Since TLC is basically just one long never-ending episode of Maury, one of the Here Comes Honey Boo Boo “holladay” specials will feature Mama June facing her greatest fear, which surprisingly isn’t vegetables that haven’t been deep fried in cheese oil and covered in ranch dressing. The heaves crawl up Mama June’s sketti sauce-covered froat when she thinks of MARANNAISE!
While working the hell out of her newly straightened bayootiful yallaw hayer-ah (yes, Tim Peeler would hit that while blowing his coyote horn), Mama June tells her tribe of adorable sugar-coated diabetes drops that her hate for mayonnaise was born when she was a kid because her babysitter only fed her mayo sandwiches. Mama June can easily swallow up bowls of macaroni (air kiss to Simply Sara) and coleslaw salad, but she can’t make it herself and she has a hard time looking at mayo in its raw, delicious state. Mama June’s mayo phobia is a little strange, because I’m sure if you cracked two raw eggs between her luscious triple decker chins and rubbed all her chins together, out would squirt the most delicious bacon cheddar marannaise you’ve ever tasted.
Mama June’s talk about her mayo fears then leads to Chickfila and Snickerdoodle (or whatever their names are) fighting over whether or not vegamatarians eat marannaise. They’re confusing vegans with vegamatarians, but let them argue, because the way they say mayonnaise takes me up, up and away.
And I cannot relate to Mama June’s fear of mayo. My tongue is to mayo as gnats are to the sour cream crusties on Mama June’s forklift foot. I love it. I can bathe in mayo, brush my teeth with mayo, moisturize my ass cheeks with mayo, wet my contact lenses with mayo and I can even use mayo as lube. So this is good news, because it means there’s MORE MARANNAISE FOR ME! Because if Mama June loved marannaise as much as I do, there’d be a nationwide shortage and I’d have to deliver a screeching marannaise message on YouTube.
Blake Lively is the daughter Martha Stewart never had (Note: That one who told us that she pisses with the door open doesn’t count.) and so, of course, the details of her wedding with Ryan Reynolds in Charleston, SC are in the Winter issue of Martha Stewart Weddins’. Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds are extremely private non-famewhores and they’d never sell pictures of their intimate moments together, so the only picture of them in the magazine is the Instragrammy one of them holding hands. Shit looks like a newspaper ad for Kay Jewelers.
Blake and Ryan didn’t want any pictures of their asses published (because she’s saving those for when she needs to pass them out on the ho stroll to extend her relevancy), so the magazine just has pictures of their flowers, decorations and delicious food stuff. Martha and her team of glue gun-holding, frosting bag-wielding slaves created a wedding that looked like a snowballing session between Etsy and Pinterest.
What I’m getting from this is that up-close pictures of S’mores bars and lemon tarts are way more interesting than pictures of Ryan and Blake’s married faces. Seems about right!
With three tubes of Prep H smeared all over his eye area to keep down the swelling he got from his ducts barfing up floods of sparkle tears, Robert Pattinson slid into the guest chair at The Daily Show last night to promote Cosmopolis and to nervously giggle about the lip-biting, lazy-faced, skank whore elephant in the room. I really thought that RPatt’z interview with Jon Stewart was going to be as awkward as a sudden fart jumping out of your butt while you’re getting your salad tossed, but it wasn’t at all. It was actually kind of charming. Yes, I was charmed by RPattz and yes, you can now make fun of me for riding side saddle on one of the unicorns frolicking through his enchanted forest hair.
Jon Stewart never brought up Kristen Stewart’s name and never asked RPattz how it feels to have his heart (or relationship contract) broken by his dead-hearted slut girlfriend thrusting her ass into married man crotch, but he did start the interview by giving RPattz some Ben & Jerry’s before saying (via Jezebel):
“The last time I had a bad breakup, Ben and Jerry got me through some of the tougher times. So I thought you and I could bond over this and talk about, ‘Boy you are better off. Kick her to the curb, whatever…’ When you are young and you break up, it’s powerful and it feels like the world is ending. This is the first time I have seen the world actually react that way. It’s insanity.”
I don’t know who told Jon Stewart that Ben & Jerry’s is the medicine for a broken heart, but who ever told him needs to receive an education from the most dumped trick in America Jennifer Love Hewitt, because it ain’t. Jon should’ve given RPattz a basket with a raw cookie dough log, a vajazzle kit, a copy of John Bobbitt’s porn (because nothing makes you feel good about your life like Jon Bobbitt’s frankendick) and a lyric sheet for Mary J. Blig’s “Not Gon’ Cry.”
And I really hope that Kristen Stewart’s first interview is with Nancy Grace. No, Kristen Stewart never killed a baby, but she did kill the hearts of a million crazed Twihards and ever since Casey Anthony got away, Nancy Grace has been waiting to chew on a trashy white girl who looks an albino rat’s soft peen.
Here’s RPattz at the NYC premiere of Cosmopolis last night and at the NYSE this morning. The black and blue ensemble is really, really subtle. You can’t tell from these pictures, but also at the premiere last night were dozens of Twihards screaming at RPattz to let them seal the cracks in his heart with their panty pudding.
Correction: It’s not totally what I expected. That headline is a liar. I expected to see a gigantic tub (made of Cheetos powder and bacon glue) full of Fresca and buttered popcorn-flavored Jelly Bellies in there. Maybe she’s saving that for the live shows.
Seen here looking like a scared kindergarten on picture day who was told to keep her hands to herself, Brit Brit started her first day as judge on The X-Factor in Austin, TX today. Before the Louisiana trailer park blossom judges bitches who have more natural singing talent than she does, she has to fill her belly bag with fried chicken, Doritos and Diet Coke stew. Something called Look Magazine (via Entertainmentwise) says these are Brit Brit’s dressing room demands:
34 Herve Leger bandage dresses
12 Snickers bars
6 cases of Diet Coke
10 bags of Doritos
12 vases of magnolias
10 pieces of fried chicken
4 pints of tater salad
1 manicurist, 1 facialist and 1 massage therapist
The manicurist is there to scrub the Doritos smemga out of her nail gutters. The facialist is there pick the pieces of fried chicken dingles off of her cheeks. And the massage therapist is there to knead out the doody knot that’s in her ass from eating all that shit. But seriously, that list is actually pretty tame for Brit Brit. You’d think she’d force them to move a Circle K into her trailer. It’s a sad day when Brit Brit is eating fried chicken and a Snickers for lunch instead of sucking off a gas station nacho cheese dispenser like she did in the old days. There’s not even Velveeta grits on that list!
My ass is hung all the way over and this morning I nearly puked my liver out when I sniffed on a delicious piece of meat of the gods (see: BACON!!!). (The sweet nectar is a holy elixir from heaven, but I question my undying love for it when it keeps my mouth from sucking on BACON!!!!) Even though I can’t with food right now, I’d immediately put on a cum rag/bib and slobber all over the first course James Martin served up on Saturday Kitchen. I don’t know shit about James Martin, but now I know both of our craniums have permanent peen prints on them since we’ve always got delicious looking dick on the brain.
Understudy Title: Dunkin’ Dosluts
Second Understudy Title: Dunkin’ Doze Nuts For A Dollar
Third Understudy Title: Too Many Puns, Too Little Time
When you hit the drive-thru at the Dunkin’ Donuts in Rockaway, NJ, you better be specific on whether or not you want the glazed hole and cream-filled eclair or the glazed hole and cream-filled eclair. That’s because one of their employees was arrested for selling a side of ass with coffee and bear claws.
29-year-old Dunkin’ Donuts employee Melissa Redmond was the star of a six-week-long sting operation called “Extra Sugar” that was set up after police got an “anonymous tip” that she was sucking on anonymous tips in the parking lot. The police started staking out the Dunkin’ Donuts and immediately noticed that Melissa, who worked the graveyard shift, would regularly visit cars in the parking lot for a long time. They stepped up the investigation by sending an undercover cop through the drive-thru to try to buy a Coolatta and coochie from Melissa . Melissa allegedly took the bait and passed him her phone number.
Detective Sgt. Kyle Schwarzmann told the NYDN that the undercover cop parked and waited for Melissa to come out. When Melissa got into his car, she told the cop how much it would cost to squeeze some cream out of his Long John. The undercover cop told her it was too much and she got out of the car. He came back a few nights later and Melissa agreed to lower her prices. The cop told her he was going to go to the ATM to get some cash and that’s when she was busted.
Melissa was charged with prostitution whoring.
Oh, Melissa. She almost had a perfect game going. Outdoor hookers are nearly burning their clits off in this heat and forget about selling vagina on Craigslist. That’s like walking into a murder scene. Melissa played it smart. Melissa got to hang out in a temperature-controlled Dunkin’ Donuts and then take 20 steps to a car parked outside when ho shit duty called. Afterward, she could gargle out the condom taste with iced coffee. It was brilliant…until the ho got caught. Her only mistake is that she didn’t shush those cops with some free donuts and a cut of her earnings.
Okay, her other mistake is that she didn’t pull some Sweeney Todd shit. With the price of sugar and tap water on the rise (I’m making that up), she should’ve held on to her johns’ used condoms and really put the cream in cream puff. Actually, maybe she did……..
Note to self: If I ever find myself at the Dunkin’ Donuts in Rockaway, make sure to spit, not swallow.
(Thanks to everybody who sent this in!)