfriend with two Russian sex slaves (“What’s the difference to him?” – you “Good point.” – me), then someone must stop him immediately. Because the world really doesn’t need or deserve two Steven Seagals.