So that’s where Renee Zellweger’s signature squint went.
As her on-and-off again husband Kieran Somethingrather and her kids, Junior, Jett, Bunny and Princess Tiaandtameramowry (Harvey is too good for this shit) stood on the sidelines, Katie Price, the reincarnation of Jane Austen once again injected illegal amounts of extravaganza and glamour into London during a photocall for “May Your Wish Come True,” the 10th novel she didn’t write.
The last bit of shame and dignity I had went away a long time ago when I hooked up with a dude I met on Gay.com (that should tell it was ancient times) who told me that he wasn’t really attracted to me but he’ll do me anyway since he was horny, so I will openly and proudly admit that I’ve read many novels written by Katie Price’s ghostwriter. I’ve read them, because I consider myself a literary connoisseur who fully appreciates when my brain is stimulated by stories from the greats. But besides scholars, Ivy League literature majors and readers of complex fiction like myself, who in the hell is buying her books? You know, I shouldn’t question it. I should appreciate it. Because every time Katie Price queefs up another soft-core literary masterpiece, she launches it with one of those glamorous and hilarious (glamarious?) photocalls.
Everything about her look at today’s photocall was potent perfection from the Shauna Sand special on her hooves to the way her huge fake tits looked like two aggressive melons butting each other to that ensemble which looks straight out of a holiday-themed Frederick’s of Hollywood fashion show held in the parking lot of a strip mall outside of Las Vegas.
That look is a mix of “slutty Liberace” and “Snow Queen porn parody on Brazzers.“In other words, it’s perfect.