Well Well Well

Kyle Massey, the Webster on growth hormones who did Dancing with the Stars with Bristol Palin, is telling people that he thinks her bitch battle royale fight at Saddle Ranch with the dude who called her mother a whore was about as natural and organic as the parts that were glued onto her new face. Kyle and his brother co-star in Bristol's reality shit show called "SEE! I'm Not Racist!" and sources tell TMZ that he thinks the producers planted the Stephen Hanks, the Palin hater, at the bar to do something no reality show does: inject fakeness into it for maximum dramatic effect.

Both Stephen Hanks and the producers are denying the fight was staged, but Kyle doesn't believe them, because he says it's a little strange that there were so many cameras at the bar. But Kyle says that Bristol has been nothing but genuine with him so he doesn't think she was in on the fakery. Kyle Massey is also scrubbing the dirt off of his precious Son of Disney skin every night, because what he thought was going to be a good clean scripted show turned out to be a sleazy reality show.

Kyle's daddy George Papadopoulos better spank a clue into him if he actually thought that he was starring in a scripted show with a trick who has the acting skills of a broken urinal lying in the back alley of the Saddle Ranch. In Bristol's acting debut she made a wooden door look like a living thing that feels human emotions, so who is going to give her an acting job? And Sarah Palin casting Bristol in the role of "Trig's sister instead of his mother" doesn't count!!! (Yes, I've been reading Days of Our Palins again).

It doesn't matter if that stupid fight was staged (it was) or not, because even if Bristol's shit show opening featured Marcus Bachmann tipping his spout at a T-dance, bitches still won't watch this mess.

And real or not, Stephen Hanks still owes us whores an apology, because what did we ever do to him?

Somewhere in the Crenshaw section of Los Angeles is a parked white van stocked to the top with technicolor wigs that have seen sparklier (in sad times like these, it is okay to make up words) days and dusty coats that look like they were cut from a Fraggle's ass. The white van belongs to the legendary Sly Stone whose license plate is his official home address, because he smoked up most of his money and lost the rest to shady vultures. It is a tragic day in society when pieces of trash like Lindsay Lohan are sitting front row at fashion shows and icons like Sly Stone have to shit in a plastic red cup behind an alleyway dumpster. Although, LiLo probably regularly shits in plastic red cups behind alleyway dumpsters, but that isn't the point!

The New York Post tracked 68-year-old Sly down and interviewed him about how he went from living in mansions to sleeping in a camper parked outside of a house in Crenshaw. Just a few years ago, Sly was living in a rented house in the Napa Valley, but his life turned down Matt Foley Way when he says the royalty checks stopped coming in the mail after his manager tricked him into signing over control of all of his finances. Sly sued his manager for $50 million but that lawsuit hasn't gone anywhere yet. Sly doesn't own any of the music publishing rights to his own songs because he sold that shit to Michael Jackson for a measly $1 million in 1984. Sly also blames his addiction to the bad shit for why he's broke and homeless.

But just because Sly is down and out in Crenshaw doesn't mean he's wishing he could go back to the days of mortgage payments and pissing in his own toilet. Sly says that he doesn't want to be tied down and his soul is happiest when he's traveling around. Sly made friends with a couple in Crenshaw who lets them shower in their house. Their son also drives Sly around L.A. and works as his assistant.

Sly still makes music on his laptop and hopes that a bitch will give him a job soon, “But now please tell everybody, please, to give me a job, play my music. I’m tired of all this shit, man.”

And the hobo paranoias have hit Sly, because he believes the FBI is following him and his rivals are trying to murder him. Lord. As soon as a ho becomes homeless, their brain automatically unlocks the "FBI IS TRYING TO KILL MY LIFE" thought. It's not right.

Yes, I know Sly's mind is off smoking star dust on one of Saturn's rings, but it's a shame that it's come to this. Can't the producers of Dancing with the Stars replace that useless Kardashian with Sly Stone? Can't we excommunicate Ke$hit from society and give her tour dates to Sly Stone? Can't we send Sly up to Canada so he can join The Quaids' Anti-Star Whackers Gang and they can fight the crazy fight together? One of those things needs to happen. Because how can any of us take it higher while listening to Sly's old songs when he's sleeping on a pile of his old wigs in the back of a van?

One of the world's greatest modern mysteries behind "What is that shit Taco Bell puts between a taco shell?" will not be answered today. January Jones is not unmasking the face of the dude who owned the sperm fish that took a chisel to the frozen shell that surrounds her icy ovary egg and pushed itself in. TMZ says that the birth certificate of her son, Xander Dane Jones, is completely blank on the spot where the daddy's name goes. Basically, January pretty much wrote: "If I did know, I still wouldn't tell you prying cunts."

The names Matthew Vaughn, Bobby Flay, Xander Berkley and Jason Sudeikis have all been thrown around as possibilities for the dude who will answer his door in 18 years to find a half ice cube, half human asking him, "Are you my daddy?" But I hope January keeps her face lips shut about this shit. January's heart is as frozen as a lima bean bag left in a hoarder's freezer and she's the kind of cunt that gives Heather Mills an inferiority complex, so this little bit of daddy mystery only makes me love her ice cold ass even more.

But we all know why January is really keeping the identity of her baby's father a secret from the public. January lets out a bitchified smile every time she thinks of Maury Povich waking up in the middle of the night with the cold sweats because he knows he will never ever live to see the day where he gets to publicly tell the true dad of January's baby that he IS the father.

January: 1, Maury: ziiiiilch

Brenda Song's mother, Mai Song, performed an Auntie Lindo-like monologue for Radar last week when she said that she did not raise her daughter to fully give in to the temptations of the Cyrus beast and that gentle neighing that's tickling the hairs in your ears is not coming from any of of her kins' wombs. I believed Mai Song at the time, because a Thai mother never lies. I only say that last part, because my friend's Thai mother once told me that my thigh fat spread too much when I sit down. I was 9. She was right. BUT WAIT! Brenda Song put leather booties on her graffiti skeleton pony and took him for a quick gallop around the mall in Sherman Oaks, CA.

Now, my ass isn't calling Mai Song a total lie maker, but if I distracted Trace Cyrus with a bushel of crab apples and dropped a baby carrot in front of Brenda, "surprise" would not be an emotion I would feel if a half-Asian anime pony galloped out. But then again, it's a well known that fact that when a bitch dresses like Snooki, she looks like she has the build of Snooki too.

Mai Song would never lie to all of our faces...um...laptop screens, so let's just choose to believe her truth. But the minute you see a ball of teeth coming out of Brenda's cooch, book that Flicka fucka on bestiality charges and call it a day.

Just hours after Douche Brad Pitt once again reopened the triangle that makes me long for the days when we cared about more interesting triangles like the one in Bermuda or the one on Madge's jacket in Desperately Seeking Susan, Jennifer Aniston BRAVELY came out of her NYC apartment with the boyfriend she won at one of those claw games at Dave and Buster's.

Seconds after a stage manager wearing an ear piece in the mic yelled "cue 1...2....3...GO!," Dulliston (Brad Pitt's misinterpreted words, not mine) opened the door, strolled out onto the stage of life and threw out one of those casual "OMG! WOW! What are you doing here? For little ole' me? You would think that my name is on my Google RSS Reader a trillion billion times the way you're clicking at me!" faces. Jennifer had to do this so a team of therapy cats wouldn't be sent in to check to make sure she didn't try to drown her sad miserable feelings in a soaking tub full of Bisquick soup and dozens of bowls of Warm Delights.

But of course this bland bitch is okay. They're all okay, because they're all in on it together. We should be convinced that Brad, Angie and Jen are all aliens from another planet whose sole purpose is to send the public into a rage frenzy over some stupid shit we shouldn't care about. It's entertainment for their fellow aliens on their home planet. We're like the #1 show on every planet but this one. We're like their Jersey Shore (which they laugh at us for watching, by the way).

Even those Kardashian trash sluts are in on it. The Kuntrashians are absolutely everywhere, because they're the alien cameras capturing all this madness. While you were eating your keyboard over Brad's dumb words yesterday, you quickly glanced through your sliding glass door and wondered why Khloe Kardashian was sitting in your backyard. You figured she was just eating your dog's food again. NOPE. That sneaky trick was recording you acting like a fool and broadcasting it live onto XFilesTube! Why isn't the government doing anything about this? Why is Obama quiet about this? Why am I not shouting this conspiracy theory through the subways of New York at 4am?!

Breathe.

If you need me I'll be making all of us tinfoil bonnets. Or do you want a tinfoil fedora instead?

While chewing on a piece of Velveeta gum and holding paws with her man friend Billy Bob Merlotte, Brit Brit yawled into London today to shoot her video for Criminal before going off to Russia to put the thrill into audiences with her world-renowned mouth moving act that Lambchop ain't got shit on.

The last time Brit Brit was in the UK, Customs quarantined her Cujo weave for 6 months and it broke her medicated spirit, because her head was forced to take a weave of absence (I don't know what that means, but I really wanted to use "weave of absence" in a sentence.) But this time around, the Afghan Hound ear on the top of her head got all of its vaccinations, cleared Customs and was allowed into the country. Tanks Jeebus H Krissy!!!

And I appreciate that Brit is paying homage to the late and great Jeannie Bice by wearing a Quacker Factory buttoned t-shirt with wings (that's what Brit Brit calls it).

It was nice of Mel Gibson to make an OY! THIS BITCH face so you don't have to.

The Hollywood Reporter says that noted supporter of the Jews and honorary rabbi Mad Mel somehow got Warner Bros. to back the movie he's writing about Jewish hero Judah Maccabee. In other news, Michele Bachmann has announced that she's quitting the "trying to run for president" thing to make a documentary about Robert Mapplethorpe.

Wikipedia says that Judah Maccabee is one of the greatest warrior heroes in Jewish history who led a revolt against some king named Antiochus IV, took over Jerusalem and restored the Holy Temple. That victory is now celebrated by Hanukkah. It makes sense that Mad Mel would be the one to write this story since whenever you think of Hanukkah, you immediately think of Mel Gibson! Wait. Stupid ass me. I'm getting my "kah" sounds confused again. Whenever you think of Mel Gibson, you immediately think of the word "cunt." Yeah, that's what I really meant.

Mel doesn't know yet if he wants to direct or take a role in the movie. He's currently just writing the script with my favorite screenwriter Joe Eszterhas. And why is Joe Eszterhas my favorite screenwriter ever? Here are 4 reasons why:

1. Basic Instinct
2. Sliver
3. Showgirls
4. Jade

The Hollywood Reporter is also reporting (no, they're not) that John Galliano is in talks to design costumes, Vanilla Gorilla has already signed on to play the lead role and Mel's contract states that he must get paid with blowjobs before Jacuzzi (still not going to happen, but nice try, you glum cunt).

If you were sitting there thinking that no Hudson is as insufferably annoying as Kate Hudson, then meet Bill Hudson the man who pushed out the sperm that was later transformed into the dwarf monster who terrorizes romantic comedy after romantic comedy. Bill, who made Kate and Oliver Hudson with Goldie Hawn and later wiped his hands of parental rights when Kurt Russell came on the scene, is releasing an ESCANDALOSO tell-all this fall without the ESCANDALOSO part. Bill is basically Michael Lohan-ing this shit by crying about how Goldie and Kurt are the ones who pushed him out, and now Kate Hudson won't even talk to him or her memaw who is dying from Alzheimer's.

Bill is whining so hard that he's making Kate seem as pleasant as a hand job from a daisy. The details about this mess from Radar:

Life in the spotlight is not without its consequences, and the Hudson family was no exception," the book's website touts. "While enjoying success as a part of the 1970s musical group The Hudson Brothers, Bill Hudson fell in love and married actress Goldie Hawn.

"After their divorce, Bill found himself in the middle of the controversial issue of parental alienation. His rights as a father to see his children were often played out in the media because Oliver and Kate became actors themselves."

Devastating secrets and salacious details of both Goldie and Kate's lives are expected to be revealed.

As RadarOnline.com was first to report, Bill accused Kate of not visiting or calling her dying grandma, who is battling Alzheimer's disease.

"Kate doesn't have to talk to me and she doesn't have to give her a dime of her millions. All I want is for her to call and say, 'Hi grandma', before it's too late," Bill said.

"I love Kate, but... She has done stuff which is just awful. She is a spoiled brat in my eyes and at the end of the day, she should meet her little sister. I should meet my grandchild and she should help her grandmother."

That shit is supposed to be salacious? Bill is just trying to shame Kate into throwing some of her Something Borrowed money into her grand mama je'e's pocket book while trying to make a check himself. Well, I guess if you can't get your daughter to give you some money, you might as well make some money off of her ass by calling her a "spoiled brat" in a tell-all book that not even dust will touch. But you know, after watching the last part of Bride Wars the other night, I'm totally on Team Asshole Bill.

Before we begin our favorite weekly activity of stoning Fishsticks Paltrow with stones not imported from the coast of Majorca and not cleansed with the distilled tears of an albino dolphin (that's the worst part for her), let me ask if any of you know the exact time in that Contagion movie when she dies a slow, painful, tonsil-curling, eye-bulging, blood-spewing, nipple-shriveling death? Because that's obviously the only part worth sitting through and I need to know what time I should make dinner reservations at the Chevy's across the street from the theater. Now on to THE STONING!

In Contagion, Fishy plays a cheating wife who bring a virus (GOOP) to the United States that makes people spit out liquid death as their insides slowly turn into the meat that Taco Bell slaps between a shell. It's the same suffering Fishy briefly went through when she had to kiss Matt Damon during a scene after he drank an entire Pepsi. One of her slaves-in-waiting to quickly change her sheepskin tongue condom (she wears one whenever she has to come in contact with a bitch who hasn't been deemed 100% organic by the FDA).

Fishy talked about both cheating whores and viruses to The Daily Telegraph. First up, is Fishy's thoughts on passing the peen:

"I am a great romantic - but I also think you can be a romantic and a realist. Life is complicated and long and I know people that I respect and admire and look up to who have had extra-marital affairs. It's like we're flawed - we're human beings and sometimes you make choices that other people are going to judge. That's their problem but I really think that the more I live my life the more I learn not to judge people for what they do. I think we're all trying our best but life is complicated."

"Learn not to judge people"? BITCH, don't act like if I ate a Twinkie in front of your face, you wouldn't shit out the stick that's stuck up your ass, chisel into a gavel using a Cartier shank and bring it down as you yelled, "GUILTY OF NON-GOOPERY!"

Fishy then went on to say that if a virus killed cheaters, there would be no mortals on earth for her to terrorize.

"If death by virus was a punishment for extra-marital affairs there would only be three dudes left in this world right now...... I'm lucky - I have a wonderful, blessed life. I have two fantastically delightful children and a very nice husband, so... Knock on wood."

And then she went on about how disasters happen for a reason (Note: There's NO reason for GOOP so ho's belief ain't shit):

"I don't believe in religion at all but it's spiritual. I believe in a divine power and I believe that everything happens for a reason and if it's your time to go, it's your time to go."

But back to the cheating thing. I love how she basically says that all husbands cheat before she quickly tries to pull Chris Martin out of that category by saying how happy she is. I see what you did there, GOOP, and it didn't work. "Very nice husband" is like saying "cheating whore bastard who hates my wood-burning pizza" with a fake smile.

If a virus killed man cheaters, we'd definitely see Chris Martin's face during the In Memoriam at the Annual Cunt Awards.

Yes, Becks' bulge looks more like a curled up mama hamster nursing her young while twisted up inside of a bed sheet hammock, but it's Monday and I can't write another word (after these words) about the piss whore bride and her dumb dildo groom's wedding. So I thank Becks for keeping me from that by giving himself a front wedgie on Saturday night and showing off his soft-boiled huevos in a blanket. Just for that, I will forgive him for not quitting that Pocahontas Alfalfa shit on his head.

And if Becks' nut squeeze* isn't your thing, then I'm sure his invisible Can Can kick line routine is.

* It's a damn fucking shame that as Becks' shorts squeezed his nuts he didn't let out a high-pitched Minnie Mouse squeal that could only be heard by Khloe Kardashian, making her paw at her ears in agony, thus ruining Kim's whore wedding.