Kellan Lutz Lives With Dick

Kellan Lutz tells GQ Style Australia that he lives with a bunch of “his boys” and one of them is a dude he found on Craigslist named Dick who owns a chihuahua they call Kevin. To which I’ll say Parasite Hilton’s elementary school nickname: TOO EASY! This is what the six-pack on stilts of muscle had to say about getting more Dick in his life to GQ:

It’s not that I’m not. It’s just that any mortal man in the presence of a towering powerhouse like Lutz can’t help but feel like a yellow-billed oxpecker on the back of a great hippo. Which is why I’m relieved when Kevin the chihuahua suddenly scampers off to bark at something inside. “That must be Dick,” Lutz says, following Kevin into the house. “Dick’s one of my room-mates.” Lutz isn’t dating anyone at the moment, but still. Room-mates? “I like being around people,” he explains, “so I posted an ad on Craigslist saying I was looking for new blood.” He looks to see if I get the joke. “Dick came by and we liked him, so, yeah, now he’s one of my boys.”

“My boys” is a term Lutz uses a lot, as in, “My boys all want to go to Vegas to watch the Super Bowl with me, so I say, ‘Great. I’ll provide the rooms and whatnot. All you have to do is buy a $400 plane ticket.’ That’s when my boys start moaning, ‘Oh, we have no money.’ But then I’ll catch them spending $200 a night getting drunk with a girl. What’s up with that?”

So, Kellan Lutz lives with a group of his boys, calls them his “roommates,” takes them on trips to Las Vegas, gives them $400 prepaid credit cards to buy their airline tickets with (so they can tell people THEY bought the tickets) and their only duties are to bleach Kevin’s b-hole and to caulk the toilet seat whenever he accidentally breaks it by flexing the biceps on his ass cheeks during a shit? To which I’ll say the word that Kunty Karl’s male human writes on his tax return next to occupation: KEPT BITCH!

Here’s Muscle Daddy Kellan and friend of Dick putting muscles on top of his muscle’s muscle’s muscle at Muscle Beach in Venice, CA the other day.

P.S. – Heh. He said “oxpecker.“

Marky Mark And Donnie Wahlberg Know How To Name A Burger Restaurant

Marky Mark and Donnie Wahlberg are selling their pounded meat at a restaurant in Boston and they have named that mess the best name of a burger place since Fudruckers, Beef ‘N’ Buns and Burger, She Wrote. They are naming that shit: WAHLBURGERS. WAHLBURGERS! This almost makes up for the death of Kenny Rogers Roasters.

The Hollywood Reporter says that Marky Mark and Donnie have already leased a 4,300 square foot space at Hingham Shipyard near their Eye-talian restaurant Alma Nove. They are also planning to open a pizza place sometime next year.

WAHLBURGERS! What a damn mess. I bet you they’ll have shit on the menu like Say Hi To Your Muthah’s Cookies, The Right Stuffed Baked Potato, Please Don’t Go Grilled Cheese, Good Piebrations and Funky Bunch of Lettuce Leaves.

And I’m sure after they open that pizza restaurant, they’ll open a Vietnamese takeout place called Phuk Yu Up.

This Bitch Is Still Obsessed With Marilyn Monroe

Marilyn Monroe plucked her hairline back two inches and meth plucked Lindsay Lohan’s hairline back two inches. One of Marilyn Monroe’s most famous moments was when she aired her down low bits over a subway grate and Lindsay Lohan’s down low bits probably smell like a subway platform in August. Marilyn Monroe fucked the President of the United States and Lindsay Lohan fucked a dealer who said that he once voted for president of something. Marilyn Monroe died way before her time and Lindsay Lohan’s career died way before its time. So naturally, Lindsay Lohan thinks that Marilyn Monroe is her spirit twin and wrote this foreword for Susan Bernard’s book Marilyn: Intimate Exposures (via ONTD):

“Marilyn was the beautiful bad girl in that tight, rose-colored dress. The character she played was strong and taking control, which I unconsciously knew at that young age was a necessary quality for a woman. I can understand the photographer Bernard of Hollywood’s statement, ‘it took a superhuman effort to be Marilyn.’ I identify

People in their mind have created who I am and act as if there is no real person inside of me. Just like Marilyn. Marilyn never wanted to be just a celebrity. Neither do I … I had always thought that movie stars were in films that would last forever in your mind. But now the films don’t. I don’t want to be remembered as someone who just wanted to be photographed, who goes out at night, and gets in trouble.

Heath Ledger once said to me, ‘It’s built you up to knock you down and that’s all it is. Marilyn said she had no foundation. But she said she was really working on it. I’ve been trying to do the same thing … I believe in myself and I’m a good actress.”

I’m no Mike Holmes but can you really build a strong foundation with Red Bull barf, shit balls of delusion and sea jasper dust?

This delusion-headed bitch’s comment about not wanting to be a celebrity and that story about White Oprah thinking she can get Tina Fey in her movie is reason enough for the Surgeon General to pass a law forcing all drug dealers to slap a warning label on all their Ziploc bags of the illegal bad shit. That label should read, “SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING: Snorting, smoking, injecting or licking this shit may cause you to form delusions of grandeur in your head. Don’t believe my ass? Look at a Lohan.”

Why Megan Fox Is Erasing Marilyn’s Face From Her Arm

Welcome to another edition of “The Shit That Comes Out Of Megan Fox’s Mouth Hole.” The future Oscar ceremony sweat warmer and the reincarnation of Plato (not Dana, the other one) must have just come across Marilyn Monroe’s Wikipedia page, because she tells Italian magazine Amica (via ONTD) that tattoo of Marilyn’s face on her arm is queefing out negativity into her positive aura and so she’s lasering it off. Sort of like how that fire roasted douchebag Michael Bay lasered Megan Fox’s negative energy off of the Transformers movies. Megan adjusted the energy-cleansing dildo of burning sage in her ass and said this about her Marilyn tattoo:

“I’m removing it. It is a negative character. She suffered from personality disorders and was bipolar. I don’t want to attract this kind of negative energy in my life. And who knows? I’m thinking of removing some other tattoos, but the pain in the sessions of laser removal is terrible.”

Bitch, that busted tattoo could say the same thing about you. In other words, bitch’s facelift pushed the thin layer of bull shit out of her eyes and made her see that her tattoo looked more like a Blasian Beyonce impersonator in a dusty swap meet wig.

This is good news for the other hos in Marilyn’s crypt since they can rest now that her body will stop rolling, but this is bad news for all of the casting agents of Hollywood. They can no longer use Megan’s shattoo to hide the fact that they aren’t casting her because her acting skills make a dried cat piss stain on a cardboard box seem like the Meryl Streep of its kind. The “we just don’t have the make-up budget to cover up Megan’s lovely tattoo…yeah, that’s it” excuse is out of play. Damn, that Megan!

That being said, don’t ever change, Professor Whore Face!

Our GOOP And Savior

With the 10th anniversary of 9/11 coming up, we’re going to hear a million “How I Missed Death On 9/11” stories, but this one is so special that it will be put into history iPads for our great grandchildren to read about when they ask the question, “How did Fishsticks Paltrow become a saint?”

Lara Lundstrom tells The Morton Report that on the morning of September 11, 2001, a real-life Sliding Doors moment co-starring future saint Fishsticks Paltrow caused her to miss her subway train by 10 seconds, which then caused her to show up late to her job at the Twin Towers. You know where this is going. I’m ICANT-ing from every part of my body, so I’ll let The Morton Report take it from here:

“It was one of those mornings that felt good, you had a little skip in your step. What the heck – I always cut across 7th Avenue. Then all of the sudden a silver Mercedes SUV came barreling down towards me.

“I stopped and they screeched to a halt. Then it developed in to one of those classic who-goes-first situations. It got ridiculous. Then I made eye contact with the Mercedes driver. OMG it was Gwyneth Paltrow.

“I knew she lived down the street, so it made sense. She waved me across, I crossed and she continued on her way. At least if I was late for work I had a story to tell.”

She raced to the subway, hurtled down the stairs to the platform only to watch the doors of the 1/9 slam shut.

She had no idea she had just experienced her own real life Sliding Doors moment, the movie starring Paltrow about a chance romantic encounter that depended on whether or not she caught a subway train.

“At that time I was annoyed at everything that had made me late that day, including Gwyneth Paltrow,” Lara recalls.

Right when Lara climbed up the stairs from the subway to the concourse of her office building, the first plane hit and she ran back down. I’m still ICANT-ing by the way…

Since that terrible day, Lara has lived with two dreams: one recurrent nightmare where she perishes in the towers, the other where she thanks Gwyneth Paltrow for saving her life. It was her true-life Sliding Doors moment, an encounter that saved her life

“If I had made that train I would have been at my desk on the 77th floor of 2 World Trade center,” says Lara. She has now written that letter, reminding the Oscar-winning actress of their chance meeting on the street and the dramatic impact on her life.

So this is what the Insane Clown Posse was talking about. It truly is a miracle. If Rosemary never switched her baby with Blythe Danner’s in the nursery, Fishy never would’ve been raised with a silver spoon up her ass and then she never would’ve been rich enough to drive a silver Mercedes SUV through Manhattan and then she never would’ve saved Lara’s life.

The story doesn’t mention it, but there’s a good reason for why Fishy was driving herself like a common peon that day. Fishy was forced to fire her chauffeur after he had the nerve to show up wearing polyester pants from Penney’s when he knew very well that she’s allergic to the sight and scent of them. So if you want to get technical, the sainthood should really go to polyester (or Rosemary), but we’ll let that one slide.

Fishy’s publicist says that she’s “deeply moved” by the story. He means that figuratively, of course, since Fishy can’t physically move at the moment since this story put another 50 hundred tons on her ego.

GOOP: Never forget.

Bongo And His “Parents” Are Together Again!

You will finally stop waking up in the middle of the night screaming at the thought of Bongo getting stuffedanimalnapped and sold to a group of deviant Plushies who run an underground Beanie Baby sex slave ring. Because Bongo, the Beanie Baby monkey who went missing in on the streets of Brooklyn last week, was reunited with the crazy couple who raised him as “their son” and offered up $500 for his safe return. How did I not guess that a lady with Leslie Abramson hair was involved in this mess the entire time?

Bonni Marcus and Jack Zinzi live on the Upper East Side, but they were back in Brooklyn this past weekend putting up more flyers when they spotted Luis Barreto (the dude in the middle) hanging out on the street. They asked him about their beloved Beanie Baby. Their broken hearts were glued back together as Luis told them that he found Bongo on top of a parking meter and brought the monkey back to his apartment. Bonni told The New York Post that she could feel Bongo before she even stepped into Luis’ apartment.

Marcus, who teaches English as a second language at a Manhattan private school, Rennert Bilingual, said she “felt Bongo’s presence” even while approaching the apartment.

But she said she had to closely examine the monkey to make sure it was Bongo. She confirmed this through the doll’s identifying marks, including a “burn scar” she had accidentally given the stuffed animal five years ago after a lit ash from a cigar she was smoking blew onto it.

“I was devastated and gave up smoking after it,” she said.

“Felt Bongo’s presence?” No, bitch, that was just the coke kicking in.

Luis almost didn’t hand over Bongo, because he too grew to love the monkey and wanted to keep him. Luis finally agreed to let Bongo go after Bonni promised that he could visit whenever he wanted. Bonni, Bongo and Jack went back to Manhattan where they celebrated by boozing at bars before snuggling together in the bed they share.

Two things. Are you going to call Beanie Baby Protective Services or shall I? Because bitch not only burned its fur with cigar ash, but she also lost him in the streets! What’s next? Bitch is going to drown him by accidentally throwing him in the bag of dirty laundry she takes to the laundromat? Bongo obviously belongs with everyone’s favorite foster Beanie Baby mother, Jennifer Aniston.

Second, what does that stupid monkey have that makes crazies fall in love with it? It is to crazies what catnip is to cats. What Dominican dick is to John Travolta’s Scientolohole. Now, Luis will be trolling eBay late at night to get his Beanie Baby fix by bidding on another Bongo. I swear, Bongo is totally the gateway Beanie Baby.