Mondays are disgusting and gross and nobody should have to live through them, but they’re a little less disgusting and gross when you can rinse out the Monday crust from your eyes with these pictures of Prince Hot Ginge looking like an extra derpy wascally wabbit running from Elmer Fudd while playing touch rugby with a bunch of kids.
While Duchess Kate and Prince William continued to whore out every single detail of the standby king or queen baking in her uterus royale, someone in that family did ACTUAL work. At the Eccles RFC (whatever that means) in Manchester, England this morning, Uncle Hot Ginge took part in a teacher training session which included a game of touch rugby. I’m beginning to think that my mother did me wrong by having me 25 years too early and not moving to England right after she had me, because if she did I could be the one playing touch rugby with PHG. The most star-studded shit that happened to me in school was the time Tina Yothers came to visit us and it was square pizza day, so her visit was the second most exciting thing to happen that day.
These pictures once again tell me that PHG will make a perfect husband. He’s a ginge, he’s got access to those royal jewels, he’ll forever get that benefits money, he has sweet moves, he can teach you how to snort vodka when doctors tell you to cut back on drinking booze and he looks like he genuinely likes kids. So he can entertain the brats in the backyard of Buckingham Palace while you and THE QUEEN get drunk on spiked Earl Grey tea while gossiping about the ugly dress that slut tramp trollop Cumilla wore to the Downton Abbey viewing party.
And yes, this picture has already made a morning appearance in my Photoshop.
If animal control gets a call about a mangled, chewed-up worm wandering the streets of Southern California somewhere, can they please lure it over to them by waving a peen picture at it and then drop it in an envelope and mail it to me? That’s my b-hole. It jumped off of my ass after I read the words “PRINCE HARRY” and “SEX TAPE” in the same headline.
Shifty headline writers toyed with my emotions this morning when they wrote that Prince Hot Ginge and his on-and-off again piece Cressida Bonas enjoyed a sex tape together. The bad news is that PHG didn’t make a sex tape (as far as we know). The good news is that our down low parts are safe, because they’re not going to explode as we watch PHG hump on Cressida Boners while wearing a scrunchie cock ring. PHG and Cressida only went to see the movie Sex Tape together. The Sun (via The Telegraph) says that PHG and Toyota Cressida recently sat together in a darkened theater while watching Cameron Diaz and Jason Segel bone. PHG left in a car driven by his security team and Cressida left in a taxi. A source says that the night before, Cressida was at PHG’s 30th birthday party.
Duchess Kate kept her hand firmly planted on her stomach during Saturday morning’s ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Yorkshire leg of the Tour de France, which either means she’s knocked-up with the second future fetus king or she’s got a major case of gut rot. Kate covered her belly the whole time, which is usually a sign that it’s time to plug in the Corgi’s Choice Royal Ultrasound Kit (available at your local Tesco!) but I wouldn’t put it past that devious Kate-hating Queen to sneak some Ex-Lax into Kate’s morning crumpet so that she’d get the shits and have to stay home. Personally, I want to believe it’s gas; it’s more fun to imagine Buckingham Palace Barbie pretending to cough in an attempt to mask the sound of noisy gut burps.
Not to mention that Baby Prince George is a jealous baby who would rather take a bilby bite to the shin than share the spotlight with another royal rug rat, so he’s probably trained the Queen’s smartest corgi to replace Duchess Kate’s prenatal vitamins with birth control pills. It’s not a fool-proof plan, but at least it will buy him some time to research how to perform a DIY vasectomy on his Leap Pad. “There’s only one Baby Prince and it’s Baby Prince George, dammit!” he says, as he soaks his blankie in chloroform.
Here’s more of Duchess Kate with her hand glued to her stomach at the Yorkshire leg of the Tour de France. She even cut the ribbon with one hand! Who does this trick think she is, Dudley the Dragon? Speaking of puppets, what in the name of Howdy Doody is going on with Prince Hot Ginge’s pants? I assume he’s wearing those shapeless disasters after arriving in a pair of nut-hugging spandex bike shorts and being told to change because the cyclists found his Yorkshire Pudding bulge too distracting.
When I read the headline “Prince Harry Recalls Princess Diana’s Death, Cries in Brazil While Meeting With Local Kids” at UsWeekly yesterday, I immediately went on Amazon to search for butt tampons, because I’ll be menstruating now since that headline made me grow a uterus and ovaries.
Prince Hot Ginge is in Brazil during World Cup because DUH. Booze, sports and drunken hos who are into sports are the bat signal to his Batman. PHG took a little break from drinking caipirinha out of a blonde trick’s ass while cheering for England (I don’t even know if they’re still in it, but if they aren’t, just go with it) to visit ACER, a project that reunites underprivileged, orphan kids with members of their extended family. PHG met a woman named Cristina da Cruz Nascimento and her two young granddaughters Carolina and Karina whose dad is in the clink and whose mother was murdered. After he talked to them, PHG told reporters that his eyes squirted out fire tears from listening to the girls’ story, because it made him think about losing his mom when he was 12.
“I was completely overwhelmed and shocked. There are two little girls — I’m quite emotional — just looking at them. I wanted to talk about my own experiences, but there is no point because it is just so far removed. The bravery of them looking at me, smiling at me… I wanted to use my own experiences in a very small way, to try to give them a bit of understanding about the fact, [that I saw what they] are going through.
It seems ridiculous for me to say to these kids, how lucky and fortunate they are, considering their situation. Obviously they are far from that.Other kids like this that aren’t as fortunate as them. One of these kids here was five days old when he was left on the street by his mother, because she was on crack.
I’ve never blubbed in public as far as I can remember. It was amazing to hear those stories.”
Hold your tears in, PHG! Hold them in, I’m coming! I’ll stow myself away in the wheel-well of a plane headed to São Paulo and when I get there, I’ll take off all my clothes and roll myself in aloe gel. I’ll be your Kleenex, PHG, I’ll be your Kleenex! You can even snot on me. I might be into that. But seriously, PHG weeping while talking to two little girls who lost their mother is the Bambi’s dead mom scene for this generation.
And here’s PHG doing more charity stuff in Brazil yesterday.
All those English horse races are the same to me (I’m a racist, I know), so I always get Aintree and Ascot mixed up. Aintree is that horse race that brings out Britain’s most genteel and pristine flowers and by the end of the day, a lot of them are on the ground, spread eagle with the bottom of their dresses covering their faces and empty bottles of booze strewn around them. So I was getting my nipples ready for the moment when pictures would come out of Prince Hot Ginge drunkenly lying on the concrete in nothing but a top hat and a thong made out of his baby blue tie. But Prince Hot Ginge wasn’t at Aintree, he was Ascot, which is like Aintree’s snobby older cousin who suddenly has a posh accent, wipes his ass with silk, can go to a horse race on a weekday afternoon since he doesn’t work and looks down upon getting broke down, panty-flashing drunk in public. BOO!
PHG was on his best behavior at Royal Ascot (I’d let him cot my ass and I’m not even going to pretend to know what that means) today, because THE QUEEN was there with a pocketbook full of bricks that she wasn’t afraid to swing if one of her grandchildren started acting the fool. THE QUEEN’s piece Prince Philip was also there and I never understand why he goes to those things. He’s 93 years old and if I ever make it to 93, the last place I’d want to be is at a horse race where I’d have to stand in the grass as my 93-year-old saladitos-looking ass nutsack suffocated from being shoved into a stuffy suit. But he’s a good sport about it, I guess.
And there’s really nothing else that needs to be said about these pictures. It’s PHG in a top hat and holding an umbrella. I’d hit it all including that top hat and the umbrella he’s stroking.
And if he could really speak words, he’d scream, “I’m sending you to the gallows! Do not disobey your future king!” Those future kings of England grow up so fast.
It’s really hard out there for a baby prince, because Duchess Kate and Prince William dragged him out on a goddamn Sunday to entertain his subjects at some polo game at the Cirencester Park Polo Club, Cirencester, Gloucestershire, UK. Who ever says that those royals are nothing but mooches who suck in the wallets of the taxpayers obviously don’t know that the baby prince works on the weekends. As Prince Hot Ginge made me jealous of a horse’s back by putting his crotch on it while playing polo with his brother, Baby Prince George cried at his mom (who was dressed up like a WASPY Park Slope mother with a J. Crew card that has a $10,000 limit), made friends with a ball, had a premonition that one day he’ll rule all those hos and then probably pulled off a horse’s tail because he can.
And Baby Prince George did it all while wearing sharp-as-fuck pink overalls and nun shoes. Only the future King of England could pull off pink overalls and nun shoes. Tommy Girl is probably furiously searching to see if they still have those pink overalls in his size (which is the same size as Baby Prince George), but he’s wasting his time. Those overalls sold out before Baby Prince George even stepped out of his palace. Blue Ivy wish she had that impact.
“…and then The Queen was like ‘Maybe this year you’ll get married?’ and I was like LOL, sure Grandma, book the church and fire up the band.”
I have no idea what Prince Hot Ginge said to Duchess Kate to make her throw back her head and laugh like she was sitting front row at the open mic night at Buckingham Palace, but it doesn’t really matter. That’s just the effect PHG has on people when he speaks to them; you either swoon like Sailor Moon, desperately try to hide how moist your downstairs business got with both hands, or you express the joy you feel through either laughter or tears. And judging by Duchess Kate’s body language, she’s experiencing two out of three (her eyes are closed, so we can’t tell if her pupils have been temporarily replaced with a pair of throbbing anime hearts).
Here’s more of Prince Hot Ginge, Duchess Kate, and a self-conscious Prince William wondering why she never laughs like that around him, at the Trooping of the Colour today in London. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to decide which of these pictures of PHG will make it into the 365 Days of Harry desk calendar I’m making for Michael K:
The halls of Buckingham Palace will be filled with a high-pitched cackle and for once it won’t be Prince Charles loudly giggling as Camilla pegs him. The cackle will be coming from THE QUEEN who will be celebrating Britain’s latest victory over the US! Fox has killed the reality turd show that tricked a bunch of American girls (who were obviously raised in trees in the middle of a desolate forest) into thinking that they were competing to marry the real Prince Hot Ginge and become the newest Princess of England.
Deadline says that Americans wanted to divorce “I Wanna Marry Harry,” so Fox pulled it from its schedule and are replacing it with reruns of shows that people actually watched. “I Wanna Marry Harry” (alternate title: “I Need A Lobotomy“) only lasted 4 episodes and under a million pairs of eyeballs watched Tuesday night’s episode. Tomorrow, Fox will throw up all unaired episodes on their website and OnDemand.
The truth is, I’m not exactly putting on a black veil and throwing my body onto the coffin of “I Wanna Marry Harry” while screaming at God to take me too. Unlike 99.999999999% of this country, I watched every episode that aired and it was a painful experience (and this is coming from a piece of trash who thinks Flavor of Love is one of the best things to ever happen to my TV). On Tuesday night’s episode, Prince Mildly Attractive Blonde With A Bad Dye Job got rid of the one girl who has a brain cell and realized that the dude who’s supposed to be Prince Harry was probably not Prince Harry. I don’t know how many more episodes I could take and I don’t know how much more my dog could take of me screaming, “You dumb bitch, get it together,” at the screen.
Instead of traumatizing what’s left of my brain by binge watching all the episodes at once, I’m just going to skip to the last episode. (Yeah right, I’m totally going to binge watch all of the episodes, because my brain is a dumpster.) I hope that my favorite Maggie takes it all:
And when Not Prince Hot Ginge tells her that he’s a fake ginge and a fake prince, I hope Drunk Maggie shrugs and says, “Err, okay, do you still wanna get drunk and fuck?“
I hear your “Green is totally Prince Philip’s color!” jokes.
THIS BITCH. THIS GOAT.
No, that goat isn’t overflowing with smugness because it’s wearing an extra fancy, emerald green royal cape with an even fancier gold broach. It knows that cape is ugly and looks like a table runner bought at a Bombay Company outlet. No, that goat isn’t exuding potent smugness because it’s perfectly curled horns are dipped in sparkly silver paint. It knows gold is more its color. No, that goat isn’t smugging out of all of its pores because its goatee is more luxurious, soft and luscious than Duchess Kate’s Breck Girl mane. It has no reason to be smug since for years it has know its hair game shits on Duchess Kate’s hair game. It is farting and burping up massive amounts of smugness because Prince Hot Ginge is stroking it and giving it some love like it’s the only living thing in the world. Bitch is kicking away the jealous haters with its eyes. I guess there comes a time in every ho’s life when he or she feels jealousy toward a goat with silver-tipped horns.
At the 50th anniversary screening of Zulu in London yesterday, Prince Hot Ginge sashayed down the red carpet and he stopped everything to share a beautiful moment with that home wrecking ass smug goat (Yes that bitch is wrecking a home. It’s wrecking the invisible home I built with PHG in my mind.) After the goat and PHG bonded on the red carpet, they skipped the movie and got drunk on every kind of vodka together. We shouldn’t be surprised if in a few months we see a bunch of ginger goat babies wobbling around Buckingham Palace. Yes, I’ve thought about this way too much.
Either Prince Hot Ginge is yawning at the lack of skinny ass blondes in his vicinity or he’s saying to a ho, “HAAAAAAAAAY, bitch, get ready to see me twerk later!” Probably the latter.
Prince Hot Ginge and Prince William were in Memphis this past weekend for their friend Guy Pelly’s wedding to Holiday Inn heiress Lizzy Wilson and sadly the wedding reception didn’t happy in the conference room of a Holiday Inn. What is the point of being a Holiday Inn heiress if you’re not going to use the conference room of one of your family’s moderately-priced hotels to have your wedding in for free?! The wedding happened at some fancy country club on Saturday and today workers are still replacing the carpet that was ruined from all the boiling panty pudding that dripped out of the guests when PHG sashayed onto the dance floor and served up some hot royal moves. When PHG’s got the sweet nectar flowing through his veins and the beat tickles his ears he can’t help but not wiggle that ass. The Jimmy Church Band played the wedding and Jimmy Church tells The Mirror that PHG, Prince William and Princess Bea went wild, kept jumping around (royal mosh pit?) and wanted them to play all night. One guest said that PHG even “twerked” on the dance floor:
“Harry hit the floor pretty much as soon as the band started playing and was twerking into the early hours.”
Usually the thought of a rich white man in a suit twerking on the dance floor of a society wedding would be at the top of my list of Things That Are Tragic, but I can’t say that about PHG. Yes, when PHG twerks, he probably looks like a hen trying to lay an egg and wiggle out a dry fart at the same time, but it would still make my nipples shoot off of my body. The world needs video of this and I wouldn’t even care if it was shot in portrait mode. I also hope that this highly important story inspires Marc Cohn to do a remix of Walking in Memphis called Twerking in Memphis.
And here’s some really clear pictures that a paparazzo who hid in the bushes took of the royals.