The words “Reserved for Ms. Shepherd” were engraved on a plaque hanging on a door in the Special Place Ward in Hell when Sherri Shepherd wrote off the baby that grew in her surrogate’s womb. When Sherri and her husband Lamar Sally broke up last year, she labeled him a scheming gold digger and accused him of tricking her into the surrogacy situation as a way to get her to pay him child support. Sherri walked away from the unborn baby and made it clear she wanted nothing to do with the kid ever. The already disgustingly messy situation got messier when Lamar sued Sherri for spousal and child support. Now, the surrogate who carried Sherri and Lamar’s baby has spoken out and is pissed that she’s being hit up for child support. It says a lot when a situation is dangerously close to becoming as fucked up as the Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry situation.
Woe is Jennifer Aniston. This week is turning out to be almost as shitty as the week where she lost the 2nd generation Quackers the Duck Beanie Baby on eBay. Jennifer got shut down by that mean asshole Oscar and the wife of her dead first love came for her in the media. What’s next? She’s going to get Chickenpox? Actually, that is highly possible (no, it’s not) since she has actual chickens living in her backyard.
Jennifer Aniston said in a New York Times interview that her first love, actor Daniel McDonald, died from brain cancer and she believes that he is an angel looking over her and gave her the gift of Justin Theroux. If an angel wanted to give Jennifer Aniston the gift of true, everlasting love, wouldn’t they send her a bottomless bottle of tequila? But I’m digressing. If you haven’t read it already, here’s the quote that Jennifer gave to the Times:
“He was my first love — five years we were together. He would have been the one. But I was 25, and I was stupid. He must have sent me Justin to make up for it all.”
I already checked – that bearskin rug isn’t one of the items up for auction. However, pretty much everything else in his life is for sale, because Smokey is broke-y. Or was he The Bandit? I can never remember. Anyways, according to several sources (The Independent, The Daily Mail, the cashier at Publix who has to return the lobsters to the tank in the seafood department every time his credit card gets declined), sexual human mustache Burt Reynolds is currently in a bad way when it comes to personal finances. Burt hasn’t made a mortgage payment on his Florida home in four years and now owes more than $1.4 million. Burt tried to sell his mansion back in 2011 for $9 million, then later for $2.9 million, but it still hasn’t sold and Bank of America kind of wants their $1.4 million in overdue mortgage payments.
But Burt doesn’t have $1.4 million, so he’s been forced to sell his stuff. Next month, Burt will auction off more than 600 pieces of movie memorabilia and stuff from his house at the Palms Casino Resort in Las Vegas. Included in the sale is Burt’s red jacket from Smokey and the Bandit, a gold pocket watch that was given to him from Sally Field, a pair of boxing gloves signed by Muhammad Ali, a pair of cowboy boots that he wore in Striptease, a shitload of bolo ties and belt buckles, all of his People’s Choice Awards, and his Golden Globe for Boogie Nights. Question: is it weird that I totally want to buy those boots from Striptease?
God, this is just SO unfair! Sexy 70s legend Burt Reynolds shouldn’t have to sell all his bolo ties and cowboy hats just because he forgot to make a couple mortgage payments. Banks are just the worst sometimes. Chill out, Bank of America, it’s only $1.4 million!
And none of this giant garage sale business would have to happen if Burt’s beautiful ex-wife Loni Anderson would step in and take care of things with the bank. It wouldn’t even cost her a dime! All she has to do is flash that gorgeous million-dollar smile of hers and the bank would call it even.
Since awards show season is two queefs away, Amal Alamuddin (or “Amal Elmerfudding” as my mom mispronounces while talking about how that trick stole her man) practiced her role as George Clooney’s permanent red carpet escort at an event in Florence, Italy last night. Alalooney made their red carpet debut as a couple at a charity event benefiting the Andrea Bocelli Foundation and the Muhammad Ali Parkinson Center. Clooney was awarded the Andrea Bocelli Humanitarian Award and during his speech, he told the audience that in two weeks in Venice, Italy, Brad Pitt will look up in the sky and giggle before saying, “Heh, ribbit ribbits are falling from the sky.” No, Brad won’t be seeing things, because he’ll be stoned out of his skull. Actual toads will fall from the sky in Venice, because George Clooney becoming somebody’s husband again is the final sign of the rapture.
Everyone figured that Alalooney would get married at his house in Lake Como, because next to George Clooney, George Clooney’s favorite thing in life is that house in Lake Como. But nope, Clooney said that he’s marrying Amal in Venice at the end of the month. via E! News:
“He said he is an honorary 12-year resident of Italy and then said they were getting married in Venice,” a source said. “He also said to Amal [from the podium], ‘I love you very much.’”
Sources also tell E! News that Clooney revealed the wedding will take place in a couple of weeks.
Maybe Clooney is trying to throw the media off and he’s getting married somewhere else, but damn, everyone in the audience must’ve been drowning in sappy shit, because his ass laid it on thick. Clooney was an ugly, yeast infection-colored leather couch away from couch jumping.
George Clooney is an oh-so-private person, so I doubt he would spit out the date, time and venue location of his wedding. I’m sure he was just pulling the media’s dick. Clooney and Amal’s wedding will probably be very private and intimate and what I mean by that is that they’ll probably get married on the red carpet at the Oscars next year.
If you were praying to God on Saturday for whatever reason and wondering why it felt like nobody was on the other line, it’s because God was doing better things. God was busy giving away his successor at her wedding. AP spit this out on Twitter this morning:
Okay, God and all the saints didn’t walk St. Angie down the aisle, but Maddox and Pax did, which is the next best thing. Here’s the only details we know so far. I’m sure new details will be printed into the newest edition of the Bible and the pictures will appear in stained glass form on the windows of Notre-Dame Cathedral:
Jolie and Pitt wed Saturday in a small chapel in a private ceremony attended by family and friends. In advance of the nondenominational civil ceremony, Pitt and Jolie also obtained a marriage license from a local California judge. The judge also conducted the ceremony in France.
The couple’s children took part in the wedding. Jolie walked the aisle with her eldest sons Maddox and Pax. Zahara and Vivienne threw petals. Shiloh and Knox served as ring bearers, the spokesman says.
Brad Pitt said a million years ago that he and St. Angie wouldn’t get married until everyone could get married. This means that gay marriage must be legal EVERYWHERE. Thank you, Brangelina! Thank you!
So, Madge’s original parts turned 56 years old yesterday and to celebrate her born day, Justin Timberlake tweeted (and quickly deleted) this message to her ass:
If you’re squinting at that tweet and thinking to yourself that JT just outed Madge as a Juggalo, that’s not what he meant. Mother chucking ninja = Motherfucking nigga. Some hos (read: suburban skater boys who hang outside of malls and Goopy Paltrow) substitute the word “ninja” for the n-word, because it’s a “safe” way of saying the n-word without saying the n-word. The screeching Ramen noodle wedge who is single-handedly responsible for stretching out Jessica Biel’s 15 minutes quickly hit the delete button on that tweet, but by then, dozens of people had already RT’d it and began pulling out his Keratin-straightened locks by the root. Who knows if Madge saw the tweet, but I’m sure JT will tell it to her face the next time he sees her and she’ll reply by saying, “#thanksmynigga!” And yes, she’ll say hash tag out loud, because Madge is the kind of cool mom who says “hash tag” out loud.
And I’m sure JT and Madge will respond to the outrage on Twitter by tweeting a picture of them throwing mothers while in warrior gear. Yes, that’s what he meant by “mother chucking ninja.”
In an open letter on USA Today, George Clooney has accused the highly-esteemed and future Pulitzer Prize-winning literary journal, The Daily Mail, of printing wet skid marks made of one hundred percent lies. George Clooney better bring all the receipts, because The Daily Mail has never been known to print one lie and they’re research department is as expansive as Dlisted’s research department (FYI: Dlisted’s highly-trained and accurate research department looks like this).
The Daily Mail threw up a story about how Amal Alamuddin’s mother, who they said is Druze, is probably going to tackle George Clooney at the altar to stop the wedding, because she doesn’t want her daughter marrying a non-Druze. The DM’s religion history department also added that Druze people don’t like it when their own marry outside of their religion and Druze brides have been killed for marrying a non-Druze and non-Druze grooms have had their dicks cut off for marrying a Druze. George Clooney says that nothing about The DM’s story is right. Amal Alamuddin’s mother isn’t Druze and she hasn’t been to Beirut since he got engaged to her daughter. Clooney laid it down:
I want to speak to the irresponsibility of Monday’s Daily Mail report. I seldom respond to tabloids, unless it involves someone else and their safety or well being. The Daily Mail has printed a completely fabricated story about my fiancée’s mother opposing our marriage for religious reasons. It says Amal’s mother has been telling “half of Beirut” that she’s against the wedding. It says they joke about traditions in the Druze religion that end up with the death of the bride.
Let me repeat that: the death of the bride.
First of all, none of the story is factually true. Amal’s mother is not Druze. She has not been to Beirut since Amal and I have been dating, and she is in no way against the marriage — but none of that is the issue. I’m, of course, used to the Daily Mail making up stories — they do it several times a week — and I don’t care. If they fabricate stories of Amal being pregnant, or that the marriage will take place on the set of Downton Abbey, or that I’m running for office, or any number of idiotic stories that they sit at their computers and invent, I don’t care.
But this lie involves larger issues. The irresponsibility, in this day and age, to exploit religious differences where none exist, is at the very least negligent and more appropriately dangerous. We have family members all over the world, and the idea that someone would inflame any part of that world for the sole reason of selling papers should be criminal.
Clooney went on to say that he knows The Daily Mail is a drunk, trashy, gossiping whore (yes, that’s what’s listed as “occupation” on my tax returns) who is masquerading as The New York Times, but they’ve gone too, too far this time.
I’m the son of a newsman; I accept the idea that freedom of speech can be an inconvenience to my private life from time to time, but this story, like so many others, is picked up by hundreds of other outlets citing the Daily Mail as their source, including Boston.com, New York Daily News, Gulf News, Emirates 24/7 and so on.
The Daily Mail, more than any other organization that calls itself news, has proved time and time again that facts make no difference in the articles they make up. And when they put my family and my friends in harm’s way, they cross far beyond just a laughable tabloid and into the arena of inciting violence.
They must be so very proud.
The Daily Mail immediately ripped the story down and surprisingly they didn’t replace it with pictures of George Clooney looking “worse for wear” while coming out of a bar and pictures of him “displaying his cellulite” in shorty shorts. They also farted up an apology and response:
“The MailOnline story was not a fabrication but supplied in good faith by a reputable and trusted freelance journalist. She based her story on conversations with a long-standing contact who has strong connections with senior members of the Lebanese community in the UK and the Druze in Beirut. We only became aware of Mr Clooney’s concerns this morning and have launched a full investigation. However, we accept Mr Clooney’s assurance that the story is inaccurate and we apologise to him, Miss Amal Alamuddin and her mother, Baria, for any distress caused. We have removed the article from our website and will be contacting Mr Clooney’s representatives to discuss giving him the opportunity to set the record straight.”
“Investigation.” I’m sure they’ll get right on it. And yes, The Daily Mail’s investigation department is as big as Dlisted’s investigation department and yes, Dlisted’s investigation department is also our research department and you know what that looks like.
I know most of Hillary Clinton’s shoes look like they came from a Naturalizer outlet, but throwing a shoe at her is not the way to tell her to step up her shoe game. Hillary was on stage at some recycling conference at Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas yesterday when a crazy blonde bitch (Does Ann Coulter have an alibi?) got past security and busted out a scene straight out of a Flavor of Love reunion when she tried to hit Hillary in the head with a flying heel. You’d think that Hillary would be used to Bill Clinton’s scorned whores throwing shit at her and she’d catch the shoe and throw it back, but instead she clapped her hands together, said “SANTO DIOS!” on the inside, prayed and scurried away. I had to laugh, because Hillary looked like my abuelita doing the Cha Cha Slide. Now turn it up!
Hillary made a few jokes afterward and sadly one of the jokes wasn’t, “Who throws a shoe, honestly?”
“What was that, a bat? Is that somebody throwing something at me? Is that part of Cirque du Soleil? My goodness, I didn’t know that solid waste management was so controversial. Thank goodness she didn’t play softball like I did.”
The crazy shoe-throwing blonde bitch was taken into custody by secret service. They didn’t give up her name and didn’t say why she did it. Oh well, that’s the last we’ll hear of her, because she’ll probably be skinned alive and her skin will be used to make Hillary a brand new set of scrunchies.
Of course, this is obligatory:
Dubya does it better, but if I had to pick between him and Hillary for my dodgeball team, I’d go with Hillary, because I can’t say no to a chick in a scrunchie.
In case you haven’t already squeezed your ass cheeks together while watching this nerve-wracking video of a calm construction worker waiting to be rescued from a fiery inferno of death, here’s the video of a calm construction working waiting on the sixth floor balcony of an unfinished Houston, TX apartment complex while a hellish blaze threatens him with death. This construction worker is a living “Keep Calm And Carry On” poster. If that was me, the flaming wall of death would roll its eyes at me for screaming, chillando-ing and begging someone below to get RuPaul on the phone so he can tell me who the hell wins Drag Race. At the 1:10 mark, calm construction worker proves that he was THAT kid on the playground who didn’t have to put his hands in sand and rub them together to get a good grip on that bar before doing a pull-up. He just did it. Before parts of the building collapsed, the Houston Fire Department got a ladder out to the calm construction worker and saved him. Nobody was injured and it took firefighters 2 hours to take that fire out.
And after watching this gripping, two-and-a-half-minute long video of a brave ass construction worker not freaking and nailing a balcony drop while waiting for firefighters (and JESUS!) to rescue him, my first thought was: “Hmmm, so I guess people do say OH-EM-GEE out loud.“
Looking at that puzzle now, I would’ve guessed “Throw That Boy Pussy.”
Everyone (well, not everyone) is giving a standing ovation, clapping and throwing a bouquet of red roses at Wheel of Fortune contestant Emil de Leon from Daly City, CA for solving the final puzzle in just one guess and with the help of only 2 letters. The answer was NEW BABY BUGGY! Who the hell except for high school drama students and mothers from the 50s know that phrase? You can tell that the person in the control room laid back, put up their feet on the table, opened a cold one and said, “This motherfucker ain’t gonna get shit,” because it took a little too long for the answer to light up. Emil told TMZ that it was all just luck and he kind of had babies on the brain since at the time the show was filmed in January he was in the middle of studying pediatrics in nursing school.
Emil is obviously made of magic and is snorting that mystery solving powder that Detective Courtney Love snorts. But really, I’m always surprised when any contestant is able to solve the final puzzle. How can their brain function while being blinded by Vanna White’s beauty, elegance, grace and the sparkles that shoot off of her exquisite Caché gown?