Posh & Becks
Today is David Beckham's 37th birthday and he and Posh starting celebrating that shit early at the Nuggets vs. Lakers game last night. You know it was a truly special night, because Posh actually went to the Lakers game. Posh risked gaining 1/20th of a pound from breathing in the nacho cheese vapors around her. That's real love. Posh and Becks also touched lips on the Lakers KissCam and then she pulled her frozen mouth muscles out of the unamused position to make a smile. It's always a moment in history when Posh makes an opposite frown. I actually like Posh's smile, but only because when she does it she looks like a devious cartoon villain who has just learned the secret to destroying the Smurfs. It's very, "Bleheheheheheheehehe I'll get you!"
Since I consider myself the epitome of restraint, I think of the anniversary of my born day as the only day (besides Christmas, Easter, other people's birthdays, Sundays, any day that a Golden Girls re-run is playing on my TV, etc...) it's acceptable for me to lay on a tarp and widen my mouth with my hands as my loved one throw pieces of sheet cake from Costco into it. Well, Posh is just like me, because she threw a middle finger at her zero calories-a-day diet and put her tiny snout to good use by pigging out on a plate of fruit. Bitch, you so wild.
Posh turned 38 in human years (1,964 in praying mantis alien years) on Tuesday and she celebrated it by having lunch with a group of her friends. Posh was so excited about going food hog wild that she Tweeted a picture of her birthday fruit. The guinea pig chefs who whipped this up made it extra special by writing her name in diarrhea. It's not chocolate sauce. Posh wouldn't go THAT crazy.
But seriously, I doubt Posh even touched that plate of fruit. You know how at fancy rich people weddings, they have a cake that's just for show? You don't touch that cake and instead waiters bring out a dessert that you can eat? That's what that fruit plate was. It was just for show and later on the waiter brought out her real dessert: a bowl of dried grapefruit seeds.
Happy Birthday, Posh! Since you didn't eat any cake on your special day, I'll do it for you! Now where's my tarp?
Posh (seen here looking like an extraterrestrial Ruth Bader Ginsburg), David Beckham and their chirruns all spent the holiday weekend with testicle-faced Gordon Ramsay, and if UsWeekly is telling the truth, she probably only nibbled on plain Easter basket grass at dinner. A source tells UsWeekly that on more than one occasion, Posh has only ordered the guinea pig special at restaurants. One source said that at Il Pastaio in Beverly Hills last month, Posh only ate arugula with no dressing. Yes, Posh is that ho saying she's full after sucking down a blade of dry grass while you're sitting there chewing on a delicious piece of steak fat like it's bubble gum. (You really haven't had a delicious meal until you've tried to blow a steak fat bubble.)
Why does Posh even bother going to restaurants if she's just going to chew on greenery? The only reason to go to a restaurant is to eat delicious foods you can't order from takeout. The rest of the experience sucks. You have to put on pants and listen to strangers at the next table talk about their lives. Posh should've just stayed home and licked on the fern in her front yard.
Posh said recently that she doesn't have an eating disorder and I don't think this story proves that she's telling lies. However, I do think this story proves my suspicions that she's a fucking bunny rabbit. I bet her poops roll.
Posh Beckham is the sleepiest zombie in the graveyard, but she still had enough energy to pull herself out of her crypt to party with Eva Longoria and Kate Beckinsale at a Vanity Fair party in L.A. last night. Last week Posh was grabbing Becks' balls through the power of the optical illusion, this week she's grabbing on Eva's titty balls and let's hope that next week she's grabbing on a pair of meat balls from Ikea. That sinister "nibbling on the fat-free parts of your soul" smirk is scaring/scarring me! Posh looks like Mr. Burns dragging it up in disguise as a Pan Am flight attendant so that he can join the zombie mile high club by eating brains in the lavatory.
You know how at the end of the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland you face a mirror that shows ghosts and ghouls sitting on your head and shit? That's what this looks like. Although, Eva Longoria is too busy flirting with the camera to know that she's wearing a cold zombie hand bra.
That said, I'd rather see Posh's zombie hands over Eva's chesticles than the shit she's wearing. That dress is a world of NO on Eva. If my free clinic therapist held up one of these pictures of Eva and asked me what I see in her titty area, I'd say I see two side shadowy profiles of the triangle bird from Angry Birds and a whole lot of desperation. Eva just doesn't have the demure grace of Courtney Stodden and Anne V to pull off a dress of elegance like this.
The starving orphans of the world sent their rations to Posh Beckham last week after she showed up to NYC Fashion Week looking like she was raised by White Oprah. Bitch makes a praying mantis look like a heffa mantis and even Macaulay Culkin is passing Posh a jumbo can of Dinty Moore. But Posh says that every bitch getting hot over her appearance needs to fuck an ice cube, because she's perfectly fine. Posh just has a lot on her plate and none of it is food. At some party for London Fashion Week, Posh told The Mirror that you can stop throwing hamburger patties at her now, because she's just suffering from a serious case of the tireds.
“Look, if people want to say I’m miserable then so be it. I’m really not. I have a lot on my plate. I’m not going to lie about it, I’m tired. I’m really tired but I’m also very happy with my life.
I’m basically just like any woman who’s working and has lots of children – it’s tough. I’m not getting much sleep at all. Harper’s not sleeping that great, and I’ve been taking Skype business calls throughout the night too because of the collections. I’m up with the baby as all mums are and I wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s not a team of people doing it for me. And then people want to say I look crap. Well, I’m a working mum, so give me a break.
It’s actually been crazy. I had Harper, I was working on the collection and I was straight back into it. I took a lot on board. I’m tired. You can’t look your best all the time.
The thing is I get the game I’m in. People can read the shit about me and believe what they want and I get it. But I don’t want to focus on that side of things. The glass is always half full for me. You can’t get hung up on what other people say. I surround myself with the people that matter. And everything else can just go away.”
The glass is always half full? Please. Posh's glass is always full since she never sips from it just in case a bitch sneakily squeezes some lemon juice in there to give her malnourished carcass some damn calories. No, I shouldn't say that. It's really hard out there for a Posh. Posh has to snap at her team of nannies to up Harper's Pilates workout to twice a day so the baby fat melts away faster. Posh has to snap at her team of fashion designers to only make her dresses in negative sizes. (Size 2 is a PLUS SIZE and Posh's fashion collection is strictly a NO FATTIES zone.) Posh has to do all of that while maintaining a miserable parched look on her face. It's exhausting! If you had to do all of that, you too would look like a schoolgirl alien zombie who just nibbled all the way through a Kardashian's head and didn't find even one piece of brain. Tiring!
Brought to you by Becks' Facebook page (via Buzzfeed), here's Posh Beckham making icicles form on the assholes of Lucifer's minions in hell by actually cracking a slight smile while doing a "ball check" pose in front of her husband's billboard in NYC. This is some historic shit since we all figured Posh's mouth was permanently flatlining into bitch mode. Posh can smile! But Posh stopped smiling after a dude parked his car in front of her, got out and tried to stick a quarter in her mouth since she's as skinny as a damn meter.
And here's a few hilariously awkward pictures of Posh, Hamish Bowles and Anna Wintour in the subway at the inaugural run of a Union Jack covered car for the GREAT Britain campaign in NYC today. It's known that Posh would give all five hundred of her kids to get on the cover of American Vogue and Anna Wintour's acting like she's not even alive. To be honest, I don't even know if Posh is alive, because damn it looks like she shares a make-up artist with The Walking Dead. I feel like I'm Haley Joel Osment and she's one of my ghost visitors. Posh is looking like a Dark Crystal puppet inspired by The Curious Case of Ali Lohan and the Mexican zombie (Zombican?) from the Black Eyed Peas. Somebody get Posh 1/1000th of a Triple Bypass Burger!
You know what question I'm talking about since you're asking that question right now while staring at that picture of THE QUEEN! What kind of royal secrets are hiding within The Queen's beloved pocketbook? The pocketbook that she takes with her to sit on both royal thrones. The pocketbook that she cuddles with at night. The pocketbook that is her conjoined twin and her only confidante. Memaws are serious about their handbags and The Queen has never been an exception. But a royal biographer, who is obviously going to be executed soon for committing treason, did some ninja-like shit to uncover what lies beneath Her Majesty's handbag.
- A mirror, because every queen must have a portable mirror with her to ask who the fairest of all is. (FYI: When The Queen asks, this is what her mirror shows her.)
- A £5 or £10 note to drop in the donation basket at church on Sundays.
- Mints, lipstick, reading glasses and a pen.
- A plastic suction cup with a hook to hang her best friend on. An anonymous source explained it like this: “I watched the Queen open her handbag and remove a white suction cup and discreetly spit into it. The Queen then attached the cup to the underside of the table. The cup had a hook on it, and she attached her handbag to it.”
The Queen ain't the one to let her precious purse sit on the floor where the dirt of a commoner's common shoes lie. Sally also wrote that if Her Majesty needs a pair of gloves, her ladies-in-waiting hold on to that kind of shit for her. But you know, this is kind of disappointing and it must be some kind of cover up. I refuse to believe that The Queen's pocketbook isn't filled with bricks (for when she really needs to fuck a bitch up by hitting them over the head) and a lone house slipper (for when she really needs to slap one of her grandchildren in the teeth for sass talking). I won't take any other answer.
And unfortunately, I don't have any answers for the other question that just loaded into your brain which is: Why the fuck did I read this shit?
Since we're on the subject of THE ROYALS!!!, here's the tingle of my loins Prince Hot Ginge leaving some club in London last night with Becks. That scratch on his nose? Yup, sass talking to his memaw again.
Either Posh had super-slim, non-bulging steel biceps installed into her arms and is wearing a Lacroix lifting belt or Baby Harper Seven weighs as much as a mockingbird's whisper.
Baby Harper Seven might be the heaviest person, place or thing that Posh has ever carried in the history of her life. It's like watching a dragonfly give a baby bunny a front piggyback ride. The power of motherhood is no joke. Posh is clutching at Baby Harper with her claws the same way she clutched the limited-edition Louis Vuitton ball bag Becks got her for Christmas one year.
My awe at Posh's sudden HULK OUT powers almost made my eyes overlook the bizarre shit that's playing down below. The dress is very "kindergarten teachers takes off her cardigan to move some heavy boxes" and those boots are "my sister in junior high school thinking she's the shit." Just because you're a mother to a newborn doesn't mean you should ignore your #1 responsibility in life which is to always match your dress to your boots. Bitch is on notice!
On a positive note, I applaud Baby Harper for already trying to perfect her mother's signature shankface. Although, Baby Harper needs less squint and more eyes that say "You're so fat that just looking at you is making me gain calories. Poof. Be gone."
An international emergency was called when Posh was photographed out in L.A. a few days ago wearing what she calls paraplegic heels (aka flats). The excuse at the time was that Posh suffered from a slipped disc or some shit and her feet were put on high heels rest by her doctors. THAT IS NO EXCUSE. Slipped disc or not, the public-at-large counts on Posh to always show us that shit is right in the world by wearing heels so high that it makes our ankle bones shiver like a crazy Christian at a trans convention.
I don't care if bitch's disc is doing the Slip 'N Slide, she needs put on those heels and channel the pain from her back into the snobby bitchface she always launches at hos. I don't care if bitch loses her legs in a freak red carpet accident, she needs to strap those heels to her stumps and hop like a motherfucker. But thankfully, we can call off the international emergency, because Posh was back to wearing back-breaking heels of death while shopping with her family in West Hollywood yesterday.
Posh made the right decision and had all of her back bones removed so that she doesn't have to live a tortured life of only wearing flats. Bitch is so light that the wind can hold her up as she struts in front of the camera. It's true that she can never sit in a chair again, but she can wear heels for centuries to come and that's all that matters.
That weave on the other hand....
Sometimes in the wild, you come across two hot-blooded sessy beasts throwing looks at each other like they just want to get messy, and that's exactly the scene of love that went down in Malibu over the weekend when Becks laid his eyeballs on a Rob Reiner-alike with sex stuffed into his Speedos. You could cut the sexual tension with Posh's clavicle bone. Posh now knows why Becks always spoons with a big Father Christmas plushie doll every night. Here she was thinking that her sleep chattering (sleep chattering is when your mouth opens and closes real fast while you're sleeping because your stomach is hongray and it's trying to catch a fly going by or something) gave Becks the scareds. But nope! The truth is that Becks has always wanted Santa Claus to come down his chimney if I ain't being too subtle.
Just look at this picture of Becks frolicking in the sea while making fuck me eyes at Daddy Bear, and try to tell me that the song playing in his head isn't this one:
I swear, if a genie showed up and agreed to grant Becks one wish, he'd ask to be turned into a crotch patch on that bear's burgundy Speedo and he wouldn't even have to think about it. I really hope this story had several happy endings, because the love between a silver bear and an otter doesn't happen often.