I have a family thing I need to do today – No, my “family thing” isn’t go to Sunday mass at a Catholic church and then feed the homeless a lentil casserole I made myself and sing religious hymns to orphans while my relatives do an interpretive dance. I know that’s how you think I spend my Sundays. Anyway, I’ll be away from my laptop for most of the day and yes, I’m already getting the shakes and my body is starting to twitch from thinking about being apart from my life machine for so long. Every time I have to part with my laptop for more than 2 hours, I act out that scene in The Color Purple where Mister rips Nettie apart from Celie.
J. Harvey is going to cover the fuckery for me today. I’ll throw up an Open Post later today and if anything major happens at the SAG Awards (example: Jennifer Aniston goes Carrie on those bitches because she didn’t get nominated for an Oscar), I’ll post that too.
But for now, I leave you with the song that RiRi says is a “taste” of what her new album is going to sound like. RiRi’s new song called “FourFiveSeconds” is bad news for tramps and hussies who thought she was going to gift them with a bop they can do the slut drop to in the middle of the club, because this mess is the direct opposite of that. RiRi and Kanye West sing while Paul McCartney plays the guitar. I know, those words strung together make no sense. This song sounds like an acoustic cover of a boy band song sang by a bunch children in a Disney movie. I picture RiRi, Kanye and Paul sitting around a campfire, smelling like patchouli and cooking beans while yodeling out this song. Not to mention that on the cover photo, RiRi looks like a teenage runaway from the early 90s and Paul McCartney looks like a brown-headed Martina Navratilova.
If you haven’t already listened to it and want to know what it sounds like when RiRi, Kanye and Paul McCartney get together to do their best Tracy Chapman impersonation, here you go:
I’m trying to figure out what that screaming is behind Kanye’s singing? Is it a goat getting choked out or a bunch of kids screaming at Kanye to please, please stop?
Since there’s a lot of sweet nectar to guzzle down, a lot of gay apparel to don and a lot of family fights to be had, Allison and I are taking the rest of Jesus’ born day off and we’ll be back tomorrow unless we have to run away from home after pushing a Christmas tree on our family members because we didn’t get them cha cha heels. Or get arrested after a cop catches us boning a trick we met on Tinder in the Jehovah’s Witness parking lot after midnight (it’s a holiday tradition).
So for now I leave with this perfect holiday portrait of the lighter to my black eyeliner pencil, Danny Trejo, ruling his kingdom on his throne while flashing his chest pies and working a Dallas Cowboys Santa hat, a pair of old-school creased baggy cholo jorts and white socks with black shoes. That IS the look of 2014. You better bow down to Trejo Claus before that white doggy-in-waiting cuts you, because she looks like she’s looking for a fight.
Merry Christmas, hos!
Because I’ve had it with the sun and its warm rays heating up my ass cheeks (“Oh, poor you. #CaliforniaProblems” – Allison as she tries to keep her nalgas warm by sitting on a fresh-out-of-the oven baking sheet wrapped in a thick tea towel), I’m in NYC for the Thanksgiving holiday. It’s snowing and I’m into it. The only shoes I brought have soles as flat as Blake NoSoLively’s personality and I expect to slip, fall, bust my ass lips and bruise up my nalgas. It’ll be the most action I’ve had in years and the pavement and I will share a joint together afterward.
So because I’m in NYC and Allison will also be celebrating Thanksgiving with us American whores by swallowing an entire can of cranberries before washing it down with turkey soda, Dlisted will be on vacation mode for the next few days. To answer the question in your head: Yes, now that you mention it, we’re always on vacation mode. So consider this vacation vacation mode. Our regularly scheduled fuckery will resume on Saturday. That’s if whatever is left of my brain hasn’t completely melted and dripped out of my ears from all the boozing and trying to switch subjects when someone brings up Bill Cosby.
And now I leave you with these pictures of the Phoebe Price, the other white meat, hand jobbing a snowman’s carrot nose and licking her way to all kinds of diseases by putting her tongue on a fake lollipop at The Grove in L.A. the other day. PP truly suffers to give us beautiful pictures that are so elegant, so timeless and so artistic that you’d think they were ripped from the pages of French Vogue circa 1965. No, I don’t know why in the hell PP’s dressed like that, but I’m guessing she just got done with her shift as a go-go dancer at a Dia de los Muertos-themed bar and grill.
If you replaced Kate Moss’ bikini with a lime green extra tight Speedo and replaced that lit fag (I set that joke up for you) with a straw sticking out of a margarita and replaced that yacht floating off of the coast of Formentera, Spain with a plastic lounge chair, that picture would be me next week!
The VMAs are on Sunday and the Emmys are on Monday, so it’s a WONDERFUL time to go away and check into a hotel whose WiFi might be slower than Kourtney Kardashian’s speech pattern. You can always count on me to make smart decisions. I booked this trip months ago at the same time I scheduled my endoscopy thing (which happened last week) because I figured that THE SCOPE would poke out the burping hamster stuck in my chest and then I’d be able to celebrate by drinking all the tequila. THE SCOPE didn’t poke out the burping hamster stuck in my chest, but I did read on WebMD that massive amounts of tequila cures acid reflux (or is it makes it worse? I don’t remember), so I’m going to Cancun. While there, I also plan to have a commitment ceremony with THE SCOPE that throat boned me last week. We’re really in love.
Anyway, I plan to fart up crap about the VMAs on Sunday and Monday and throw up some Emmy shit on Monday night and Tuesday. Allison will be here and J. Harvey is going to help out until Labor Day, because somebody has to make a dick cheese joke. His ass will start on Sunday. My friend and the godbitch of Hot Slut of the Day, Lahoma, is also helping me out by doing a few HSOTDs. After Tuesday, I’ll be blogging here and there. I’ll be back full-time on Labor Day so make sure you have the broken crack pipes, empty wine cooler bottles and cum stains removed from the place before then. Hmmm, on second thought, leave the cum stains. They’ll blend in with the others.
When James Franco Instagrammed a picture of his hair looking like four bottles of Sun-In pissed all over it, I figured it was for a movie since James Franco suffers for his art. But based on his look, I guessed he was playing a creeper junkie who is obsessed with Aaron Carter and is trying to become him. I was close! James is playing a real-life mess named Michael Glatze who was a gay activist in San Francisco, but later found Jesus and “prayed away” his love of hard dick and man ass. Here he is shooting that shit on Long Island yesterday. Yup, James’ look seems about right. But, that hair color better be for the “newly straight Michael Glatze,” because I don’t know any gay dude who would walk around outside with a hair color that looks like the color of your barf after you ate a tub of orange sherbet and pasta covered in vodka sauce. (Cut to me in the 90s walking around with a hair color like that because Sun-In did me wrong.)
Anyway, this will be my last post of the day. My partner in fuckery, Allison, will take over for the rest of the day and tomorrow. For a while now, I’ve been dealing with some acid reflux shit that just won’t go away. I’ve bitched about it on here a few times. It feels like an obese burping gerbil is stuck in my chest. I’ve taken everything and have tried everything. I knew it was serious when a few weeks ago, my doctor looked me in the eye and said, “Stop drinking coffee and alcohol.” He might as well have said to me, “Do you want euthanasia via injection or should I just let you slowly shrivel and die while thinking about a summer without booze?” I don’t even know how I’m still alive! So when being on a no booze, no coffee and no other fun things diet didn’t work, my doctor ordered THE SCOPE!
So this morning, my doctor will shove a tube down my throat and I can already hear you making a “Bitch, that’s probably the most action you’ve gotten in centuries” joke in your head, so I won’t do that. There will be no more posts from me today unless I manage to get to my laptop and drool out an incoherent post in a half-sedated state about some shit you don’t care about. You know, I think I just described my job description to a T. Goodnight!
My ass lips are frozen and I think I’ve got hypothermia of the nipples, and it’s not because I made peen popsicles and overused them again. It’s because I’m in Denver where it currently looks like scenes from Nicole Kidman’s colonoscopy. Yes, I’m in Denver to cross off “pose in front of the Denver Carrington building from the Dynasty opening credits while wearing a power blazer with shoulder pads” off of my bucket list, but I’m also in Denver for a family thing and to spend as much time as possible at the most authentic and finest gourmet Mexican eatery Casa Bonita. Casa Bonita is this refined and elegant Mexican establishment in Lakewood, CO that is known for their ~SPECTACULAR~ diving show, signature sopapillas and food that probably tastes like Del Taco threw up on a pile of Taco Bell’s shit. In other words: Delicious! South Park paid tribute to Denver’s greatest attraction in 2003. This review from Yelp sold me on the fact that I must eat all my meals at Casa Bonita while I’m here.
Quite possibly the most revolting, repugnant, repulsive food in the history of the universe.
If you must go because your kids are bothering you to take them, do so while observing the following rules:
1. Do not — UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, including abject starvation — order anything with meat in it it.
2. Eat before you go there. You have to order food in order to stay, so get the cheapest thing on the menu, then play with the food and encourage your children to do the same.
3. The sopapillas are edible. This is not to say they’re good; no one said anything about good. The people who claim the sopapillas are good only say that because they are comparing them to the rest of the offerings. Compared to the rest of the food, the fetid stench of a deceased homeless man’s intestines would be appetizing.
4. Don’t go. Just stay home, eat Taco Bell, watch replays of Olympic diving, go to the bathroom several times afterward. That will give you the authentic Casa Bonita experience.
So since I’ll be spending most of my half-vacation in Denver dining at Casa Bonita and butt barfing my insides out on the toilet, I’ll only be posting a little and CAPTION THIS is taking a break. My partner in fuckery Allison will cover most of the foolery until I thaw out my b-hole when I get back to California on Wednesday.
And now, I leave you with pictures of ScarJo giving us pregnant face, corpse makeup and busted bandage shoes from the 90s while leaving the fancy British wedding of Princess Florence Von Preussen with her fiance Romain Dauriac who looks like Josh Harnett as Mason Verger.
Some nasty, mean, asshole of a dog got out of its leash and came at my dog and bit him during a walk today, so I’ve been at the vet all morning, which is why I’ve barely posted anything. My dog will be fine, but I can see the twinkle of vengeance in his eyes. I’ll only be posting here and there throughout the rest of the day, because I need to spend most of my time feeding him Gatorade through a straw, giving him pep talks, building his strength up, watching Million Dollar Baby with him (I am the Frankie Dunn to his Maggie Fitzgerald) and training him for round 2 with that nasty, mean, asshole of a dog. We will win this time! We will AVENGE him! No, I’ll probably spend the rest of the day spoonfeeding him water while I snort the pain pills the vet gave him as we watch videos of “animals riding Roombas” together. (Note: Of course I’m not going to snort all of the pain pills the vet gave him. I’ll let him snort up a line here and there.)
For now, I leave you with these gorgeous pictures of Janice Dickinson taking her pulled-past-the-point-of-no-return face for a walk in Beverly Hills yesterday.
Pictured: One of Dlisted’s new interns making a beef jerky and MD 20/20 run for the office this morning.
You already know that Dlisted is a first-class corporation (read: the opposite of that) that operates out of a first-class office building (read: the same room where I sleep and watch marathons of HGTV’s first ever soft-core gay porn show Cousins Undercover while eating Bisquick powder out of the box with a spoon) and now it’s even more professional thanks to my two new interns. I got a Cocosbuttload of amazing responses to my post, so I brought on two interns instead of just one.
So welcome Megan (better known to commenters as ISprainedMyUvula) and Allison. Starting today, Megan and Allison will drop in a post or three here and there in between doing behind-the-scenes important company stuff like organizing our offices’ move to Dildo Island. Don’t worry, I’ve already hazed them both by making them stare into the terrifying and hypnotizing eyes of Phoebe Price while cropping a dozen pictures of her and by searching Google for any new topless pictures of Carrot Top.
And I’ll let you decide which one of them looks exactly like Angelyne. (SPOILER ALERT: Neither of them. They wish!)
Starting this weekend and continuing for the next few weekends, I’m going to unplug the pile of dead and scorched brain cells in my head from Dlisted and hand the keys to the house over to Dlisted’s resident guest bloggers Sweetas and J. Harvey. I’ll still be spreading the foolery during the week and I may drop in on the weekends to make sure those Sweetas and J. Harvey haven’t stained the furniture (“But Michael, the furniture is already covered in jizz, cigarette burns, bottom shelf whiskey and bitter tears.” – you).
Sweetas and J. Harvey will be your weekend hosts starting tomorrow (but I’ll probably drop something in here on Sunday since The House of Versace aka the only television event in history that matters is on Saturday) and I’ll be back full-time on Monday. And for now, I leave your ass with pictures of 62-year-old Elvira at Knott’s Scary Farm in CA the other night. Elvira looks young enough to be Courtney Stodden’s broken condom baby. But then again, don’t we all?
After being closed for CENTURIES (read: about a week), the doors to the comment section are finally opening up again tomorrow. It feels like I’ve been yelling at an empty big white box for the past week, which I kind of have. There’s going to be one big change, though. (This is the part where I down three shots of rubbing alcohol with a splash of gin.) The comments are moving to Disqus and mostly because it has the word DIQ in it.
When I first brought up the idea of moving to Disqus last week, some readers emailed me and said “YAAAAASSS!” to that shit and some readers emailed me and said “NOOOOOOO!” to that shit. I’ve been playing with Disqus on both ends (the commenter side and the moderator side, and yes, that’s the first time in years I’ve played with anything on both ends) for a few weeks, because a lot of people told me I should consider moving to it. After playing with it on both ends (yes, I wanted a reason to type that a second time), I felt it was the best thing for the site. So we’re going to try it and see how it goes. The comments from the old site will be lubed up and shoved into Disqus, but logins won’t. I figured that some of you might want to register with a different email address or post anonymously, so the logins won’t be moved over. With Disqus, you can either register for a Disqus account, post as a guest or if you really want your friends and loved ones to know your feelings about the Kartrashians, you can use your Facebook, Twitter or Google+ account.
As for other site stuff, we’re still fixing a few glitches and tweaking here and there (“Me too!” – Amanda Bynes). Remind to never move again. Thanks for the emails and thanks to the boxed wine at Target and my weed dispensary for being there for a bitch.
And you probably didn’t read any of that since you were getting lost in James Haven’s puckering anus lips. Here’s James Haven keeping the skull cap alive while puckering next to Jon Voight and a lady guest at last night’s NYC premiere of World War Z.