If Glastonbury was still going on, a pair of wellies would’ve been hung on a pole at half-mast today, because the bohemian hipster duke and duchess of England may have wrapped their dead engagement in an antique lace tablecloth and buried it on a bed of dried wild flowers while humming the melody of a Mumford & Sons song.
This break-up news came out of The Sun’s mouth and was delivered to us by The Daily Mail, so it’s like listening to Benita Buttrell from In Living Color tell you something that Babette from Gilmore Girls whispered in her ear. A source claims that Sienna Miller and Tom Sturridge’s recent holiday in Formentera, Spain with their 3-year-old daughter Marlowe (pictures below) was their last attempt to Super Glueing their broken relationship, but it didn’t work. A source says that nothing ESCANDALO happened. Sienna and Tom just decided that they were done touching genitals after 4 years together. The source went through the file marked “generic break-up statements given by an anonymous source” and handed their choice over to The Sun.
“Tom and Sienna split a few weeks ago but still love and respect each other as friends and parents. It’s a very amicable break-up and they intend to remain great friends.”
Sienna’s rep had nothing to say about this and neither did Tom’s.
I refuse to believe this rumor until the secret alarm that is hidden in every wedding band goes off, alerting married people to watch out! Sienna Miller and her legendary bull dozer vagina are back!
Sienna is shooting a movie with Ben Affleck soon, so I was already getting my eyeballs ready for tabloid story after tabloid story about how those two are fucking until all the air in his trailer’s tires seeps out. It’s going to be thirty times worse now. But on behalf of proud sluts everywhere, I’m begging our slut leader to not use her chocha to pick the low-hanging fruit that is Ben Affleck. Sienna is better than that! Okay, she should do it once and then keep her coochie moving.
Leave It To Dita Von Teese To Serve Up Flawless Retro Goth Alice In Wonderland Table Runner Realness
I don’t know if that’s actually a look, but it is now. Katy Keene’s closest living relative Dita Von Teese showed up at the amfAR Gala in Cannes today looking like a recently-divorced teacher from Ever After High who has decided to use up all her vacation days on a two week trip to Las Vegas with her best gals, Dottie and Trixie, and I love it. It’s like Alice in Wonderland meets Cry Baby meets a good push-up bra and a box of Clairol Nice n’ Easy #122. I feel like at any moment, a white rabbit is going to pop out of her cleavage and offer me a martini.
She also totally reminds me of one of the bedrooms in my aunt’s old house. My aunt had two fancy guest bedrooms, the white room and the blue room. I didn’t like staying in the white room because there were two old Raggedy Ann dolls that freaked me out, so I always picked the blue room. The blue room was opulent as hell; it was like Versailles farted on Liberace. Everything was covered in blue satin and embroidered with fancy beads and tassels and various decorative shim-shams. It was a wash-your-hands-twice-and-don’t-touch-nothing kind of room.
Basically what I’m trying to get at is that Dita Von Teese looks very classy and all, but she’s missing a decorative bolster pillow placed carefully on her boobs.
Here’s more of Dita at the amfAR Gala in Cannes, as well as a bunch of other fancy dressed famous types, like Rita Ora, Adrien Brody, the tallest of the Kalabasas Klan, and Robin Thicke. Yes, Robin Thicke is still getting invited to things.
Right now, Leonardo DiCatchAHo is getting a plank installed on the side of his yacht for his piece-of-the-hour to walk off of after he’s done with her, and that could only mean one thing: IT’S CANNES TIMES! It’s that time of year when actor types pimp out their movies, low-rent fame whores frolic on
yachts sailboats dinghies and movie critics get life from cutting bitches up in their reviews (see: last year’s glorious Grace of Monaco reviews).
The Cannes Film Festival opened tonight with the premiere of Sharknado 3. No, I wish. It opened with the premiere of La Tete Haute. Lupita Nyong’o started this shit off right by giving us some “Mrs. Roper goes to Miami in 1977″ glamour in a Gucci gown that was decorated with what looks like herpes-ridden flowers. Lupita also took us all back to 7th grade science class by serving up some sternum for days. Lupita twirled, twirled, twirled on the red carpet and she twirled so much that she created a strong wind that blew all the way to Atlanta and knocked over self-proclaimed twirl queen Kenya Moore.
Lupita looks fine and everything, but I have one very important question: WHERE IN “DOES SPIRIT AIRLINES FLY TO CANNES?” HELL IS PHOEBE PRICE?! How can Cannes even start without its queen there to fill a seat? Chicken Cutlets is usually at Cannes every single year, because she has a poultry heart made of gold and knows that the festival needs her A-list beauty, glamour and talent. So where art thou, Chicken Cutlets? She probably decided that Cannes is over and it’s all about the Burbank International Film Festival now.
And here’s some others that are NOT Phoebe Price at the opening ceremony tonight. I’m still trying to figure out which superhero Karlie Kloss came dressed as.
“Face, face, work it, sell it. It’s that time of the month and there isn’t a tampon big enough to handle all this fierce mythological leakage” is what I assume was running through Jennifer Lopez’s brain while she was posing for her life. I know, that was redundant – JLo is always posing for her life. But last night she was working her sexy cat face hard, because it’s the only trick she had left to draw any attention away from that blood-barfing dragon thing on her dress.
I know it’s probably supposed to be fire, but let’s be honest with ourselves – it looks like blood. Either that, or that dragon ate too many Twizzlers during a red wine bender and is heaving them all up. Regardless, I can definitely see some Game of Thrones-obsessed boyfriend trying to recreate this dress for his girlfriend using a beige body stocking and $200 worth of sequins and stick-on gemstones from Hobby Lobby. “It appears your dress has lit my loins on fire, m’lady.”
Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe that dragon is trying to yank the attention away from JLo’s killer body-oddy-oddy. For real, where is she hiding her Spanx? She’s not wearing any, you say? Oh, cool (loud shame weeping).
Here’s more of JLo, as well as Donatella Verrr-SOH-chee, who was dressed in some kind of weird black and red fishnet…sticker book…thing, and a bunch of other famous types in red dresses. Oh, and also Sienna Miller in what appears to be a child’s sized tuxedo with no shirt.
Pics: Splash, Wenn.com
Less than two weeks ago, Bradley Cooper was seen mouth humping on Suki Waterhouse at Coachella, but the on-again portion of their on-again off-again relationship might actually be the off-again again, because Page Six is saying that on Wednesday night he was spotted on a date with Cristiano Ronaldo’s former piece and slutty couture enthusiast Irina Shayk. Damn, Bradley Cooper works fast! (“Yeah…Bradley Cooper…” thinks Bradley Cooper’s PR people).
A “source” says Sack Lodge from Wedding Crashers (never forget) and Irina know each other through mutual friends, and have been hanging out for about a week. Last night they went to see Finding Neverland on Broadway. The source doesn’t say, but I choose to believe they also made their butt holes beg for mercy by having dinner at Guy’s American Kitchen & Bar, because a Broadway date isn’t a Broadway date unless you spend 2/3 of the show uncomfortably shifting around in your seat trying to hold in a fart.
Irina Shayk is a perfect match for Bradley Cooper: she’s 29-years-old (under 30 – check), a Sports Illustrated model (model – check), and she dated Cristiano Ronaldo for 5 years (minimum 3 years on-the-job experience with mirror-obsessed pretty boys – check).
The only problem is that hair; IT’S TOO GORGEOUS. You know Bradley Cooper is the type who has to have the best hair in the relationship (which might explain why Suki always looked like a bunch of teenage rats had a slumber party in hers), so I’m not sure I see this ending well. Maybe they’ll work something out during contract negotiations, like a serum ban or something.
And speaking of Broadway, here’s Bradley Cooper strolling around NYC with Broadway superstar Sienna Miller on Tuesday.
As I said earlier, the Oscars were a boring dress parade and I’ve seen more exciting dresses at my mom’s office holiday party. Well, it looks like all the real glamour and demure sophistication was the Vanity Fair viewing and after-party. Not only was Joan Collins there with a wig hovering above her head like a glorious halo, but Crispo Ronaldo’s ex-piece Irina Shayk and the walking community theater production of RiRi’s life titled Rita Ora all wore hot outfits that let everyone know that they traded in their panties for a stick-on pussy patch.
Irina Shayk’s pantyhose dress thing is like the more modest and athletic cousin of that exquisitely classic, coochie-flashing gown that Jaimie Alexander wore in 2013. My only question besides “How many people were treated for elegance inhalation from being exposed to Irina?” is, “How did she piss?” Was there a discreet zipper involved? A snap-off thing? Or did the crotch area have a small hole where she could just stick in a Go Girl and handle it? Even if she couldn’t piss in that bodysuit gown thing and had to hold it all night, it’s worth it. Getting a bladder infection is worth bringing loads of ravishing glamour to the masses.
I bet across town at Denny’s Oscar viewing party, style icon Edy Williams raised a mug full of pink wine and soda water in the air and toasted to Irina Shayk and Rita Whora. Irina just needed more exposed nipple and a random dog, and her Edy Williams tribute would’ve been perfect.
And here’s at least 10 billion pictures from Vanity Fair’s party including pictures of Joan Collins and Monica Lewinsky (????).
It’s a shitty shame that SkyMall is close to death, because they’re the ones to sell an Amy Adams scarf.
The cover of last year’s Vanity Fair Hollywood issue wasn’t sixty layers of awful as usual, so I guess this year they decided to go back to wet farting up covers that look a shitty mess. They took the actors from some of the this year’s Oscar-nominated movies and threw them all on this raggedy cover together. On it are: Amy Adams, Channing Tatum, Reese Witherspoon, Eddie Redmayne, Felicity Jones, David Oyelowo, Benedict Cumberbatch, Sienna Miller, Oscar Isaac and Miles Teller. Almost everybody on this cover looks like hell. Vanity Fair did them wrong. Amy Adams looks like she’s been suffering from the flu for two weeks, Carol Channing Tatum O’Neal looks like a smug caveman lothario who’s carrying the woman he just clubbed, Laura Jeanne Poon’s tits look like a tiny flat ass, Eddie Redmayne and B. Cums look like two creepy aliens you can’t trust and Miles Teller loos like a confused poodle who just got Dirty Sanchez’d. Behold the pullout:
They look like a bunch of high schoolers who left prom early, got drunk on Boone’s Farms in the parking lot and then piled into a booth at Denny’s to share a plate of french fries.
I hear some of you screaming, “Who did Sienna Miller’s publicist blow to get her on that cover?” Sorry home wrecker haters, but she belongs on that cover. Not only did she say one of the important lines in Foxcatcher (“I said hi, Mark”) but she acted alongside one of the most relevant and biggest stars in Hollywood today: the fake baby from American Sniper! Speaking of, this cover is trash and whatever credibility Vanity Fair had left, they flushed down the urinal as soon as they made the decision to not put the fake baby from American Sniper on the cover. That fake baby is the only star in Hollywood who really matters.
Also, here’s some pictures of Laura Jeanne Poon, Eddie Redmayne and Felicity Jones at yesterday’s Oscar nominee luncheon in L.A. Julianne Moore is not on VF’s cover, but I threw in pictures of her, because everybody needs to know that her stylist must be stopped.
Usually Christina Hendricks uses scaffolding, two tire jacks and five rolls of duct tape to hike her magnificent chichis all the way past her face until they’re touching her eyebrows. But at Vanity Fair’s Oscar party last night, her Mount Everest titty balls weren’t suffocating and they weren’t touching God’s feet and hos probably said to her, “So that’s what your face looks like, bitch!”
Christina Hendricks’ chichi domes look magnificent when they’re squeezed up to the roof of heaven or when they look like two extra large mounds of uncooked sourdough cooling on a rack (see: above), but what in Mrs. Roper’s cleaning dress HELL is that on her body?! When I was in the 4th grade, I had a friend whose mom didn’t have money to buy her a Halloween costume, so I helped her make a witch costume using a nun’s gown I wore the year before (yes, I was a nun for Halloween in the 3rd grade, don’t ask how much shit I got for that), a black curtain panel from Ikea and black construction paper. My friend’s costume cost zero dollars, was busted as fuck and was made by two brats whose hands were shaking from eating too much candy and it still looked more luxurious and fashion forward than that shit Christina wore. That dress looks like something Endora would wear to the funeral of a whore she hated. It looks like something from the American Horror Story: Coven collection at Dress Barn.
With all that being said, Christina Hendricks, hausfrau in mourning dress and all, was still the hottest look at that VF party (no, it wasn’t), because mostly everybody else (just Kate Beckinsale) looked like the last place loser at the Miss Bolivia 1993 pageant.
The head whores from the now-shuttered literary journal of integrity The News of the World are currently on trial for hacking into cell phone voicemail boxes to get stories, and one of the reporters, who pleaded guilty and is now a witness for the prosecution, testified about the time they got into Daniel Craig’s voicemail. According to the NYDN, the former reporter Dan Evans testified that in 2005 he got into Daniel Craig’s box (not like that, Dan wishes) and listened to a voicemail from a chick who said, “Hi, it’s me. Cannot speak. I’m at the Groucho (Club) with Jude. I love you.” It was from my home wrecking hero Sienna Miller!
Before The News of the World published the story of Sienna passing her poon to Daniel Craig while she was still with Jude Law and he was with Satsuki Mitchell, Dan was told to cover his tracks. Dan’s bosses told him to make a copy of the tape and drop it in a plain bag before taking it to the reception desk so it’d look like an untraceable anonymous tip. (Side note: Untraceable anonymous tip is a really professional name for a glory hole dick.) The London Standard says that when Jude Law took the stand yesterday, he was asked about fighting with Daniel Craig after he found out that Daniel dipped his dick in Sienna’s layer cake. Jude found out about it when he was at his sister’s wedding and immediately called Daniel up to bitch that fellow man slut out:
He said he immediately rang Craig, who was in Baltimore, to question him about it. “No doubt you expressed your views?” asked defence counsel Timothy Langdale QC. “I did, yes,” Law replied. “Did you make any reference to his then-girlfriend Satsuki Mitchell?” asked the QC, who is representing former NoW editor Andy Coulson.
Law said: “I don’t remember if that was her name, but more than likely yes. We had known each other for many, many years, so the conversation took all sorts of turns.”
Mr Langdale asked: “Were you indicating to him that he ought to tell her about this?” Law replied: “Yes, I think that’s correct, I did.”
My question is, did Sienna hump on Daniel before or after Jude got with the nanny?
Layer Cake came out in 2004 and Jude Law got caught with his dick in the nanny’s cookie jar in 2005, but the Daily Mail says that Sienna boned Daniel Craig to get back at Jude for cheating on her. So we’re really supposed to believe that Sienna and Daniel made it through Layer Cake without bumping wet parts in their trailer and they didn’t bone each other until a year later? That doesn’t make any sense. Whatever, what we do know is that Sienna was jumping from Craig dick to Jude dick and Daniel Craig was jumping from Satsuki coochie to Sienna coochie and Jude Law was jumping on all the coochies. It was a big slut stew. Meanwhile, Satsuki was at home watching the dinner she made for Daniel get colder and colder.
And praise be to Sienna’s vagine! Just when I start to think that it’s done all and seen all, it exceeds my expectations. I just want to lie on a velvet chase with it and hold my bated breath as it slowly tells me the secret to life and shows me its ways.
It seems like just yesterday when the beautiful word “SLUT” was sprayed in graffiti on Sienna Miller’s house and today the words “IT’S A (insert the gender of Sienna’s first baby friend here)!” were sprayed on there after she gave birth to her first kid with that fiancé who sometimes looks like a light weight sumo wrestler competing in the homeless hipster division. It really is the end of a home wrecking era, because Sienna’s bull dozer vagina is temporarily retired now that a baby has passed through it. The pussy that once destroyed lives is now delivering life. As I take a moment of silence, read what UsWeekly has to say about this:
Sienna Miller and her fiance Tom Sturridge welcomed their first child over the weekend in London, a source confirms exclusively to Us Weekly. Details on the baby’s gender, name and weight were not available. The British duo have been dating for over a year and debuted signs of their engagement — Miller’s dazzling diamond engagement ring — in mid-February.
Since there aren’t any details, let me fill that shit in. Sienna and Tom are both dirty boho hippies, so I’m guessing she gave birth in a backyard pond full of rose water while he hollered out some Gaelic birthing chant as he smeared lavender-infused mud all over her tits. Then after their baby was born, they melded their baby with the earth by rolling him or her in a patch of dirt. They threw a floral wreath on their baby’s head, held that baby up to the sun and waited until the wind delivered their baby’s name into their ears. The wind delivered the name Scrags Patchouli, obviously. The end.