We Can All Go Home Now
Because Jerry Sandusky needs something to keep him company in his prison cell, the makers of the Sex in her Shitty and JHo love dolls are giving the world a Just-in Beaver blow-up doll. This December 26th, the sounds of the holiday season will be replaced by the sounds of water sloshing around in rubber rain boots when thousands of Beliebers lose their virginity to their Christmas gift. I'm just going to direct you toward the description for this work of fuckery, because it will make you dry heave from every more than I ever could. via ONTD
Meet Just-In Beaver, the barely legal boy-toy who’s waited 18 long years to stick his lil’ dicky in something sticky! When he’s not busy beating up paparazzi or beating off, he’s up to his high-tops in hot Hollywood tail! But the Beave-ster doesn’t have this effect just on women — he turns straight men gay faster than you can peel his skinny jeans off! So what are you waiting for, inflate this lil’ pricks’s ego even more and have your very own Beaver bash!
Just like the real thing, you need a bike pump to inflate its wang. No, I can't. You know what this mess should come with, besides maple syrup lube, a strap-on modeled after Usher's dick and Kleenex for wiping away the tears you'll shed after you realize you're fucking a Justin Bieber blow-up doll? It should come with a visit from a Chris Hansen. I know this blow-up doll is legal, but you should still end up in cable tie handcuffs for buying this shit. I blame Usher, because he's responsible for creating the real thing and he's responsible for creating this too (you know he is).
It's SO true that from our 20s to our 40s, most of us will grow 10 inches taller and completely change in the face. So that's why it makes sense that Daniel Radcliffe and Jon Hamm are playing the younger and older version of the same character in A Young Doctor's Notebook, a mini-series that will air on Britain's Sky Arts in December. Just from looking at the pictures of Jon Hamm, this mini-series looks like it's about a man who gets addicted to the wrong kind of meth, gets involuntarily locked up in a methadone clinic for years and escapes wearing only his clinic gown and a swollen pair of junkie bags under his eyes. But that's not what it's about. The Daily Mail has the plot:
The semi-autobiographical series tells of his experiences as a young doctor working in the small village of Muryovo at the beginning of the Russian Revolution in 1917. Jon Hamm plays the older doctor, who experiences a series of comical exchanges with his younger self, played by Daniel Radcliffe. The Doctor looks back on his life and career by looking through his notebooks, as he tries to treat the patients of a village that is struggling to enter the modern age.
My eyes scanned that paragraph several times and nowhere in there did I see the sentence, "And then they make out with tongues in a tub." What good is putting DanRad and Jon Hamm in a tub together if they don't touch tongues? Screw this movie. I'm not going to watch that shit. Instead, I'm going to look at that picture and imagine DanRad's peen and Jon Hamm's peen in an underwater staring contest. (SPOILER ALERT: DanRad's peen will lose when Jon's gigantic Hamm log eats it.)
I see you darting your eyes between that water bottle and Jon Hamm's peen log to compare their sizes. Would it help if I told you that half of Jon Hamm's tube of Pillsbury rolls is hibernating up into his taint?
The magical thing about Jon's honey-baked Hamm log is that it's always looks like something different. Sometimes it looks like an obese weasel playing peek-a-boo in a bowl of key limes. Sometimes it looks like a Denny's Grand Slam breakfast sliding off of a plate. And while Jon was taking it for a walk yesterday, it looked like a fetus in an ultrasound scan. It's like Jon's dick is always playing a game of charades with us. Jon's piece is truly a lucky woman, because every time she pulls his pants down, she doesn't know if a giant skin pretzel or a curling kielbasa is going to land on her forehead.
And I also threw in some pictures of Jon at an event at the Paley Center yesterday. How many times do you think a trick asked Jon Hamm if she could wipe that white powder off of his face with her chocha.
Our modern day Shirley Temple, Honey Boo Boo, is in Hollywoods to play the title role in the Anna Nicole Smith biopic for Lifetime (I WISH) and she's making all the stops on the stroll from Extra to Jimmy Kimmel. On Kimmel last night, Honey Boo Boo and our modern day Mae West, Mama June, got into some politics talk and Honey Boo Boo finally endorsed a candidate. An entire nation held its breath, because it didn't want to breathe in Mama June's extra chunky neck fungus fumes. No, we all held our breath waiting to hear who won an endorsement from America' sweet heart and she said:
So scratch Barack Obama, Mitt Romney and Roseanne's names off the ballot and write the name "Merock Ohbamaz" this November!
But seriously, cancel tonight's presidential knife fight and air reruns of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo instead, because this election is over now that Honey Boo Boo has spoken. Michelle Obama can order an inaugural ball wiglet from "Shhh, It's A Wig!", the inaugural ball chef can start making a batch of sketti sauce and Honey Boo Bo can start picking songs to sing during Michelle and Barack's first dance. It's done!
And on a different note, if you need to watch a pro-Ritalin PSA today, here's Honey Boo Boo freaking out like a meth head on Tourette's on KTLA yesterday morning:
Honey Boo Boo IS the hillbilly Little Chrissy.
I'm in L.A. and:
- It's only 7:15 in the morning and it's already so damn warm that I can run down the side of the freeway with nothing but ass lip mittens on.
- I'm so going to make french toast out of a Double Double and chutney out of off-ramp oranges for breakfast.
- And I've already been baptized as a born again citizen of Southern California by getting flipped off and called something that starts with an "f" (I'm thinking he called me a "funtabulous rascal," but I'm pretty sure he called me a "fucking asshole") when I tried to cut a Yaris off while driving out of the airport.
So, you'd think because of all of that I'd be spitting out smoggy rainbows of happiness. Well, I was until I saw these pictures that reminded me one very, VERY, very important thing: THERE'S NO ROJO CALIENTE IN LOS ANGELES! I was so blinded by the shine of weed cards and Jack In The Box dollar tacos that I completely forgot about this. Why didn't any of you bitches remind me! Sure, I can troll the aisles of some Home Depot, find a fat chola butchie and ask her to please put an orange Tupperware bowl on her head so I won't be so gingersick, but it won't be the same. WHAT HAVE I DONE? We have to go back, Kate! We have to go back to the island!
And these pictures of Cynthia Nixon, Rojo and Little Rojo Christ strolling around NYC were taken in the middle of the night. Yes, the curly rays of sun on Little Rojo Christ's head are that illuminating.
UPDATE: The audio has been yanked down, so click here to listen to some wonderful family bonding.
"Dad, Mom's On Cocaine" really should be the title for Lindsay Lohan's Mommie Dearest-like tell-all. That's a GOOD title.
Because Michael Lohan is a loving and caring father who always wants the best for his daughter, he pressed the record button when Lindsay Lohan called his charbroiled turtle-looking ass last night to cry about how she was being kidnapped by her mom and the limo driver. Michael Lohan sold the tape to TMZ, because again, he's a loving and caring father, and because mesh shirts don't grow on trees.
As most of us know, Michael Lohan called the cops last night after the twin terrors of Long Island, LiLo and White Oprah, got into it. The story goes that after partying until 4am in Manhattan, LiLo wanted the limo to take her back to her hotel in the city, but White Oprah wanted the car to take her back to Long Island. Why the driver didn't take LiLo to her hotel first and then take White Oprah home is beyond me. These are the Lohans I'm talking about, they want to make shit as extra dramatic as possible.
Sometime during the ride, the two messes started fighting about the $40,000 LiLo gave White Oprah to save her house from foreclosure. White Oprah didn't want to give it back and that's when LiLo called Michael Lohan. The tape is a mess. It's dysfunction's official soundtrack. At one point, LiLo tells Michael that White Oprah is on coke and keeps scratching her neck.
You know, Lindsay Lohan is the loser here and she should be ashamed of herself. That entitled piece of buzz-killing trash. Poor White Oprah. White Oprah probably just had the night of her life! There she was, popping her 50-year-old pussy with a bunch of 20-somethings at the club. White Oprah was thinking to herself, "Mama's still got it!" while doing it Gangnam Style on top of a table. Then she gazed into the crowd and caught a hot dude making eye contact with the plastic baggie of coke hanging out of her coochie. White Oprah winked at him and they both made their way to the bathroom where they did lines off of the toilet seat before she barfed in his mouth a little bit while they made out. They tried to exchange numbers, but White Oprah forgot what numbers were, so they just had to keep that beautiful moment in their hearts and remember it forever.
So White Oprah was high on coke and LIVING LIFE and that whiny Lindsay Lohan had to ruin it all by asking for her money back. What a bitch. White Oprah has totally sucked more dicks than Lindsay Lohan has, so she should get some respect!
And my favorite part of the tape is when Michael Lohan's threatening to call the Feds (eye roll) on the driver and the driver's like, "What's up? How you doing?" I love that driver.
After Olivia Jane Cockburn's marriage to that Italian royal dude ended, relatives she hadn't seen in years brought her casseroles wrapped in aluminum foil, her family hired professional crying ladies to constantly weep at her panty drawer and the choir at her local church sang "My Heart Will Go On" while pictures of her pussy flashed on a screen above them. Because Olivia Wilde says that her coochie went to heaven when her marriage went to hell.
Glamour hosted a night of monologues called These Girls at Joe's Pub in NYC on Monday night and Olivia Wilde got up to say things about her down low parts including this piece of poetry about her marriage ending:
“I felt like my vagina died. Turned off. Lights out ... And you can lie to your relatives at Christmas dinner and tell them everything on the home front is just peachy. But you cannot lie to your vagina.”
I don't know if you can't lie to your vagina, but you can lie FOR your vagina. Don't act like you haven't hollered out a wave of "OHHELL YES OHSHIT YES OHDOMELIKETHAT YESes" while your vagina is barely staying awake and keeps hitting the snooze button.
Olivia went on to say that when she met Jason Sudeikis, who was at Joe's Pub that night, her punane rose from the ashes of woe. It was the second coming of her pussy. Now once a year, we celebrate the resurrection of her vagine by painting a picture of her coochie on hard-boiled eggs and the Crystal Cathedral presents a show called The Glory of Olivia Wilde's Cooch.
Olivia said that her box is making up for lost times and she and Jason "have sex like Kenyan marathon runners." Olivia then told this story about OliviaLand:
In Olivia Land, relationships can legally only last seven years, without an option to renew. That way it never goes stale. Can you imagine, if we only had seven years? We’d be so nice to each other, so kind, and appreciative and enthusiastic, like we were eating a really expensive bowl of pasta! And in Olivia Land people wouldn’t cheat nearly as much because there wouldn’t be the threat of spending forever with one bedfellow. It just wouldn’t be legal. There’s the issue of kids. Okay this is fun.
In Olivia Land, all the kids go to boarding school at seven. It’s like in Harry Potter!
I would like to legalize prostitution. Hiring a sex worker in Olivia Land would be as easy, hygienic, and inexpensive as getting a pedicure. That way when away on business or just not in the mood, we could just hire a hooker for our loved one and keep them uninterested in cheating and keep them satisfied. These particular hookers would obviously have to be mute and possibly cross-eyed.
In Olivia Land, the streets are paved with dark chocolate, and all the people are free of body hair and menstrual cramps.”
But back to the Kenyan marathon runners thing. How in the hell do Kenyan marathon runners do it? My guess is that they pray to God beforehand and then they start out real slow. Just as they start to get into it, they stop and Olivia gargles her coochie out with whatever water is sponsoring her sex times with Jason. Then they go for a little bit longer before they go really hard at the end and Jason squirts out the finish line. Then they fall to the floor and start crying as their family members throw their country flag on top of them. Isn't that how everybody fucks? Now I feel weird.
If you missed today's episode of Dr. Phil with a high as three shades of hell White Oprah, then just take a smug bullfrog and a mangy alley dog hopped up on uppers, downers and middlers, and watch as the latter stares and giggles at the former until it passes out in a puddle of its own drool. Or just watch the supercut Vulture put together. Pharmacists should put the url of this video on the bottles of painkillers warning bitches on what can happen when you mix your pills with equal parts pills and delusion.
Dr. Phil started off the interview by saying that Lindsay Lohan's pimp and enabler called up his producers to say that she wanted to show the world the real her. White Oprah showed us the real her alright and the real her is a slurring, pilled-up disaster who talks and lies just like her daughter. White Oprah didn't want to talk about anything and I'm guessing she was only there because Dr. Phil put her up in a hotel and she wanted to swallow the mini bar whole.
Dr. Phil asked her about how Michael Lohan used to beat her, but she didn't want to talk about that. Dr. Phil asked her about how Michael Lohan broke into her house, but she didn't want to talk about that. Dr. Phil asked her about how Michael Lohan claims she stole $4,000 out of LiLo's purse, but she didn't want to talk about that. White Oprah just awkwardly giggled, pretend cried, commented on Dr. Phil's shoes and kept asking if the cameras were rolling. Yes, the cameras are rolling, bitch, and so are you. You're rolling on ecstasy, booze and whatever pills you stole from Nana Lohan's medicine cabinet.
Meanwhile, Dr. Phil sat there like a condescending fart bubble and acted like he was concerned and cared, but he was totally squealing out rainbows on the inside, because he knew this mess would be ratings gold.
White Oprah asking Dr Phil "Can we pound to that?" and him turning her down sums up this whole smug vs. crazy train wreck. When you ask Dr. Phil if he wants to pound (any kind of pounding) and he turns you down, that confirms that there is a rock bottom under rock bottom and you've reached it.
To follow up their successful campaign to send Pitbull's ass to a Walmart in Alaska, 4Chan is now trying to send make Taylor Swift perform at a school for the deaf. I don't know if this is a potent act of bitchery or an act of bitchery mixed in with a little sweetness. Or mixed in with a lot of cruelness since many deaf children can hear and they'll be forced to listen to Taylor's goat yodeling.
In a contest co-sponsored by Papa John's and Chegg, any school that gets the most votes on Facebook will win a visit and performance from Taylor Swift. The top 5 schools will also win a $10,000 grant for their music department. A quick second after 4Chan found out about the contest, The Horace Mann School for The Deaf and Hard of Hearing in Massachusetts became the clear leader and right now it has over 25,000 votes.
The rules state that Taylor doesn't have to perform at the winning school if she doesn't want to, but her heart is made of crushed strawberry lollipops and Lisa Frank stickers so there's no way she'll turn down a school for the deaf. You know what's going to happen, though? Taylor's going to show up with her guitar and then she'll put it down before doing the entire performance in sign language. It'll be a win for the kids, because they'll get to see Taylor Swift's ass and their hearing aids won't explode from her live singing voice.
But seriously, if you're the parent of a curly-haired tall boy who goes to Horace Mann, lock down your son right now, because that boytrap Taylor might be coming to town.
Behind me, there's a shelf full of bottles of jalapeño lube waiting to be used, because we were all promised a gold treasure chest full of more pictures of Prince Hot Ginge proudly representing the royal family in Las Vegas and so far we've gotten absolutely nothing. So take this next story with a grain of salt and then take another grain of salt and sprinkle it on your throbbing fuck parts so they can calm the hell down until further notice. I'm sitting on an entire salt lick, which is why my neighbors keep complaining to the super about the rank stench of dehydrated snails coming from under my apartment door.
Radar is hearing that some trick is thinking of selling a video they have of PHG hitting billiard balls with his crotch cue stick in his VIP suite at the Wynn that night. The seller is quietly whispering into the ears of media hos who might be interested in buying it, because they want to see how much it's worth. Radar's source said this about the supposed video:
“There is video of Harry partying naked with women in the Las Vegas hotel room. There have been some very quiet inquiries to see how much the video is worth. If the video goes public this could be the biggest Royal scandal ever. The video has not been shopped around yet, its existence is being kept as discreet as possible. With all the attention the photos got, the people with the video know it could be worth a fortune.”
Any trick with a video of PHG knighting the air by doing the dick slappy dance should either solve world peace by releasing it immediately (the world would put down their guns and pick up their peens) or keep it to themselves and shut up. If The Queen knows that a video (possible titles: The Prince and the HoGirls, Dirty Harry, Cockwork Orange, Gingermoon in Vegas, Harry is Here To Help You Fap, etc...) exists, she'll send MI6 to the US to handle a bitch and then the aliens will never know that true ecstasy existed on earth, because they'll never find the video after the apocalypse.
And in the meantime, at least we have the Naked Salute 4 Prince Harry Facebook page. Leave it to PHG's ginger goods to unite entire nations in nekkidness.