From what I’ve seen, my favorite looks from the Gathering of the Try-Hard Assholes (aka Coachella) have been Papa Joe’s extremely hot “lesbian dance teacher” ~lewk~, RiRi’s bedazzled Invisible Hipster ensemble and Jaden Smith’s girlfriend’s oversized ode to Dexy’s Midnight Runners. And one of my other favorite Coachella looks wasn’t even worn at Coachella. Aaron Carter brought Coochella to Nevada by wearing an acid wash Florida tuxedo. Actually, trick looks more like the headliner of a festival called Methcella.
While looking like a cross between an American Honey extra and a Central Florida lot lizard pimp/Oxy dealer, the on-and-off again Trump Tramp performed a show in the
parking lot of a shuttered Dollar General on the outskirts of Laughlin pool area of the Flamingo in Las Vegas. Many people’s brains fart out a geyser of question marks after hearing that Aaron Carter is still doing shows in 2017, but no one is farting out question marks like the dude in the glasses who is thinking to himself, “Why does Puck from The Real World look like such a mess and why is he performing at this pool party?”
Because we here at Dlisted take the 2000-ish anniversary of the reboot of Jesus very seriously, we’re taking the day off to go to Catholic mass (read: find a liquor store that’s open because my stupid ass just realized that I’m mostly out of the nectar of the gods) and pray to our lord and savior (read: pray to God to have pity on me while I’m bent over a toilet and throwing up a vomit stream of rum and Snickers eggs).
So I leave you with these pictures of Dlisted’s lord and savior, Phoebe Price, demurely bending over as her dog Henry thinks, “For real, why me?“, during an Easter-themed photo shoot on the ho stroll. No holiday is complete until we’ve all seen pictures of PP serving up a double dose of freckled chicken paillard while gorgeously dressed for the season. I am raising several glasses to Jesus this afternoon, because if he never rose from the dead, the world would’ve missed out on these pictures of Chicken Cutlets bringing Easter glamour and beauty to the stroll. And in nearly every picture, PP’s adorable sidekick Henry Price is thinking to himself, “I really do blame you for this, Jesus.”
No wonder why Day 1 of Coachella headliners, Radiohead, kept abruptly leaving the stage. I’m sure it had nothing to do with sound glitches, as TMZ reported. It was probably because they clocked Ariel Winter’s “booth babe at the AVN Awards preshow” outfit and thought that it was the wrong kind of venue for them.
First, check out the dramatic Radiohead video with the bonus commentary included.
But back to Ariel. Can you remember when the standard Coachella lewk was “woodland flower hippie nymph on shrooms?” Ariel’s having none of that. It’s all about embodying the “feeling herself” member of the staff at a My Little Pony-themed car wash now. Ugh, doesn’t this event take place in a desert-like area? Imagine wearing that strip club Rapunzel mess on your head at a festival in the desert?
Here’s more pics of Ariel and her boyfriend, Levi Meaden, at Coachella in the gallery below.
This Open Post is going up much earlier than usual, because for some strange weird bizarre reason gossip is slower than a stoned slug’s jizz shot. I know, it’s crazy that there’s not much happening on a Friday before we celebrate Jesus’ second ultra dramatic entrance. (Jesus was almost as good as Tandi Imandi Dupree when it comes to making an ultra dramatic entrance.) I bet it’s slow because famous tricks are preparing for the impending World War III by stocking their end-of-the-world bunkers with the necessities (like LaCroix, gluten-free soy-free dairy-free plant-free protein-free bars, a SoulCycle cycle and a generator that will charge their phones so they can take bunker selfies until the end of time).
But anyway, here’s Bradley Cooper showing up to some movie studio yesterday in Hollywood, CA in the casual L.A. uniform of scrunched up sweats, new-ish sneakers and $400 sunglasses. Like many, whenever my hard-up and desperate ass sees pictures of a celebrity dude in grey sweatpants, my eyeballs become magnifying glasses that search for VPP (visible peen print). On a scale between Ken Doll and Justin Theroux filming The Leftovers, these sweat pics are somewhere in the middle. I think.
And yes, Jesus died so that I could post pics of B. Coop in grey sweatpants on a slow Good Friday.
While reading Go Fug Yourself earlier today, my heart went still and my breath was taken when a sparkly ray of gentility fucked my eyeballs raw. If you’re an aficionado of elegance, then you already know that this perfectly tanned dew drop of gorgeousness is former WAG, TV presenter, beauty advisor and overall pride of Britain Lizzie Cundy. Yes, Cundy. That’s her ex-husband’s last name and she didn’t change it back when they got divorced. Who would? When your last name looks like a typo of “cunty,” it’s a keeper.
Lizzie pretty much just gets attention for running around half-naked, and well, since my forever fashion icon Jodie Marsh’s thirst has been quenched and she’s retired from that game, somebody’s gotta bring the THOTness.
Lizzie Cundy brought loads of demure beauty to the UK premiere of the movie The Hatton Garden Job in London on Tuesday night. It looks like Lizzie was at somebody’s grandma’s house doing her laundry when she realized that she was late for the event and had no clothes to wear, so she yanked a runner off of granny’s dining table, threw it on her body and called it good.
And sure, Lizzie could’ve really made the angels cry by ditching those basic boring black chonies and bedazzling her cooze area, but she knew that us peons would probably get a concussion from passing out on the floor after being hit with that much demureness. Thank you, Lizzie.
Here’s more of Lizzie, who is kind of giving ex-Girl Next Door Bridget in the face, at The Hatton Garden Job premiere and also pictures of her working a highly conservative look at a cancer research benefit.
Louis Vuitton threw a party at the Louvre in Paris last night to celebrate their collaboration with Jeff Koons. Jeff Koons designed a line of tacky and hideous bags for them and you can see some of them here, but really, it just looks like the Louvre wiped its asshole with Louis Vuitton purses. The knock-offs are probably going to look better.
Louis Vuitton’s regulars, like Michelle Williams, Jennifer Connelly and Miranda Kerr, came out and so did Justin Theroux and Jennifer Aniston. After the party, Justin and Jennifer must have been planning to take a time machine back to the 90s to troll clubs for a third. Because they are giving me “90s swingers on a mission” hotness. They look like rejected Bret Easton Ellis characters.
Pulling off leather pants isn’t easy (and I mean that in more ways than one) and Justin isn’t doing it, but I’m still loving this look. Justin looks like that douche at the club whose got a thick cloud of Acqua di Gio following him and who tells the chicks that he’s an exotic car dealer when he’s really a salesman-in-training at a Hyundai dealership. The Roxbury Guys would look at him like, “What an asshole.”
Justin’s bulge isn’t as BOOM as it has been in the past, but it does sort of look like two small guinea pigs spooning in a trash bag.
I bet the line that Justin heard the most all night was, “I can’t wait to see you in paste pants later.”
And here’s more pictures from last night including Jennifer Connelly who covered herself with four layers of nope.