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 Of course you don’t, because that boring memory has been replaced by this much more relevant moment from a much, much, much, MUCH, much more relevant and talented star!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.
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.