The news the butter and sugar industries didn't want to believe was coming but knew was coming has finally came in a swarm of flying Truvia packets. After months of rumors, our butter messiah Paula Deen is about to announce that she's been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. That sound you hear is butter-thirsty Norwegians diving into the butter lake in the underground cavern under Paula's house. Shortly after the news broke, the sugar industry issued this official response:
One would expect Paula to handle this news by punching the Land O' Lakes Girl in the face before kneeing King Ding Dong in the ding dong, but apparently she's turning her 'beeties into MONAY! The Daily says that Paula has quietly worked out a multimillion dollar deal with Novartis, the drug she's currently taking for her diabetes, to be their new spokesperson. Paula is expected to announce this any day now. A source also says that Paula will probably change the way she cooks and the days of making deep fried chocolate noodles with creamed cheesecake sauce are behind her.
This just makes me want to weep salty tears on a bar of butter before deep throating it, but how can I eat a bar of butter if our butter queen can't?! Paula is going to have to trade her morning cup of sugar with a splash of coffee for a morning cup of Stevie with a splash of green tea. What is going on? If next you tell me that Sandra Lee has joined AA and has vowed to start making edible food, I'm going to impale myself on Guy Fieri's head.
In the director's cut of We Need To Talk About Kevin, we learn that the movie takes place in the future and that Tilda Swinton actually bought the psychotic Kevin in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven in Connecticut from a dirty, raggedy hipster homeless-looking couple who turned out to be Peaches Geldof and her fiancé Thomas Cohen (<---- This doesn't happen in the director's cut of WNTTAK). And now it's all coming true in real life! Peaches' rep told The Mirror this morning that the womb bag in her body that used to store old heroin sludge and pieces of her liver is now carrying a fetus.
"Peaches Geldof and her fiance Thomas Cohen are delighted to announce that Peaches is pregnant with their first child.
Peaches is utterly thrilled and they have the full support of both of their families who are equally excited for the baby's arrival."
There are only two good things that can come out of this. The first one is that Peaches is twisted in the brains so she's obviously going to fuck up her baby's life by giving it a name that sounds like the name of an STD that only affects My Little Ponies. I'm thinking Nectarine Foofy Bomb. The second is that Nectarine Foofy Bomb will inherit its father's fashion sense, because this world definitely needs more toddlers who dress like a 1980s late-in-life lesbian gym teacher going to a Woody Allen film class at a community college.
As Jon Cryer throws the same look of uncertainty I make when my sister takes me to a vegan restaurant and Angus T. Jones laughs at the insane amount of money he's fucking making right now (he does that a lot), Ashton Kutcher thinks about the treasures he's going to find buried in Charlie Sheen's old trailer (a silicone vagina filled with 8-balls, a hooker's right leg, who knows...).
Jon, Ashton and Angus gathered together at the CBS upfronts in NYC yesterday as the new cast of the next (and probably last) season of Two and a Half Men. Yeah, I know people are saying that CBS should just bury Two and a Half Men in the octagon next to Charlie Sheen's sanity, but let these hos make as much money as they can while it's still possible. Jon Cryer needs to buy more shiny suits. Ashton needs to buy Demi Moore a new face and a new pair of heat-resistant nipples. And Angus needs more money to drown the image of Charlie Sheen snorting yellow cocaine off of a gorilla's pec while a midget porn star threw multicolored mini marshmallows at his asshole in his trailer. So more money for them! I can still hate. But I can't fully hate.
And is it just me, or does this picture look like the three stages of a male-to-female sex change (you decide who goes with which stage).
I watched Keira Knightley's interview on Today this morning and not once did I think she was going to eat Christmas or that she should come with instructions warning you not to feed her after midnight. But in these pictures, KK looks like she will slither up your nostrils and chew on the edges of your soul before spitting it out into your head because she doesn't want to fuck up her praying mantis figure (and most souls are extra fatty). It just makes you want to stuff your nostrils with rosary beads so she can't get in.
KK once said that she hates getting her picture taken, because she believes photographs steal your soul. So maybe she figured she can scare away cameras if she contorts her face into terrifying nightmare fuel. It still didn't work.
Why in swole hooves hell did Wendy Williams Tweet this picture from the set of Dancing with the Stars today? And why in the name of an Epsom salt baptism did TMZ repeat it on their site? But more importantly, why am I destroying your foot fetish by posting it here? Because I'm dragging you down into the WHY?!!! abyss with me.
But serious talk, should I be jealous of Wendy because she can fuck somebody with her extra plump boil and teabag a trick with her foot?
Wendy should at least dress it up a bit by sprinkling a little bit of powdered sugar on top. Then instead of looking like the inflamed gonad of a chupacabra, it would look like a delicious beignet! A delicious beignet that Kirstie Alley may or may not gnaw off when Wendy takes a nap. Problem solved!
Here's the cover of the 32-page comic book biography on the life of Angelina Jolie and loooooooooord deliver me from this evil! UsWeekly says that the makers want $3.99 for this mess and does that include a crucifix, because that's what I feel like raising at this cover! They made Angie Jo looks like a bodybuilding alien amphibian transsexual who has landed on this earth to slice mortal nutsacks with her cheekbones and deliver them to her home planet called Chyna. Hmm. Now that I stare at this without my hands over my eyes, I'm slightly turned on. Maybe that's because she's got a pair of hard butt cheeks above her upper lip.
Well, if you've spent your morning patching up the open sores you contracted from watching The Black Eyed Pee Pees murder the sanctity of entertainment and TRON during the Super Bowl last night, then this will be the most second hurtful thing you see today. Dozens of bottles of the sweet, sweet nectar falling to their deaths. How does this happen? Gravity is a not right motherfucker for this one. I mean, there aren't that many homies we need to pour one out for.
Those bottles must've had some soothsaying powers and knew that Fuggie Fug would yodel out Sweet Child 'O Mine in the near future so they quit this bitch.
I just hope the store found a bunch of needy drunks (or one Charlie Sheen) to slurp that mess up. Because when a drop of the sweet nectar goes to waste, another hour is added to a drunk ho's morning hangover.
During the Patriots vs. Jets game last night, the freshly whipped meringue of stale hair on Donald Trump's prune head hypnotized the camera for a few seconds. It was in the spirit and trying to do the wave but the dude on its right failed to keep it going. Sad. You know what else is sad? That Trump's "on the verge of flight" hair reminds me of a lonely plastic bag trying to freely dance in the wind but can't due to a half-empty pack of Nutter Butters anchoring it down. It wants to be like that scene in American Beauty. Depressing. It's like Trump's scalp tried to fire his follicles but they refused to go IN THIS ECONOMY. Depressing times two. On a happy note, at least Trump's hairline finally got some fucking oxygen.
I've never really been afraid of heights, but watching this video put my froat in my ass and my stomach in my neck. That sounds like a hot time on paper, but it really isn't. You might want to snort a line of chopped up Dramamine before pressing play.
If the mystery meat in McDonald's McRib doesn't tear up your guts and land you on a shared cot at the free clinic, their customers will! This is a clip from Sfist of an all-out, hair-pulling, face-punching, foot-kicking battle at a McDonald's on Third Street in San Francisco right after the first game of the World Series on Wednesday night.
The person who uploaded this Mac Attack Royale says it all started when "some chick was arguing about their order, the chick with the yellow thong tells her, she shouldn't talk like that in front of her daughter. Chick says she's not my daughter and throws soda at the yellow thong chick. then all hell breaks loose."
These raggedy hyena bitches need to swallow a bowl and hold it for ten seconds, because it. is. not. that. serious. Walk out the door, turn left, skip 5 steps and you'll bump into another House Of Ronald. Now, if they were at an In-N-Out, I'd say, "Whoop that trick, animal style!"