Without further comment, here's human roid and noted thinker Jose Canseco giving us his thoughts on how global warming could've saved us from "My Heart Will Go On."
Nicole Kidman's mannequin face on W Magazine is a mysterious tundra where you aren't sure if it sucked up all the Photoshop or all the Botox. - Popsugar
Could be worse. Could be FEZ. - Lainey Gossip
"Are you there, coke? It's me, Linday. Show yourself!" - The Superficial
Hillary Clinton parties in Colombia and I'm totally disappointed that she doesn't have a scrunchie around her wrist - Towleroad
Heidi Klum and others teach us how to get nekkid ass nekkid without showing shit - (site NSFW) Drunken Stepfather
Poke at me when there's a story about Prince Hot Ginge waving his gun around, if you know what I mean - Celebitchy
Nicolette Sheridan's face is looking as tight as her nalgas - Hollywood Tuna
Halle Berry is giving us leopard wearing a mourning veil realness - Popoholic
Are we sure Emma Watson's just not bird feeding her boyfriend some chewed up hot dog? - The Berry
Okay, Beyonce, you can retire those three blind mice glasses already - Crunk + Disorderly
Demi Moore's return to Twitter is real deep - ICYDK
Gay of Thrones - OMG Blog
Jason Segel wears his heart on his iPhone - Just Jared
High times at Coochella - Cityrag
Well, dude's lenses did look a little blood shot - Videogum
Khloe Kardashian has never looked hotter! - Hollywood Rag
I thought mares were afraid of mice? - I'm Not Obsessed
Just when I start to think that this society hasn't gone full crazy, I see this mess on Today this morning and I'm actually surprised I didn't read about it on GOOP first.
For just $1,500, Florida's own Dr. Oliver Di Pietro, who kind of looks like Bobby Moynihan as Newt Gingrich, will stick a feeding tube into your stomach through your nostril hole and count his money as you're slowly fed 800 calories a day for ten days. Dr. Oliver says that most patients drop up to 20 chunks of fat. And all you have to do is eat all your nutrients through your nose. Like a Lohan!
Dr. Oliver tells The New York Times that most of his patients are brides hoping to lose some weight to fit into their wedding dresses. Dr. Oliver says that the 800 calories is a mixture of fat, water and protein with zero carbs in it. The body loses the weight so fast, because it starts burning fat instead of sugar. Dr. Oliver's patients have to keep the feeding tube in for the full 10 days and they carry around their liquid food in a tote bag. Side effects include constipation, dizziness, bad breath and of course, exposing your insane fucked up craziness to your loved ones.
Hos who are crazy enough to go on the ICU diet don't need to worry about strangers knowing that they're basically starving their way to skinny. One bride said that people just assumed she was dying of a terminal illness. Wonderful. It's so much better for people to think you're sick than think that you're trying to lose weight. It's shit like this that has me asking: Why do we even live here anymore? Here being the planet.
And Dr. Oliver says that his K-E Diet is safe and effective, because thousands of people in Europe have done it. "Why do we always get blamed for jacked up shit like this?" - Europeans
My ass thanks porn iguana Courtney Stodden for introducing me to the tomatopeen (ass + tomatopeen = salsa) she bought at the grocery store (probably at Trader Ho's). But how can she push vegetarianism on us when she's completely covered in burnt cow leather? HYPOCRITE! Or as my friend from high school with a speech impediment says: HIPPO CLIT! Courtney doesn't deserve that tomatopeen.
Please clap your ass cheeks for man skank for all seasons, Gerard Butler, reaching the pinnacle of dirty slutdom by probably sexing on a piece he just met in a porta potty at Coachella over the weekend. You truly haven't wished that the person before you took a post-Mexican deuce until you've walked into a porta potty and burned your nostril tips on Gerard Butler's after-sex fumes. I can practically smell it from here and now I can say I know what a boiled egg rotting in a tub of used tampons on a subway platform smells like.
Gerard Butler is ten seconds out of rehab and every newly sober hos knows that the best place to continue on your road to sobriety is Coachella! You know, because it's not like most people who go to Coachella need to freebase sand to deal with the sea of hippie hipsters from the Urban Outfitters commune. Page Six says that as far as they know, Gerard kept his body free of the bad shit at Coachella and instead he focused on feeding his other addiction: CHOCHA!
A source says that Gerard hit on piece after piece, and at one point he got close to a mysterious brunette (who may or may not be in the pictures below) at the T-Mobile party. The source says that Gerry and the mysterious brunette did the bump and grind on each other before going into a porta potty together.
I know, Gerry's acts of romance never cease to amaze me. There is something poetic about staring into an abyss of hipster shit as Gerard Butler hits it from the back. I bet Gerry's mystery piece realized that was one of the most beautiful moments of her life when afterward he asked her if she wanted to wipe her coochie off with the bottom of his shirt. Always a gentlemen, that Gerry!
This dark-sided ass video is from the ancient days of March, but it needs to be seen and heard for Rosie O'Donnell's comeback line alone.
Rosie was leaving the Super Bowl with a few friends and her daughter when she tried to pour a little sense into the ears of some young anti-gay Christian fundamentalists. As you've probably just guessed, that went down as well as a coochie queef in John Travolta's face. The head street preacher picked up his OMGIMTALKINGLOUDERTHANYOUIWIN horn and called Rosie an ungodly, hell-bound wicked woman. Then, the crazy asked Rosie to recite a verse from the Bible. Now, if that was me, I would've started quoting the first paragraph from Jackie Collins' Hollywood Wives since that shit is my Bible, but Rosie quoted the "other" Bible instead. The rest of Rosie's fight of words with the street preacher went like this:
Rosie: "Jesus wept" at you, because you didn't get the whole meaning of what he was about.
Street preacher: Go home and do the dishes. That's your job.
Rosie: I'm going to go home and fuck my wife.
Street preacher: You're a pig. A lesbian pig.
BOOM. Sorry, disciple of Donald Trump's, Rosie O won that round. And Rosie won so hard that her parting shot didn't even make me scream out "Gross, mom! Stop!" for her daughter. There is a time and a place for that kind of imagery and this was definitely one of those times and places.
In Chicago over the weekend, a tattoo artist got a face full of luscious gut fur when he inked the kiss of marriage death on Kelsey Grammer's body. The Chicago Sun-Times (via People) says that Kelsey and his child wife Kayte Walsh sashayed into a tattoo shop in Noble Square on Saturday night and he paid $60 to get her name tattooed in fancy font on his shimmy place (aka his right hip). Kelsey was nice to everyone and blah blah blah, but the best quote comes from the 72-year-old memaw of the tattoo artist.
“She (Kayte) was pretty, but not gorgeous, in your face. . . . They were fun. Very friendly and into each other. They were just talking and enjoying each other."
That dot dot dot is Braille for: like the stunning silicone dragon flower Camille Grammer. We know which 72-year-old memaw from Illinois has a Team Camille leotard in her drawer.
Kelsey is a dumb bitch and he's obviously so straponmatized that he doesn't realize getting your piece's name tattooed on his body is like setting up a game of Spin the Bottle between his marriage certificate and the Grim Reaper, but I don't think that tattoo was totally a bad decision. I mean, just think of the precious image of Kelsey showing off his fancy tattoo by cocking his hip while wearing his favorite pink satin panties. Yes, that's what it feels like when your brain jizzes glitter.
Because what a bunch of people who have been eating Molly for three days straight really need is the vision of an ALLEGED dead person thrusting his crotch before them, a Tupac made of lights performed with Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg at last night's finale of Coachella's first weekend. Hos were probably thinking they got so high that they floated up to the great big Tupac show in the sky.
The Verge says that the Ghost of Tupac isn't exactly a hologram. They made this happen with a rear projector and a clear screen. They've done this mess before with Mimi and Michael Jackson, and they'll do it again to make Brit Brit look more lifelike when she's a judge on The X-Factor in a few months.
Part of me thinks that this is what creepiness is made of and the other part of me is tingling from thinking about humping the clear screen that is projecting Tupac's dick print. Yes, I'd fuck a hologram, and yes I know that's the first step in admitting that you've officially given up on life.
And since I started this post with a shout out to Molly, here's Molly main homegirl and boho (more like booho) flower Vanessa Hudgens twirling around like she's trapped in a John Phillips song. I never thought I'd say this about anybody, but this bitch needs less Lisa Bonet in her life.
Monday has happened to all of us again and some of you are sitting in your cubicle prison looking for a reason to go on. Well, stop making a noose out of paper clips, because there is a reason to go on now that international supermodel and Hot Babe forever, Phoebe Price, is taking her signature pose game across state lines! Everybody on television keeps telling my ass that NYC is going to be hotter than a freckle on a ginger cat's pussy today and now I know why. The heat is rising from the piping hot poses Chicken Cutlets threw down in Miami yesterday afternoon.
Looking like a photo shoot for Chickens Magazine: Swimsuit Edition, PP posed for the paps despite the fact that a flock of raver birds died on her ginger mane after crashing into the side of her head. Glamour doesn't stop for bird carcasses clinging to your weave. I checked CNN and they haven't yet reported on why Chicken Cutlets is in Florida, but I'm guessing she's there on a goodwill mission as the official Ambassador of the Ho Stroll. Oh Florida, you just keep finding new ways to keep your title as the fuckery capital of the world.
Justin Theroux's friends break into Aniston's basement to better understand why he's still with her. Laughter ensues. - BernardProfitendieu
Spiderman's broke ass cousin: "Sewer man" is still waiting for his 15 minutes of fame. - Vern
Saul realized too late that offering to bring a piñata for Mel Gibson's birthday was a bad idea. - Juiciest Couture