As I said in Night Crumbs last week, Carla sadly didn’t work out as Dlisted’s weekend provider of foolery. Her reign was short and sweet and I loved everything she did here. Now I’d like to introduce to our new weekend writer. I know, I’m like a slutty parent introducing his kids to a new “uncle.”
Once again, Dlisted’s newest weekend writer isn’t Phoebe Price. Chicken Cutlets has much more important contributions to civilization to make, like posing for extremely excited paps (see: the ones behind her) in a custom Armani Privé couture ensemble (or a clearance bin Frederick’s of Hollywood catsuit, funeral curtains, a Maidenform bra and Capezio chonies).
Dlisted’s newest weekend writer is Martin! Martin is from New York and may be weirder than me. The other day, both of our dogs were suffering from the wet shits at the same time, so we bonded over that on IM. I know, you really needed that information in your brain today. But anyway, Martin will handle the weekends while I’m off doing weekend shit. Like today, I’m going to go through my closet and donate anything I can’t fit into anymore. So basically, later tonight, a drunken me will be crying on a giant pile of reminders of a skinnier me as my bare closet has 3 things hanging in it.
Martin may need a minute to get comfortable in this house of messiness, so bear with us as we figure shit out (although, I’ve been doing this for a long time and I’m still figuring shit out). And now I leave you with these gorgeous pictures of PP paying homage to the fame whores of yore by busting out an “accidental” crotch slip in front of the paps. I know you’ll be having fried chicken skins for lunch.
No, no, Dlisted’s new weekend writer isn’t the pride and joy of this site Phoebe Price. There’s no server in the world that is strong enough to handle all of the traffic that her words of wisdom would bring. Besides, Chicken Cutlets is much too busy doing important humanitarian work like making the world a much more beautiful and elegant place with demure and inspirational photo shoots that look straight out of a Foster Farms pin-up calendar.
PP stuck puzzle pieces, bared her raw butt cutlets and served up jigsaw cooch for a photo shoot celebrating National Puzzle Day yesterday. I used to think that all of those made-up holidays were dumb as shit, but I don’t think that anymore. They obviously exist to give goddesses like PP a reason to get naked and bring the sophistication in a theme photo shoot for the paps in her storage unit.
Dlisted’s new weekend writer is Carla and I could write a thousand words about her, but the only thing you really need to know is that she’s from America’s foremost provider of fuckery: Florida! Although, I’m not totally convinced that she’s actually from Florida because she’s never been arrested for selling bath tub meth in the parking lot of a Walmart while not wearing pants. And if you’ve never been arrested for selling bath tub meth in the parking lot of a Walmart while not wearing pants, can you really say that you’re from Florida?
Carla is taking over as your new weekend provider of foolery. Allison is moving into weekdays with me. Bear with our asses as Carla settles in and we work out the kinks. I know, I say that like this mess of a site has ever worked out its kinks.
As a special Christmas gift this year, the San Diego Zoo transported their incarcerated polar bears to their native land by dropping 26 tons of fluffy white snow into their enclosure. “If they really wanted to transport those polar bears to their native land, they would’ve dropped 10 trillion gallons of melted ice cap water into their enclosure,” said a Debbie Downer somewhere.
Hos in NYC are practically topless sunbathing while sipping an egg nog daiquiri on Christmas Eve Day, but all the way over in San Diego, Kalluk the Polar Bear, Tatqiq the Polar Bear and Chinook the Polar Bear got to roll around in ice cold snow. The New York Times says that the snow gift was paid for with donations to the zoo’s Animal Care Wish List program. To make shit even more exciting for the polar bears, the zookeepers hid yams, carrots, melons and beef bones in the snow. San Diego Zoo’s senior keeper said this about the powdery gift:
“This was a special day for the polar bears, and I could tell they really loved it. It was great seeing them roll around in the snow, showcasing their natural behaviors.”
Who knew that a polar bear’s natural behaviors also look like the behaviors of a coked-up cokehead. This video is like Charlie Sheen’s recurring wet dream. In nearly every second of this video, I pictured the polar bears screaming, “Cooooooooooooooke,” in their heads.
Speaking of an ice cold snowy tundra, I’m going to Denver for a few days for New Year’s. I’ll be there to visit family, but I’ll mostly be there to once again dine on the finest Mexican food the world has to offer at the
Michelin-starred Walmart Tire Shop-starred Casa Bonita. So because I’ll be busy clogging up the Denver sewer system after eating at Casa Bonita, posting will be a little lighter next week. Allison is helping me out on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Allison is also traveling this Saturday, so I’ll be filling in for her by farting up a post or three. Everything will be back to normal on Monday, January 4th. That’s if I don’t get arrested for barging into the board room of a random company in Denver to let everyone know that I’m the new majority shareholder and if they don’t go along with my plans I’ll fire them all on the spot!
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.