It’s a good thing that the most gorgeous creature in Hollywood and beyond, Angelyne, always demonstrates the pure definition of ladylike behavior, because if she spread open her legs while getting out of her chariot of elegance, a rhinestone-encrusted pink rainbow would’ve shot out of her precious vagine and blinded everyone with its beauty.
The porcelain spawn of a Lisa Frank pug and Aphrodite caused temperatures in L.A. to rise to scorching levels the other day when she strut her beauty through a parking lot. My guess is that Angelyne, being the charitable angel that she is, was on her way to a home for the less glamorous to teach them how to burn eyeballs with their exquisiteness by wearing Dollar Tree wedges, stunning dresses bought at a Contempo Casuals going-out-of-business sale in 2001 and feathers stolen from a flamingo.
Speaking of burning eyeballs…
I was in NYC this past weekend for a wedding (yes, I pushed the flower girl out of the way to get to the bouquet) and I figured that since I’m out here, I might as well go to the beach since it’s been a long time since I’ve blinded East Coasters by sunning my half-naked slug body while guzzling down a Bacardi Breezer hidden in a Gatorade bottle. So while I do that, J. Harvey and Allison are covering for me. I’m still posting here and there, but I’ll be back full-time on Thursday.
In the meantime, singe your eyelashes on the pink flames of perfection shooting off of Angelyne.
Starting today, I’m going to take over the weekdays by myself and my partner in fuckery Allison will cover the weekends. So yeah, since every weekday post is coming from me, expect the spelling and grammar errors on Monday thru Friday posts to grow by 100% if I’m sober and by 200% if I’m stoned. (Or is it the other way around?) Allison will be weekends only, because she wants to spend her weekdays writing her Dean McDermott erotica novel titled Fifty Shades of Eh. I’m taking the weekends off now, because I want to spend more time with my other passions: boozing, boozing, watching old episodes of Central Park West and boozing. I don’t expect the daily post count to change much. So if you’ve got a drone and some meth to spare, e-mail me for my address, because I’m going to need some of that shit. (Monday thru Friday only. I’ll be on downers Saturday thru Sunday.)
And now I leave with these amazingly artistic pictures of international supermodel and foodie Phoebe Price doing a beyond avant-garde photo shoot at IHOP in Sherman Oaks, CA on 57 cent pancake day a couple of weeks ago. If Linda Evangelista did a photo shoot in vintage Christian Dior couture at the Louvre, it wouldn’t be 1/1000th as elegant and artistic as this. Chicken Cutlets and discount pancakes are the new chicken and waffles.
It’s another damn programming note! I promise this is the second to the last one of the summer… unless Prince Hot Ginge offers me an all-expenses trip to his chonies. Today is my born day (or as my family likes to call it, the anniversary of the day that they all learned that accidents really do happen!) and since it’s the 15th anniversary of my 21st birthday, I’m spending it DRINKING. Usually, I do my birthday drinking on the kitchen floor while eating an Albertsons sheet cake with my hands, but this year I’ve been given the gift of
wine tasting wine guzzling in Napa. So while I’m busy asking “Um, can you please tell me where the Boone’s Farm Vineyard is?” and wine guzzling, J. Harvey is filling in for me and Allison is posting as usual. J. Harvey is covering for me today and Sunday. I’ll be back on Monday if I don’t turn into a damn grape from “tasting” all that wine.
Speaking of messy drunks (I’m talking about J. Harvey, not me, of course), here’s a video of a raccoon in a state many of us have been in before: drunk, lonely and messy. After spending a long day of taming alligators, raccoons like to unwind by breaking into warehouses full of booze to get fucked up. Gothamist says that this video of Drunk Raccoon was shot at Union Beer Distributors in Brooklyn. That raccoon. He probably got dumped by his piece and after he drowned his sorrows in free booze, he drunk texted the evil trick who broke his raccoon heart before passing out in a dumpster behind Pizza Hut.
We really should all be so lucky to have some funny dudes narrate our drunken antics. Now this is my kind of Planet Earth episode.
I was on “standby” for jury duty this week and every time I called in, the automated voice told me that I didn’t have to drag my ass in. When the automated voice told me on Wednesday night, I didn’t have to come in on Thursday, I thought I was home free. Why would they call me in on a Friday? Don’t the judges take off early on Friday so they spend the afternoon sipping the tears of the criminals they convict by their pool? I jinxed myself, because they called me in. I have jury duty today and if they call me in for a case, I already plan to get out of it by saying, “Before you start asking me questions, I just want to let you know that I watched 3 episodes of Shahs of Sunset last night SOBER.” The judge will have no choice but to immediately dismiss me since I’m obviously not right of mind and not good at making decisions. Actually, maybe I won’t say that, because if I do, there’s a good chance the judge will drop a 5150 on my ass.
Anyway, so that’s why this Open Post is up earlier than usual. The courthouse has WiFi, apparently, so hopefully I’ll be able to throw some shit up today. Also, Allison is posting today. For now, I leave you with these scalding hot pictures of gorgeousness of the ginger poultry supermodel blossom Phoebe Price (who is dressed up like some kind of bondage ringmaster vampire) showing every model, past, present and future how it’s done while doing a photo shoot for French Vogue’s September issue on the steps of the Louvre in Paris. No, she’s posing for the paps at Sham Ibrahim’s art exhibit in Hollywood last night. Same thing, right?
Remember when St. Angie Jolie’s fame whoring leg took over the Oscars? Of course you don’t, because that boring memory has been replaced by this much more relevant moment from a much, much, much, MUCH, much more relevant and talented star!
So, we finally know the answer to the question of the week: Why wasn’t the Queen of Cannes at Cannes? Phoebe Price couldn’t be bothered with Cannes this year, because she was too busy spreading her beauty and charisma at an event that has more elegance and artistry on the tip of its clit than Cannes has in its entire being. On Wednesday night, Chicken Cutlets brought her ginger poultry glamour to the most important awards show in the world: The Reality TV Awards in L.A. The hardest-working supermodel and seat filler in the game wore an exquisite gown that was cut so high that everyone got a peek of her freckled Filet O’Fish. Chicken Cutlets served up some surf and turf and everybody wanted several servings. Yes, I hate myself a little more today for typing that.
On that note…
This weekend, I’m going to Las Vegas to do a 2-day residency at the penny slots at Treasure Island (or whatever casino has penny slots). In between that, I’m going to catch a double feature of MESS. I’m seeing Our Lady of Cheetos and Mimi (that’s only if her unicorn “bronchitis” doesn’t get worse). I’m driving to Vegas this morning, so I’m clocking out early. (Yes, we clock in and out Flinstones-style.) Allison is covering most of the day and J. Harvey is filling in for me on Sunday. The Billboard Music Awards are on Sunday and if it produces any dingles of fuckery, I’ll post it that night. That’s if I don’t get arrested and charged with disturbing the peace for trying to recreate Nomi’s pole dance from Showgirls at Cheetahs.
For now, I leave you with these pictures of Chicken Cutlets’ chocharonies. Chicken bacon is what’s for breakfast!
I’ll do this announcement in a Leonardo DiCatchAHo minute, because I know you want to be left alone with these pictures of Mario Lopez looking like he’s trying to smile for the paps while holding in a fart in Miami over the weekend. The douche-induced rash clinging to the walls of humanity’s vagina was in Miami this past weekend to be the Grand Marshal in their gay pride parade, because when you think of gay pride, you automatically think of Mario Lopez.
But anyway, Allison is on vacation until Thursday (read: she’s totally getting work done in Brazil), so you’re stuck with me and me alone until then. It’ll just be you and me. We’ll do each other’s nails and practice kissing stuff on pillows. If you’re thinking you’re going to go through my bag while I’m sleeping and pull out a pair of my panties to put in the freezer, the joke will be on you. You know very well that my slutty, always-ready ass doesn’t wear chonies.
Now I leave you to fap to these pictures of Mario and his cum bowls (aka his dimples) in your cubicle. And if AC Slater really doesn’t do it for you, you can still make the most out of these pictures. You can cleanse your vagina by rubbing it against his douchiness.
If you’re in the NYC area this weekend and wonder why it smells skankier than usual, don’t worry too much. It’s just my tramp ass walking around. I’m going to NY today, because one of my new missions in life is to drop my ass in front of Fran Lebowitz’s apartment building while wearing extra tight butt-clenching shorty shorts. Because I’ll be busy doing that, J. Harvey (speaking of tramps) is going to cover for me. I’ll still be around and will throw up some posts daily. Things will go back to the usual on Tuesday. For now, I leave you with these pucker-inducing pictures of a fresh-out-of-rehab Jon Hamm giving you showman poses and limp jazz hands at the premiere of Mad Men’s final season in L.A. last night. Because of the way he’s posing, I totally picture The Hammaconda throwing a dazzling wink while wearing an extra, extra, extra large top hat.
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.