Hand Me My Shank
Not pictured: The dozens of hands coming for Karolina Kurkova's blond ponytail. Somebody needed to yank that ginge-stealing hussy tramp's hair and drag her away for shamelessly air kissing on Prince Hot Ginge in front of all of us. And if we could see Karolina Kurkova's face, you know she'd be saying, "And he's anointing me with his scepter too, you jealous whores," with her eyes. It's like eating warm hot carrot bread in front of a starving orphan.
The clouds are covering the sun, millions of genitals have gone into hibernation and we can all put our lube with SPF away, because Prince Hot Ginge has finished scooting across America and is going back to England today. The last stop on PHG's tour was a charity polo match in Greenwich, Connecticut yesterday afternoon.
It's a sad day in America, but PHG will be back in a few months for the birth of his quadruplets with Karolina Kurkova (yes, air kissing with PHG immediately leads to a severe case of the BABIES!!) and the birth of his ginger centaur baby with the horse he rode in yesterday's match (yes, PHG can knock up a horse even when he rides it with protection).
And Karolina Kurkova should shellac the inside of her nostrils, because she's obviously inhaling a huge PHG fart here. Never wash your nose again, KK.
This past summer, I waived Cressida Bonas away when she was spotted getting on Prince Hot Ginge at a club in London. Just like that wart on my taint, I didn't think Cressida would stick around for long. And just like that wart on my taint, she came back and it doesn't look like she's leaving anytime soon. Cressida Boner really showed me to not underestimate her skills at luring the hot ginger one, because here she is snuggling up to his ass on a ski slope in Switzerland yesterday.
I know, how can Prince Hot Ginge canoodle with a chick named after a mid-size Toyota sedan in public, in front of the cameras, in front of our eyes! How can a hot ginge be so cold? I want to scream the same thing my ex-boyfriend's mother screamed at him when he brought me home for dinner, "How dare you bring your WHORE into my house?!" The audacity! But whatever, that is just the jealousy talking.
I mean, look at this bitch's life. After a long day of skiing with PHG, she gets to warm her frozen hands on his piping hot flaming dick bush. Then after warming her frozen hands on his piping hot flaming dick bush, she gets to sip tea while the Original Fergie gives her the juice about THE QUEEN. Then after the Original Fergie gives her the juice about THE QUEEN, she gets to burn her tongue on PHG's stovetop nalgas. The life: she is living it!
But The Mirror and their insiders are wrong for calling her "the one." Unless she's a puppy wrangler who shoots vodka from her butt and can beatbox the European house song of his choice on command, she's not the one.
At the Salon nightclub in London on Wednesday night, British model type Cressida Bonas (whose eyebrow situation registers as a Brooke Shields on the brow scale) and the fire in the loins of my soul Prince Hot Ginge tried to be sneaky bitches by showing up to the club just minutes apart. But the Daily Mail says that once they both got inside, they got on each other like Fred Willard's hand on Fred Willard's peen at a stank porn theater in Hollywood. Bonas got a (lady) boner for PHG! The DM puts it like this:
Inside the club, according to onlookers, it was not long before she and Harry ‘hooked up’ and were seen kissing in a corner.
Dressed in a clinging white dress and vertiginous heels, and with a plait in her hair, Miss Bonas left at just after 4am, jumping alone into a cab. Harry departed with his bodyguards just ten minutes later.
Cressida Bonas is the daughter of the really hot named sixties model Lady Mary-Gaye Georgiana Lorna Curzon. If I didn't look like this in drag, then I'd be a drag queen and Lady Mary-Gaye would be my name.
There's no need to pull out my shank, because the sun rises in England about as frequently as a dirty blonde runs into a copy store and screams, "QUICK! QUICK! Somebody laminate my entire crotch, because Prince Hot Ginge has been on it and I never want to wash it again! I'll pee through my butt!"
So we shouldn't get to know Cressida Bonas, which kind of sucks, because I like her name too. It makes her sound like a Bond girl or like the name of a contest for the salespeople at a Toyota dealership circa 1991.
Above is a video from The Queen's Diamond Jubilee concert of Gary Barlow and Cheryl Cole kicking, choking, stabbing, murdering, skinning and eating the face off of Lady Cerebellumorwhatever's "Need You Now." If a pile of shit could sing, it would sound like that video. If you're looking for the perfect way to say "I hate you" to your ears, just press play on that mess. Cheryl's vocal cords sound like they're hungover and sad. But in Cheryl's defense, she was talking to Prince Hot Ginge backstage.
The Daily Mail says that Cheryl and PHG got close and talked for a long time before exchanging numbers. If you were standing in front of PHG, your vocal cords would start tingling, your tonsils would swell up (because the tonsils are the clit of the mouth...why did I type that?) and you'd have to use all your strength on keeping your jaw shut since it naturally wants to open when in front of his royal ginger hotness. So this time, Cheryl has a valid excuse for sounding like a deaf, drunk walrus doing bad karaoke.
And more importantly, why in the Hell are they singing that song for The Queen? I bet when 1:15 rolled around the next morning, The Queen was really disappointed that neither Gary Barlow nor Cheryl Cole drunk dialed her ass.
Somewhere in Buckingham Palace, THE QUEEN! is pacing back and forth and is filled with so much worry that she's about to order one of her maids to queef into her pocketbook over the rumor from The Daily Mail that the third in line to the throne is tapping his fiery scepter on the common pussy of an American (OFF!) cocktail waitress ('ER!) who wears white Juicy Couture sweatsuits ('EAD!).
A source tells the DM that two weeks ago, Prince Hot Ginge took a break from his helicopter training to guzzle down on the sweet nectar at the Andaz Hotel in San Diego. That's where he met 26-year-old Jessica Donaldson, a "VIP cocktail waitress" at the Ivy Club who captured the royal loins of PHG with her vast knowledge of the American cinematic classic Laguna Beach and her ability to suck out a Jell-O shot from across a crowded room. The source says that since they met at the Andaz Hotel, they had lunch and went to see some jazz thing at The Belly Up Tavern.
I know I should be writing this on a Greyhound Bus as I make my way to San Diego to rip out that SoCal skank's swap meet weave and force her to spit in my hand (Well, if she touched tongues with PHG, that means she has some of his saliva on her!!!), but I don't mind this. Kate Middleton is a stick of boring with a dollop of pretty hair on top. Princess Jessica is just the kind of demure and delicate flower the English people really need. Kate is like Talbots and Princess Jessica is like a Frederick's white sale. It's meant to be. Princess Jessica is even inked with the crest of the English roses and Blue Curacao runs through her veins, which is the same thing as being a blue blood.
And Princess Jessica is already the luckiest slut on the planet since she can now tell her grandchildren that Prince Hot Ginge fucked her on a military base once.
Anthony Bourdain of No Reservations seems like a kinky motherfucker who will handcuff you to his Waterworks kitchen faucet and smear your body with melted butter made from the milk of rare miniature cows imported from Holland, but butter will never melt for him again now that he has verbally thrown a ham at Paula Deen's face. Anthony took a break from eating panda brain burgers and capybara nipple pasta to cross his legs, purse his lips and get Paltrow-like on the kids in the cafeteria who buy lunch every day.
Anthony had some real shit to say to TV Guide about Paula, Rachael Ray, Drunk Ass Sandra Lee and Guy Fieri (government name: Heat Miser):
“The worst, most dangerous person to America is clearly Paula Deen. She revels in unholy connections with evil corporations and she’s proud of the fact that her food is fucking bad for you . . . plus, her food sucks.” About Ray: “Does she even cook anymore? . . . To her credit, she never said she was good at it.” On Lee: “I hate her works on this planet, but she is not someone to be dismissed, clearly.” And Fieri: “I look at Guy and I just think, ‘Jesus, I’m glad that’s not me.’ ”
Anthony can keep spitting out hate balls of cuntness at Rachael Ray since she's about as annoying as a dizzy dick who keeps hitting your taint instead of your sex hole. Sandra Lee can't hear what Anthony is saying about her since she's passed out head first in a punch bowl full of cooking wine, melted orange Popsicles and Fiesta Punch Shasta (aka chilled fizzy sangria). Guy Fieri, who cares about his ass. But Paula Deeeeeeeen?!!!!? Yes, a pacemaker shows up at my front door every time I see Paula make something like funnel cake grilled cheese, but she IS America. Paula's hair is the shade of a bald eagle's tear and she squirts out Ranch dressing (the official food of America)! Paula Deen is dangerous, alright. Dangerously delicious!
Paula pulled out her butter bat and hit back at the pretension shit Anthony launched out of his mouth. Paula told Page Six:
“Anthony Bourdain needs to get a life. You don’t have to like my food, or Rachael’s, Sandra’s and Guy’s. But it’s another thing to attack our character. I wake up every morning happy for where I am in life. It’s not all about the cooking, but the fact that I can contribute by using my influence to help people all over the country. In the last two years, my partners and I have fed more than 10 million hungry people by bringing meat to food banks.
My good friends Rachael, Guy and Sandra are the most generous charitable folks I know. They give so much of their time and money to help the food-deprived, sick children and abandoned animals. I have no idea what Anthony has done to contribute besides being irritable.”
You know, not everybody can afford to pay $58 for prime rib or $650 for a bottle of wine. My friends and I cook for regular families who worry about feeding their kids and paying the bills . . . It wasn’t that long ago that I was struggling to feed my family, too.”
I think what Paula really means is that her butter elves are currently trying to lure Anthony into her heart attack factory using Siberian tiger steaks. Don't be surprised if on the next episode of Paula's Home Cooking, you see her making double deep fried Bourdain butt cheeks with a candy apple butter sauce. "Cannibalism never tasted so good, y'all!"
Anthony really needs to stop being such a fancy queen. You know he'd down low nibble on Paula's butter crumble muffin if she served one up to him.
Last night with my hot dog and fries dinner, I had an itty bitty, thimble-sized margarita that even Andy Dick wouldn't dignify with a gulp. It was offensive to alcoholics and I'm sure the margaritas at the Smurf's bar are bigger than that shit I drank last night. A flea's cum shot has more liquid than my margarita last night. You get it. Well, my dog must've switched the tequila with roofie syrup again, because this morning I feel like I should have a chalk outline around me. Not many things hurt my feelings, but getting a hangover from one margarita like I'm a teetotaling fetus is one of them. Just shameful and embarrassing to admit.
So that is why I WAS grateful to this precious and beautiful picture of Prince Hot Ginge looking up a pair of puppy nostrils while grabbing at his royal crotch. This fine portrait was taken at a polo match in Ascot, Berkshire yesterday afternoon.
This picture made me want to call in sad to my boss (aka YOU) and ask for the day off ("You get to call people 'dumb bitches" for a living. And you get to do it while lounging on your sofa in dirty sweats! Suckitup and get me a cup of hot roofie nectar, toots!" - You) so that I could bring up this picture on my iPhone and cuddle with it under the covers. I was all ready to do this, but then as I kept going through the pictures I came across one that turned my "awwww" into an "AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!".
Now I know what kind of emotions went through Alicia Silverstone when she watched Cary Elwes get affectionate with his girlfriend in The Crush. That Sienna Miller of puppies is basically daring me to lock it in a dark room with a bunch of bees.
Charlize Theron was there and you don't see her throwing me a "BITCH I GOT YOUR GINGE" look! Who knew that a heartless homewrecker could be so adorable? Let me take a sip of your hot roofie syrup, because my chalk outline needs another coat
The hot cloud of rage that Meat Loaf spewed at Gary Busey last week must've wafted up NeNe Leakes' rotated nostrils last night, because she hit the bell and went after Detective La Toya Jackson with a vengeance. Before all of this went down, the women's team won the challenge over the men's team even though La Toya's leadership skills were as broke down as Mark McGrath's corroded nostrils (there really are a lot of fucked up nostrils on that show). During the challenge and in the board room, NeNe let it be known to everyone that she's not a fan of Bubbles' godmother and thinks La Toya is just putting on a precious little princess act. When Trump dismissed them after their win, NeNe pulled out her nuts and nearly blew the silicone cartilage out of La Toya's nose.
NeNe kept calling La Toya "Casper" and said that she's only famous because of her last name. This coming from a bitch who is famous for absolutely NOTHING. Don't get me wrong, I want NeNe to narrate my funeral because she's such a bitch, but she committed an illegal act when she went after the forever precious Detective La Toya for pretty much no reason. NeNe only puffed her chest, because she's trying to be the resident bitch now that grand daddy cunt Dionne Warwick is gone. But if Dionne was there, she would've shut down that Alice the Goon looking ho down with the wave of a finger and the slight flare of a nostril. NeNe needs to stay sitting and know her place before Dionne pops her head through one of the ceiling tiles to say, "You a coward, baby."
And besides that, Detective La Toya is not the one EVER. La Toya's got her monocle out and she's going to get to the bottom of the skeleton's in NeNe's closet. She's going to find some shit out. I can't wait for next week's episode when Detective La Toya destroys NeNe by revealing that she was really born a Dominican boy named Neethanel Fugas.
In the head?! In the head?! But that's where the Shangri-La of platinum coated wet dreams lies. That's his money! That's his beauty! That's his EVERYTHING! Does JetBlue fly to Egypt, because somebody has to protect Mah Boo from those evil beauty haters! My head is already used to getting struck with heavy loads and whatever is left of my brain is padded with bullshit, so I can take it. Punch me instead!
Then I can get my free clinic nurse practitioner to prescribe a heavy dose of Mah Boo saliva to heal my head wounds. Yes, I just typed Mah Boo, saliva and head in the same sentence. Cancel my JetBlue reservation, because my b-hole is flapping so hard that I can fly there myself.
See, this is what happens when you cancel the Internet. BOOS GET HURT!
UPDATE: As I step off the ledge.... Mah Boo's silver blanket of angel cum is safe and sound! Shortly after the boo brawl, Anderson safely reported from a balcony on how he got through an episode of The Bad Girls Club: Cairo. No visible bruises and no rips to his polo shirt. All is well again (Although, it's really not well again since people are still punching people in Egypt). Can't CNN send Michael Lohan or Spencer Pratt to Egypt instead?
via HuffPo (Thanks to all ten million of you who sent this in!)