When God’s god Kanye West announced that he has changed the title of his new album from Swish to Waves, many didn’t like it because “swish” is the sound that a toilet makes when it flushes and that seemed more fitting. Wiz Khalifa also wasn’t happy about Kanye naming his album Waves, because according to the tattooed scarecrow, the words “wave” and “wavy” belong to rapper Max B. I guess you could say that Waves caused waves. I know, I know….
Kanye tweeted “all respect” to Max B when he announced his new album title, but Wiz still wasn’t into it. Wiz told Kanye that he needs to go back to Swish and “hit this KK and become yourself.” Wiz wasn’t talking about Kim Kartrashian when he typed KK, he was talking about his own strain of weed called Khalifa Kush. That tweet still set Kanye off and he went after a trick.
Kanye handed his black unicorn pelt Givenchy fanny pack to North West, pulled off his $2000 army bomber jacket (you know, the one you can get for $35 at the army surplus store) and asked Riccardo Tisci to hand him a bottle of lube before he greased up his face and stepped into the ring. Kanye’s MacBook Air (or whatever he’s using now) is probably lying on a table in the morgue section of the Genius Bar, because he pounded the shit out of it while throwing poetic tweets at Wiz. Many of Kanye’s tweets (which he deleted) are after the cut. Warning: You will overdose on Vitamin D (for delusion) while reading them:
You may remember (“How could I forget?” said everyone who still has the image of The Game’s giant party sub dick seared into their retinas) that two weeks ago, rapper-turned-aspiring fuck prose artiste The Game posted a picture of himself in his underwear to Instagram with a wall of nasty hashtags. Well, I have good news for those of you who looked at The Game’s lycra-wrapped bulge and yelled: “MORE! I DEMAND MORE!!!”; it looks like this is going to be a weekly thing now.
Seen above posing as a constipated Douchedini, Justin Bieber did a cover interview with Complex magazine where he naturally burped up a few insufferable dingles. Such as, the Biebs doesn’t think that whole assholetastic “pissing in a janitor bucket” move was a big deal, because the “dude at the club” told him he could do it since the bathroom was far away. But it’s his words about Jesus, Christianity and the universe that really prove to us that he’s not just a little popped anus pimple that refuses to heal. He’s also a spiritual philosopher and deep, deep thinker.
Besides Drew Barrymore and Debi Mazar who were extremely hot as Sugar and Spice, Batman Forever was a neon turd and apparently it was a huge, messy shit show behind-the-scenes too. Ever since that mess came out, there’s been rumors that there was a lot of fighting going on during filming and that Jim Carrey and Tommy Lee Jones got along as well as two Rockaway black bears. Jim Carrey was on Howard Stern (via UsWeekly) yesterday to promote Dumb and Dumber To and the rumors about him scrappin’ with TLJ on the set of Batman Forever came up. Jim Carrey said that yeah, the rumors are true, and then he told a story that should make all of us wish we will get into a fight with TLJ just once. Because he will spew out some poetic hate that will make your soul blossom.
I don’t know if this is the result of getting divorced again or a side-effect from using discount vegan peroxide, but something questionable seeped into Pamela Anderson’s skull, curled up around her brain, lit a joint laced with angel dust and model airplane glue, and whispered a string of words that would go on to become the most incredible piece of prose. Go ahead and tell your artsy 16-year-old cousin who keeps trying to change her name from Ashlee to Azriel to pack it in; she’ll never be as good at ~deep~ Facebook poetry as C.J. Parker from Baywatch.
On Tuesday afternoon, Pamela Anderson posted an untitled 1000-word poem to Facebook and it’s so profound that even after having read it multiple times, I still have no idea what the hell she’s trying to say. One minute she’s musing about Burberry trench coats and Pablo Neruda, and the next she’s talking about Russian girls shoving loaves of bread up their asses. The entire thing felt like a Baywatch Nights fever dream, which is to say, it is beyond genius and Pamela should start making room on the mantle for the dozens of Pulitzer Prizes it will surely win her.
My only critique is that a poem so avant-garde really should have been published where it would have been appreciated, like The New Yorker or The Paris Review. But I suppose Pamela chose Facebook to make her poetry accessible to dummies like you and me. Thank god she remembered to add “Copywritten Pamela Anderson” at the end, otherwise a less-talented poet like John Ashbery might try to steal it and pass it off as one of his own.
You can read the whole piece here. I suggest taking a hit off a bong or a can of Reddi-wip first to fully appreciate the complex word play and intense visual imagery.
Missed the Woody Allen tribute – did they put the part where a woman publicly confirmed he molested her at age 7 before or after Annie Hall?
— Ronan Farrow (@RonanFarrow) January 13, 2014