Eva Longoria Dumped Tony Parker First, Okay!

Eva Longoria only denied that Tony Parker filed for divorce in Texas on Tuesday because she wanted to be the one who publicly cut the cord on their marriage. A source tells Gossip Cop that Eva wanted to see the headline “Eva Longoria files for divorce from Tony Parker” in lights and not the other way around. So Eva played the part of an estranged wife who wants to work things out amicably to Tony’s face but then turned around and stabbed him in the ass with divorce papers. Well. Played.

A different source tells TMZ that they’ve been planning to file for divorce ever since Eva found all those hornified text messages between Tony and his teammate’s soon-to-be ex-wife Erin Barry. Apparently, Tony wanted to make the divorce go smoother by filing in Texas, but she talked him out of it. The source says that Eva wanted to file for divorce on the same day the “Tony is Blackberry boning some other trick” story from UsWeekly came out, because she’s into “the whole PR thing.” Eva’s spokeswhore denies she tried to pull some shit over on Tony.

And about those text messages, another source (ALL THESE SOURCES) whispered in People’s ear that Tony Porkme and Erin Barry never took their phone fucking relationship to the next level. Basically, he never put his baguette into her fondue pot. The source went on to explain, “They knew each other, sent each other messages. It was flirtatious, but he never did anything with her.”

Eva is a former soap star who has worked with professional stunt queen Marc Cherry for years, so I really should have expected her to bring the dramatic theatrics. And here I was thinking that the day I gave Eva Longoria a slow clap would never come. Glad to see that she’s finally scratching at her ESCANDALO gene. Keep scratching, Eva!

Egotism Is A Hell Of A Drug

If we ever dropped into Kanye West’s subconscious, we’d find ourselves in a small room wallpapered with pictures of Kanye holding a picture of Kanye holding a picture of Kanye holding a picture of Kanye holding a picture of Kanye (repeat until your brain reboots).

This interview Kanye gave to The Mirror’s 3am at the London premiere of his new cinematic masturbation piece Runaway proves this. There’s really not much for me to say here, so I’ll just let Kanye jack his brain off while all of us watch in the corner. Put on your clear goggles, because Kanye’s a squirter.

Kanye on how Michael Jackson has passed the rhinestone torch to him: “With the passing of Michael Jackson, I feel a responsibility to bring things to our generation that can inspire and bring real culture to pop culture. I don’t sleep any more thinking how we are going to fill this gap, and create something to inspire on the level he did.”

Kanye on why his line of douche bottle holsters for the fashion elite hasn’t come out yet: “I promised I wouldn’t tear up… but have you heard of a little thing called Lindsay Lohan’s Ungaro collection? That was like the 9/11 of fashion. It was game over for me after that as no one would take a celebrity trying to do fashion seriously. Being discriminated because I’m a rapper at fashion week. I quit music for six months because fashion did not take me seriously.”

Kanye on how he’s saying “BYE BITCH” to the whole Taylor Swift scandal: “She still hasn’t hit me up. I’m over that. I’m an artist and I’m all about my movie now and am leaving that behind. Most people will be like, ‘I guess it’s OK Beyonce’s video didn’t win.’ That’s not me. After the MTV thing I quit doing music. I had to get back into the world’s grace. I went to Japan, Hawaii, to get away. I thought I was going to give it all up. It’s only through divine intervention that I am here today.”

Kanye on making a movie about The Simpsons or Big Bird: “I don’t want to be put in the hip-hop box, I’m an artist. Hopefully I’ll hook up with George Lucas and do a film about yellow people with beaks.”

Kanye on Kanye: “Investing in me is like investing in art.”

Kanye on I don’t even know…: “I’m like a tree, I feed the branches of the people.”

9/11 of fashion?! Making movies about yellow people with beaks?! People chew a lot of peyote, drop a lot of acid, drink a lot of cans of Four Lokos, and watch a lot of Jan Crouch videos to come up with fuckery-laced quotes like this and Kanye just squeezes them out like nothing!

And can somebody tell Godfather Tree that he can stop feeding me his foolery nectar for now. I’m all full until my next burping.

Who Ordered The Flame Broiled Split Chicken?

It’s been way too long since the models of Sports Illustrated have gotten a serious lesson in bikini body posing, so here’s Phoebe Price blowing fire on the sand in Malibu yesterday with a friend and her dog Henry. Don’t be surprised if you see Marisa Miller or one of those other amateurs doing the happy “cooch to sand” pose.

And now you know why you heard the sounds of waves, camera clicks and chicken clucks when you put your ear to the giant shell on your coffee table yesterday.

Nobody Is Safe From Tim Gunn!

Tim Gunn has been on fire lately and slaying ho after ho after after ho! Bitches better hide behind the drawbridge, because it’s only a matter of time before Tim Gunn spits out a fire ball of truthery at you!

Tim has already put Taylor Momsen’s ass in a chair after he called her a “pathetic brat” and made the Salahis question their life choices when he said they were sociopaths. Now Tim has pulled out the cuntified tongue sword in his mouth and lashed it at legendary fashion icon SURI CRUISE! Suri better pull her hair back into a pony tail, put on her scrappin’ heels and grease up her Thetans, because Tim is coming at her hard.

It all started when Tim turned Lindsay Lohan’s ginger hair to ash while blasting her on Access Hollywood Live yesterday:

“Mr. Ungaro is dead and God knows he must have been rolling over in his grave, but I thought, this is one of the last couture houses left in this entire world. Lindsay Lohan is the creative director? How absurd is that! It would be like asking, I don’t know, like, asking Suri Cruise to pilot a fighter jet.”

(FYI: Suri can’t pilot a fighter jet, but she can strike a faaaaaabulous pose while standing next to one and that’s a better skill to have.) And then Tim put a fart in L. Ron Hubbard’s eye when he called Suri a victim of fashion:

“Suri is, she’s her mother and father’s dress up doll and I feel in many ways she’s a fashion victim and it’s just very inappropriate. I think it’s unsafe too. She’s a little kid and [she’s] tottering around on these stilettos or quasi stilettos. It’s really inappropriate and I feel bad for her in a manner of speaking.”

The platinum half helmet on Tim Gunn’s head can almost protect him from anything, but I’m still concerned. Suri Cruise is the most powerful woman in the world (next to Joan Collins, of course) and she might have the power to end Tim Gunn with just one call. So Tim better sleep with a Nerf Gun filled with anti-depressants under his bed in case Tommy Girl sends his goons after him. And we need Tim to stay safe so he can continue to brighten our lives with shiny truth gems.

Montana Fishburne Was Right

Getting slapped in the mouth with Ray J’s crooked cock while the camera rolls might start looking real attractive to some of you after reading this mess of a story from TMZ. Golden showers brings $30,000 purses! High school counselors need to immediately update their “What do you want to do with your life?” speeches, because getting it in the end on camera will always pay off in the end.

TMZ has is it on good authority that amateur porn star Kim Kardassian and her grand pimp of a mother strolled into Hermes in Paris yesterday afternoon to do a little shopping. And by a little shopping, I mean Kim pulled around $100k in small bills out of her 8-mile-long ass crack to pay for just seven bags. A source (aka a text message from Kris) says that those two whores bought six $10,000 Birkin bags and a limited-edition crocodile bag for $30,000.

That poor crocodile. It probably spent the better part of its life attacking and eating wild pigs, and now it’s being carried by one. The irony hurts more than Kim Kardassian’s chemically treated face when she tries to give a beej.

But I’m not going to fully hate on Kim’s whore game. The only thing I ever get from whoring it up is anonymous E-cards from inSPOT.

QOTD: Camille Paglia On Lady CaCa

In today’s Sunday Times Magazine, social critic Camille Paglia pulls out Lady Caca’s tuck in a piece titled: “Lady Gaga and the death of sex.” If you thought I had some serious feelings on Caca, then warm your eyeballs on the fire coming out of Camille’s finger tips. Here’s a few choice quotes:

She constantly touts her symbiotic bond with her fans, the “little monsters”, who she inspires to “love themselves” as if they are damaged goods in need of her therapeutic repair. “You’re a superstar, no matter who you are!” She earnestly tells them from the stage, while their cash ends up in her pockets. She told a magazine with messianic fervour: “I love my fans more than any artist who has ever lived.” She claims to have changed the lives of the disabled, thrilled by her jewelled parody crutches in the Paparazzi video.

Furthermore, despite showing acres of pallid flesh in the fetish-bondage garb of urban prostitution, Gaga isn’t sexy at all – she’s like a gangly marionette or plasticised android. How could a figure so calculated and artificial, so clinical and strangely antiseptic, so stripped of genuine eroticism have become the icon of her generation? Can it be that Gaga represents the exhausted end of the sexual revolution? In Gaga’s manic miming of persona after persona, over-conceptualised and claustrophobic, we may have reached the limit of an era…

The other day, I was waiting for the subway and a little girl pointed at an ad with a blonde chick on it and shouted, “Mom! Is that Lady Gaga?! Is that Lady Gaga? I love her!” Well, if Camille was there she would’ve asked me to hold her purse so she could slap the Gaganess out of that child. It’s like DAMN!!!

The first part of Camille’s Cacahaters manifesto is here and you can pay a pound to read the whole thing online. I’m saving my coins until I need a touching bedtime story to read later on.