Madonna’s son Rocco fled the U.S. at the end of last year to be with his dad Guy Ritchie in London because dad didn’t insist he share quarters with three dozen Moroccan boy dancers who smell like liniment and make strange guttural noises in the middle of the night. Madonna filed a series of legal challenges yet to be decided to demand her son back. She’s recently hired a private investigator to trail her son in London. The P.I. reports back to Madonna that Rocco is skipping school, hanging out in skate parks, and smoking cigarettes. Guy Ritchie doesn’t seem to care. Or he’s gay deprogramming his son. Madonna insists her teen son needs the structure only a world tour and seeing your fifty-seven year old mom in just a metal bra splashing olive oil on her vulva in front of 30,000 Slovakians can bring. A court will decide next month which fucked up situation Rocco must endure until he’s eighteen and can start self-medicating with drugs in his own apartment. There’s nothing worse than when Sean Penn shows up to your intervention calling himself your uncle. Fucking drama queen.
DMX was rushed to the hospital for what he claims was a bad asthma attack. He had to be resuscitated by paramedics after he was found unresponsive. There is a suspicion by the cops that drugs were involved because that’s what obviously happened.
Valentine’s brings out the best in people. Anxiety, whoring, empty consumerism. A day to look down at the woman you love faking an orgasm beneath you and thinking about how you could do better. Don’t feel bad, she’s thinking the exact same thing. Frenchy Morgan, the girl we got back from France when we traded Natalie Portman and a case of antibiotics, got the bright idea to show you what you could have this February 14th instead of those $29.99 flowers.com roses that cost you $82.50 out the door and delivered. You had to get the teddy bear, you poor fool. I might stick with the flowers or opt for Door Number Three provided it smelled less AIDSy. St. Valentine was kind of a dick.
Everybody likes seeing reasonably attractive naked women. It has a market value. You’d think somebody who bills themselves as a comedian and entertainer and social commentator would attempt any one of those buttons for attention rather descending forthwith and repeatedly into ass and tit selfies. This may or may not be why women don’t get picked for Math teams. Somebody has to stand up for feminism. Now if you can turn around, sweetheart, so I can finish.
Playboy released its first family-friendly issue. The cover featured Sarah McDaniel. She’s famous on social media which mean she’s half the cost of somebody famous on traditional media. Playboy’s trying to lure in the coveted millennial demographic who have socially evolved past the cheesecake shots of naked women bent over divans. Socially nervous boys raised on Ritalin and male shaming adapted at speeds Darwin never imagined.
Playboy argues that naked female pictorials have lost their value in an age when you can Google Fat Asian Chick Ass Porn and get 4.8 million results in 0.58 seconds. Playboy’s argument as to why you need to continue to pay for an aquarium without fish is less compelling. Men of a certain age retain warm memories for what Playboy Magazine used to be. Men of that same age also miss unlimited date rape and plug and play hairpieces. Time marches on. It’s time to squelch the bunny. Hef just filled his colostomy bag with tears. Look away.
Miranda Kerr has that weird face that works if you’re a model because you’re instantly unique among the assembly line of similar looking female perfect faces. If she worked in IT at Verizon, she’d be called duck face behind her back even though technically hotter than any of the four other girls in the department. Kerr got into a noteworthy contract dispute with Victoria’s Secret two years ago and decided to hold out. Even franchise leading running backs know they eventually need to sign their NFL contract. It’s the only real game in town. Once a decade a player will sit out an entire season on principle then regret it as his wife leaves him and even his side whores don’t want to make babies. Victoria’s Secret is the Evil Corp of lingerie and swimsuit modeling. You could model in Dominican league for ten cents on the dollar but you’ll share a dressing room with girls with assault records. They will cut you over that eye liner, puta. Kerr has a nice ass and only let Orlando Bloom fuck her once to make a magic baby. If I were a wealthy man I’d hire her to lay in my front room and clean her privates with her own tongue like a cat. Yes, I’d offer health care. I’m not a monster.
Somebody up there likes Zac Efron. Most prominently the studio executive standing above him shaking the last bit of cum out on Efron’s mug. Efron’s been cast in yet another medium budget “bro culture” comedy, Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates. “Bro culture” is a term promoted by breathless Cosmo bloggers and studio marketing departments to pretend that memes from gay frat house porn are pertinent to the modern masculine culture. By way of quick reference, your boyfriend doesn’t want to see Zac Efron movies. Not unless he has unsolicited comments on your formal wear.
Efron’s latest film is about two loser brothers whose dad forces them to bring respectable dates to their sister’s Hawaiian wedding. They inadvertently end up toting along two daredevil hustling street chicks who cause mayhem. So, Wedding Crashers without the funny or the nudity. The premise makes as much sense as the two male leads pretending they like girls. Tyler Perry in a dress can be explained by profit motive. Convenient for Perry. Zac Efron movies have no similar rationale. The next Ashton Kutcher is not a compliment. How do we keep electing Presidents who won’t make this stop?
TV commercials are uniformly horrible. The public is overly sensitive and litigious and unable to decipher the bad feelings often stirred up inside them. Apartments.com managed to cobble together an amusing Super Bowl ad. They got Jeff Goldblum to be their Christopher Walken , a George Washington impersonator and Lil Wayne to be in a Super Bowl campaign with the theme of George and Weezy homaging The Jeffersons.
Nervous white people who achieve tumescence when they hear the phrase “trigger-warning” and ejaculate at the idea of a safe-space saw a black person together with a Colonial era white person and misinterpreted their discomfort as racism. George Washington owned slaves and endorsed the name Redskins for his football team. It’s in all the new textbooks in the place of where it used to say First President. TMZ leapt into action and created a poll that asked readers if the commercial was racist. The results were overwhelmingly ‘no’ as to the racism question. Which says nothing since TMZ voters are mostly white crackers who belong to Revolutionary War battle reenactment clubs.
If every time you see a black person next to a white person, your brain tells you something racist is going on, you’re the racist. That’s science. Who’s the Jew in the middle and why he’s holding a football? As if.