Posh & Becks

Somewhere in Hell, Lucifer is crying out "NOOOOOOO!!!!" while huddled around a space heater with his Snuggie-wearing minions, because the Ninth Circle and all of the other Circles dropped below the freezing mark when the dark orb of darkness in Posh Beckham's chest cracked open during David Beckham's last football home game with Paris Saint-Germain last night. Posh hasn't gotten this emotional since she was knocked up and gained 1/100th of a pound.

While watching her husband's team win, a single tear trickled out of Posh's eye hole and dropped down onto the ground before burning through the cement and falling through all the levels of the stadium. When her tear reached the basement, it burned through the floor, burned through all the layers of the Earth and eventually fell into a fiery pity in Hell, causing the entire underworld to freeze over. And it's all because of this:

I see his teammates came up with an excuse to touch his ass.

Shit, my no-no's shedding a tear too, because Becks retiring means that there will be less pictures of his bulge and nipples. And Becks must be shedding several tears, because now what will be his excuse to visit his side tricks in other cities?

Here's David Beckham hugging on a little girl whose voice is probably deeper than his. (Although, that's not saying much since the high-pitched bark that comes out of my chihuahua's yap hole is deeper than Beck's voice.) Becks held onto Harper Seven as he walked out of a store in Paris today and he's making the same face I make when I hug my vaporizer. It's a look of true love.

Becks doesn't really hug Posh anymore, because every time he does, the warm human affection causes her icicle bones to melt and all that's left of her is a puddle of liquefied misery, oversized sunglasses and a Louis Vuitton butt stick. Then Becks has to get an ice sculptor to refreeze her and put her back together again. It really ruins the moment.

So whenever Becks gets to be all warm with another human he gets so happy that it looks like his internal organs are turning into heart-shaped mylar balloons. Squeeeee!

Back when Posh Beckham was the empress of the chavs with a complexion like a basketball and tits that looked like they were filled with more plastic than the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, she and David Beckham bought a 1930s estate outside of London and called it Beckingham Palace. They've had their fill of English country life and want to live in London now. They bought it in 1999 for £2.5 million and they put in a snooker room (Side note: No, a snooker room isn't an altar room dedicated to Snooki and it's not a room where you plan your schemes, it's a billiard room) and a recording studio. It was the headquarters of chavism and now Posh and Becks are selling it. Pour out a bottle of self-tanner on a bedazzled pink Razr phone, because it really is the end of an era.

The Daily Mail says that Posh and Becks are privately selling it for £10 million. The DM's source says that not just any bitch can buy Beckingham Palace. Posh and Becks will only sell it to a family, because they don't want an investor turning their precious mansion into a condo building. The source said this:

"They know there aren’t lots of individuals looking for houses of this size, and developers would jump at the chance to turn it into smaller flats, which would have added value because of the Beckham connection. But both David and Victoria spent years improving Rowneybury (aka Beckingham palace) and they’re prepared to wait for the right buyer who will continue their work, rather than someone looking to cash in on their name."

So if you have £10 million and really want to keep your batteries in the same freezer where Posh kept her soul frozen while she slept and you really want to cook bacon on the same cooktop where Posh didn't cook anything on, this is the country estate for you! Posh doesn't shit or piss since she gets rid of all the waste in her body by having it lipoed out while she sleeps in a steel coffin, so most of the toilets are barely used. That's a selling point! But you know what would really be a selling point? If that huge ass house came with Becks and a pair of chonies. The chonies aren't for him to wear. The chonies are for you to stuff into his mouth, because his voice ruins everything.

And here's Becks handling balls in Paris today.

My wet dream of fighting David Beckham for the last bunch of bananas at a Trader Joe's in Glendale will never come true, because he has left Los Angeles FOREVER and moved back to London with Posh, Harper the 7th and the Cruz boys. Becks got his ass a job closer to home and announced today in France that he'll be ripping off his jersey for the fans of Paris Saint-German starting now. People says that dozens of teams from around the world promised to throw wads of money at him if he graced their fields with his nipples and he went with PSG. Becks' 5-month contract with PSG ends on June 30th. Becks said this in a press conference this morning:

"I consider myself to be part of this club in the future – in helping this club to grow ... in helping the French league to grow and also helping this club to be one of the biggest powerhouses in football."

If you live in Paris and your dream is to fight Posh for the last macaroon at Franprix, then I need to tell you that's a dumb dream, because Posh doesn't go into grocery stores and she sure as hell doesn't fight over carbs. But anyway, Posh is staying in London with the kids and Becks will commute back and forth. Becks also said that he will donate his entire salary to a children's charity in Paris. The French media says that his contract is worth over $5 million.

What's $5 million to Posh and Becks? If Posh shit, her shits would be worth more than $5 million. Besides, it's smart to give it all to charity. Because once the French super tax hit his salary, he'd be left with two stale pieces of baguette and a couple of coins. Gérard Depardieu knows what I'm talking about.

The talking pimple permanently stuck on The Queen's ass lips has left Kate Middleton alone on her birfday and has decided to aim his rusty shank at Posh and David Beckham instead. The highly esteemed Loaded Magazine (via DM) walked up to Morrissey's front porch and asked him to take a minute from yelling at the clouds, the garden hoses, the children, the flies, the air and the sunshine to talk about the current state of Britain. If you're ever lacking in Vitamin Cunt, ask Morrissey about his country and he will give you a year's supply. Morrissey went off and this time his rant was directed at the Beckhams. Or the "Peckhams" (after a shady area in London) as Moz calls them.

'I'd... have the Peckhams dragged to the edge of the village and flogged because they are insufferable to anyone of intelligence, and they actively chase the paparazzi. We don’t seem to realise that David and Victoria Peckham will soon be back and god forbid they will be bestowed with titles Sir and Lady Peckham, this is what’s wrong with this country, we don’t seem to care. Football often seems to me to have no meaning whatsoever other than just to be there. It can’t be elevated any higher because so many footballers are paid £200,000 a week, yet couldn’t identify a harp."

Morrissey missed his calling. Since he's happiest when he's bitching, moaning and working out his cunt muscle until its sore, he should've been a gossip blogger or an internet commenter. In his next life, maybe!

Here's Morrissey on Letterman last night and I'm disappointed that he didn't end this performance by tearing up a picture of Posh & Becks while shouting, "Fight the REAL enemy!"

That high-pitched squealing most of London heard last night, wasn't from George Michael playing in the park again. It was from Morrissey fangirling over his royal idol Duchess Kate making her first appearance in front of public eyes since she checked out of the hospital. I'm sure Morrissey has already printed this picture out, pasted a picture of his face over Becks' face, drew a heart around Kate with a sparkly gel pen and glued it to the ceiling over his bed so every morning he can wake up and look at the beautiful reason for why he opens his eyes.

If I was laid up on a princess canopy bed and Prince Hot Ginge was hand-feeding me pieces of crystallized ginger while Prince William rubbed my tummy with a silk glove on, I'd stay sick forever. But Duchess Kate has a job to do! Somebody has to wave, smile, stand, wave, smile, stand, wave, smile at events and that somebody is Duchess Kate. So she pulled herself out of her sick bed for a quick second to wave, smile and give out trophies at the Sports Personality of the Year Awards in London last night.

I wish that while Duchess Kate was standing next to Becks and staring at his shiny ass forehead, she saw her reflection and realized that she should stop doing her hair like an Angel of Charlie and stop stealing clothes from Tootsie's dirty laundry basket. The Breck Girl look is not for her. But she probably didn't see that since the sparkle rays from her bright shiny white teeth ricocheted off of Becks' forehead and hit her in the eyes, leaving her temporarily blind. Damn!

If I had a baby friend, I'd only dress it in a diaper and a poncho made from a giant paper napkin, because babies spit, snot, piss and shit on everything and they have no respect for clothes. Babies don't care that somewhere in China a baby their age made that onesie. Rude. Well, Posh Beckham is with me. Sort of. But to Posh, her idea of a paper napkin poncho is a $285 Marc Jacobs toddler dress.

The Daily Mail says that Posh never puts 15-month-old Harper Seven in the same outfit twice and her daughter's wardrobe is worth $8,000. So far, Posh has bought (aka bitch got that shit for free) Harper a $160 sweater by Bonpoint, a $415 coat from Chloe and a $136 dress from Stella McCartney. Harper Seven never spits up on the same outfit twice, because Posh never dresses her in the same ensemble more than once.

Babies don't even know what clothes are, so spending $8,000 on their wardrobe is kind of a waste. But that being said, 8 grand ain't shit to Posh and Becks. Posh spends more than $8,000 a week on bunny fur tampons and maxi-pads with wings (actual wings from an endangered trumpeter swan). Posh's hair is made of the manes of Arabian horses and one weave track costs more than $8,000. So $8,000 is really a drop in the diamond-encrusted champagne bucket to them.

And Blue Ivy Carter is spitting up caviar while laughing at this. Blue Ivy Carter won't even shit in a diaper unless it's cashmere, covered in sapphires and costs more than 10 grand. Shitting in anything else is just embarrassing.

I'm guessing that right about now, your Twitter feed, Facebook page, Tumblr dashboard, MySpace, Friendster, inbox, mailbox, lifebox, pony express box, carrier pigeon box and life box are all filled with the news of Jerry Sandusky getting sentenced to 30 to 60 years in prison for raping boys. If you read Jerry Sandusky's insane, rambling letter of delusional fuckery, then you might need something to wipe away the thick layer of ICK NAST from your eyeballs. So here's David Beckham struttin' with his nipples out after a game at the Home Depot Center in Carson, CA.

Becks isn't looking his hottest here and his bulge looks as sullen as his torso does, but desperate times call for desperate palate cleansers.

A while ago, there was a rumor that Welsh pop opera singer and former Dancing with the Has-Beens loser Katherine Jenkins has heard David Beckham's Minnie Mouse-like orgasm moans while the two wet humped on each other a few times. The rumor came back up on Twitter over the weekend and so in a few tweets, Katherine basically told Posh to stop making plans to nibble on the calorie-free parts of her soul, because she's never been bare nipple to bare nipple with Becks.

Dear Twitter friends, I've read some horrible rumours on here & want u 2 know I absolutely deny I’ve had an affair with David Beckham. The rumours are very hurtful, untrue & my lawyers tell me actionable. I’ve only met David twice: once at the Military Awards in 2010 & on a night out in the West End in Feb 2012. We were out in a group of friends & it was just a normal fun evening out. Just so we are clear I have never been on my own with him and never arranged to meet up.

The Sun says that some 17-year-old crazy on Twitter wasn't having Katherine's denials and threatened to shank her shit up if Posh & Becks ever broke up. Katherine had to call the police, because the 17-year-old troll said that "she is dead when I get her" and "I will kill that slut." So stick your head out the window and kiss the air, because we're all living in a time when some sort-of-famous-but-not-really opera singer has to go to the police over death threats she's getting from some stupid bitch on Twitter. If Katherine never got any dick from Becks, I'd be pissed if I was her. She should tell Becks that he has to tap that coochie at least once now that she's getting death from dumb pieces of teen trash.

There is really something wrong with that crazy teen Jenkins hater. Shouldn't he be doing bath salts and knocking up other teens like a normal 17-year-old? He shouldn't be so far up Posh & Becks' b-holes that he's sending death threats at some opera singer over some shit that might not have ever happened. I swear. It's like if Twitter existed in the 90s and I sent the Tweet "@kellytaylor DIAF YOU YELLOW-HAIRED HUSSY WHORE SLUT" after that yellow-haired hussy whore slut Kelly Taylor stole Dylan from Brenda on BH 90210.

Okay, I totally would've done that.

CORRECTION: That headline is factually wrong, because Posh can't physically give a shit. Posh had her entire digestive system removed, because it's not like she uses it anyway and it was getting in the way of her having a waist smaller than a grasshopper's peen shaft. So I should've wrote: Posh Could Give A Queef.

So, Scary Spice, Sporty Spice, Ginger Spice, Baby Spice and Tall Olsen Spice all gathered in front of the steps where they zig-a-zig-ah-ed in the Wannabe video 16 years ago to officially announce the Spice Girls musical. The musical will start with Scary, Sporty, Ginger and Baby discovering a miserable alien in a crashed asteroid and molding her into the Dark Crystal praying mantis she is today. Jennifer Saunders (that's Edina Monsoon to you and me) wrote the musical's book and Judy Craymer (the one in the pictures below who looks like an Asian Ellen Barkin) is producing it. Viva Forever! will open at the Piccadilly Theater in London's West End this December.

Here's Scary, Sporty, Ginger and Baby being all excited about getting a check while trying to ignore the luxury-wrapped skinny black cloud of poutiness next to them:

Oh, Posh, please forever remain that angst-ridden Emo goth teen who ruins Christmas by looking as miserable as possible while sitting at the dinner table. Seriously, I kept waiting for Posh to pull out a razor and start cutting herself while reciting Morrissey lyrics.