If you’ve been waiting for a romantic comedy between two lovers who could pass for father and daughter, you’re in luck! Because such a comedy is coming down the pipeline very soon titled That’s Amore! and it stars discarded diva Katherine Heigl and Scientology’s permanent prisoner John Travolta. Now, you may be thinking immediately, “Yeah, it’s a no from me, dawg,” but keep those negative thoughts to yourself. That is, until AFTER you hear about the premise for this horribly misguided attempt to make us remember John as an actor and re-love Katherine once again (but did we ever really love her?)
When I think of Howie Mandel, it usually conjures up memories of catching Bobby’s World on a Saturday morning; being in suspense while he chatted on the phone with “the banker” as the host of Deal or No Deal; and just mostly good, clean fun–like, really really clean, because he’s an admitted germaphobe and has been open about his struggles with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. But, he recently did the unfathomable by posting a TikTok that made the internet dry-heave in disgust and clench their ass cheeks in sympathy pain for whoever the poor soul is who’s featured. Howie nonchalantly tossed up a graphic video of an anal prolapse that he stitched himself over. He said it was his “friend” and asked if COVID could have been the cause of the prolapse. Aside from that, he provided no other context, explanation, apologies, or sickbags for anyone who caught a glimpse before it was removed.
If you’ve ever been to a cookout this summer and wondered why there wasn’t enough hot dog flavor in your hard seltzer, your name is probably Fred Durst. But who has time for basic bitch flavors like strawberry or mango when you can enjoy sips of salty processed meat traveling down your esophagus instead? Sounds like dreams in a glass to me. And in an attempt to make this dream come true, a brewery in Forth Worth, TX called Martin House Brewing Co. has decided that everyone deserves the taste of questionably forged meat in their adult beverages. In their infinite wisdom, they have taken one of the world’s least favorite things, hot dog water, and created a drink experience that will either be revered or regurgitated.
Yeah, I know. My best guess here is that Kim Kardashian realized she needed to hold auditions for new models for her SKIMS fashion line since the previous ones (she and her sisters) didn’t look realistic enough and more natural proportions were called for in order to showcase all the sizzling sweatshop fashun. She still held true to her principles and went with a factory-assembled object with plenty of third-party add-ons, but one that has far more pathos and presence than the previous crop: Her $200K Lamborghini Urus.
According to The Sun, the car that looks like a mutant, mechanized sheep that lost its flock is Kim’s way of introducing the “Cozy” line’s new range of bras and leisurewear.
No one expects Satan’s footwear of choice to really give a damn what gross, tasteless anti-art gets slapped over it in the name of fashion, and today’s installment of “Crocs really fucking needs to stop because my innards are imploding at the thought of any of this hideous, hole-punched crap tainting my feet” just confirms what we already know: We’re doomed and this vile lump of projectile barf with an ankle strap will sell out in seconds.
And how do we know this? History. Grim, regret-drenched history. There was the pink, wedge-heeled choice from Balenciaga; the atrocity designed by Post Malone that looked like a parade of anemic bug carcasses after an exterminator had a go at them; the hunger-abating hate-fuck with KFC that resembled deep-fried coyote penises; and more recently, the fast-acting, sartorial emetic that was Justin Bieber‘s second round of factory-extruded hatred with a rocking motion. And now there’s a collab between Hidden Valley Ranch and Crocs.
In a taste-affronting collaboration that rivals the misery of that of Justin Bieber and Crocs, Heinz and Ocean Spray have decided to rage-hump a couple of items from their respective product lines and shove the mingled, congealed ooze of a sloppy Thanksgiving plate on an unsuspecting public in the form of a maybe-product called Cravy, which is an unholy mashup of gravy and cranberry sauce. For the love of all the gods, don’t do it.