While ev.ree.bud.ee is using their bandwidth on ho collector George Clooney and Stacy Keibler, I’m sitting here wondering why all the attention is not going to the real and most important star of Saturday night’s Carousel of Hope Ball: JOAN VAN ARK!
Stacy Keibler might have a team of stylists paid for by George who put her body in the finest (and ugliest) designer gown and she might have a team of hair people paid for by George (Note: In case you haven’t noticed, “Paid for By George” is the current tagline for Stacy’s life) who use the finest products to style her hair into that of a 60-something socialite circa 1968, but she doesn’t look 1/100th as glamorous as Joan Van Ark does and Joan does it all herself!
Yes, Joan picked out that white wedding dress herself at a David’s Bridal clearance sale and then dyed it the color of the tears her haters cry out when they see her looking more beautiful than them. Yes, Joan torched her own brows so they look like two strips of delicious creme brulee. Yes, Joan sandpainted her own face. Joan did it all herself. It’s times that like this when I’m sad to live in a world where Stacy Keibler’s basic ass is getting more attention than the goddess that is Joan Van Ark. This world ain’t right.
Oh, and because some of you ain’t right, I also threw in pictures of Stacy with George Clooney (aka the man slut carousel of hos) at the Carousel of Hope Ball in Beverly Hills.
The Real Housewives of Atlanta’s NeNe Leakes was just strolling along through the life one day when she ran into her son Bryson’s girlfriend, Ashley Hill, who looked like she either had a case of the BABIES!!! or a case of the fats. The two shared a touching moment together and NeNe then heard the words that every mother longs to hear from someone other than their own kid: “You’re going to be a grandma, bitch.”
When 44-year-old NeNe told Ashley that it looked someone was living up in there, Ashley admitted to being over 6 months knocked up and asked her if Bryson told her. NeNe was farting up shit bombs of anger at first, because she didn’t think her practically unemployed 22-year-old son was ready to be a father. But she changed her mind as soon as she realized all the extra money she came make from whoring out her granddaughter in tabloids her granddaughter Bri’asia (no comment on that name) was born. NeNe said this to InTouch:
“I always wanted to have a girl and now I have one! She’s just adorable.
I paid for everything in the nursery: the clothing, the diapers. I don’t want her to feel strapped. [I've gone] crazy buying gifts for the baby, including little dresses, sparkly headbands, and Gucci shoes … We just love her,”
We get it, NaNa Nene, you have that TRUMP check,
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Duchess Kate and Prince William’s tiny little vow exchange in that small church has been knocked down to the second most important royal wedding of this century now that Rojo Caliente and her ginger queen are married! Even though I haven’t even seen one picture from the ceremony and they could’ve gotten married in the break room of a Subaru dealership for all I know, I can still say this it was the most beautiful and greatest wedding of all-time! I was going to pour a little ginger beer in my morning coffee anyway, but now I have a real reason to do so. Cynthia Nixon’s rep tells People that after being engaged for 3 years, she can now say the words millions of people wish they could say, Rojo Caliente is her lawfully wedded wife!
“On May 27, 2012, Cynthia Nixon and her girlfriend, Christine Marinoni, were legally married in the state of New York. Nixon wore a custom dress by Carolina Herrera.”
Cynthia’s rep says “On May 27, 2012 Cynthia Nixon and her girlfriend, Rojo Caliente, were legally married” but I say, “On May 27, 2012 the sanctity of marriage got a ginger breath of life!!!!!!”
This is the reason why the sun shines on all of us in NYC today. Not because there’s no clouds or anything. But because the humanized form of one its rays, Rojo Caliente, married the woman she loves. Congingerlations to our new reigning ginger gayelle queens and my favorite couple next to vodka and soda. This news calls for a soundtrack!
Yes, Becks’ bulge looks more like a curled up mama hamster nursing her young while twisted up inside of a bed sheet hammock, but it’s Monday and I can’t write another word (after these words) about the piss whore bride and her dumb dildo groom’s wedding. So I thank Becks for keeping me from that by giving himself a front wedgie on Saturday night and showing off his soft-boiled huevos in a blanket. Just for that, I will forgive him for not quitting that Pocahontas Alfalfa shit on his head.
And if Becks’ nut squeeze* isn’t your thing, then I’m sure his invisible Can Can kick line routine is.
* It’s a damn fucking shame that as Becks’ shorts squeezed his nuts he didn’t let out a high-pitched Minnie Mouse squeal that could only be heard by Khloe Kardashian, making her paw at her ears in agony, thus ruining Kim’s whore wedding.
Putting Rosie O’Donnell’s gay family cruise to shame, Neil Patrick Harris, his partner David Burtka and their twin baby friends are currently making the pink dolphins in St. Tropez spit sparkly rainbows out of their blowholes by sailing around on a fancy yacht with Elton John, his husband David Furnish and their baby friend. BABIES AND GAYS! One of those things hates me right away and the other one of those things only hates me after I make a mouth vom when they ask me if I like Lady Caca.
When NPH and David aren’t singing the lullaby version of show tunes to all those babies (the original cast recording comes out in the fall) down below, they’re letting the sun grace their bulges on the deck.
You know, seeing NPH all grown up and with his own babies should make me feel old and lonely, but it doesn’t. I’m too busy coming to terms with the fact that a topless Doogie Howser is making my nipples twerk by themselves.
John Travolta better work on his fightin’ moves, because it’s looking like he’ll have to scrap with a bitch for the last possum carcass left on the side of the road. The bitch being Ben Affleck. As the woodland creatures mourned the loss of their own, Ben strolled around L.A. with a stale Bieber strapped to his dome and shit looks a mess. If Ben wants to browse through the Raquel Welch wig collection for a new look, fine. But couldn’t he couldn’t he sit next to Beyonce for some wig advice (wigvice?), because that dreadful sick mop of mess on his head looks like it should have an IV stuck in the top of it while it sleeps in a cage at the ASPCA. Don’t stare at it too long or that Sarah McLachlan song will start playing and you’ll start looking for an 800 number to flash on your screen.
Where the hell is a scorned Miss Brazil loser when you really need one?
If your place of employment frowns on moving images of seizure asses and shopping cart sex, then maybe you should save this little tune for when you go to Walmart later tonight to try on panties over a pair of booty shorts that I haven’t seen since the Fly Girl days.
Walmart is already what fuckery prays to when it needs guidance, but Mr. Ghetto has taken it to a whole new level. The Walmart smiley face doesn’t know whether to frown or make it rain Louisiana Purchase Cards on Mr. Ghetto and his bootleg NOLA bouncers. I was about to say that the day manager probably issued a clean up on every aisle after this, but ass dust is about the least nastiest thing that has hit Walmart’s floors.
Why do I also have a feeling that Walmart won’t be mad about this. They’re going to hire Mr. Ghetto and his Ghetto-ettes as their new official door greeters. And when Mr. Ghetto’s NOLA bouncers are done with that, can they please put on some Swiffer shorts and come bounce their asses against my laptop monitor. This mess has left a film of apocalypse powder on my screen.
P.S. – It’s your turn, Target.
Denny’s should really hand out helmets at the door and charge a cover, because not only do you get a stack of pancakes and rubbery eggs, but you also get a glamorous brawl show featuring the country’s finest ladies of sophistication. Just like the tranny taco fight, the McDonald’s throwdown, the Great Syrup Tussle of ‘11, the Brooklyn Style Bitch Battle Royale, and the epic Halloween whore war before them, this clip shows three messes partaking in America’s favorite pastime: brawling at a fine dining establishment!
The narrator fails to provide us with the reason for why these three gutter glitter goddesses are making humanity proud by acting the fool while in the presence of delicious pancakes. Maybe it was because they all showed up wearing outfits that have seen better days on the bodies of early 90s Fly Girls?
And you always know a chair is about to get murdered when a ho gets fightin’ ready by hiking up her skirt and freeing up her thighs.
via Buzzfeed
