Kanye’s new album is chock full of bravado lyrics about his conquests and power and the way his shoes always go perfectly with whatever outfit he chooses for the evening. None of this exaggerated bragging makes much sense to people not in the rap community who generally grew up urban poor and now put each other down based on 1040 net income lines. It seem perhaps less authentic when spat out by a down low dude in designer jeans who lives in Calabasas and stars on an E! television show.
Me and Ray J would probably be friends if we wasn’t in love with the same bitch … you might have hit it first, but I’m rich, though.
The gist of the call was, I know you’ve got money too. Ray J laid out his business interests and Kanye acknowledged they were decent and no blood was spilled. It was like a moment from the Godfather, but instead of Italians they’re mental retards. Neither party felt a need to mention how it might not be cool to be singing about how many black rappers your wife and mother of your kids has fucked. Rap is nothing if not honest. As if Kim Kardashian cares. Paycheck. End of conversation.
With Playboy and Maxim down the shitter and Charlie Sheen on HIV hiatus, the job market for blonde tits has dried up something fierce in Los Angeles. It’s a drought. A real one. Catch as catch can. Ask your grandma how she got through The Depression. You’ve got her tits, but have you got her moxie?
I know pregnancy is the miracle of life and all that shit, but it’s generally pretty gross. But the best part has to be how huge a woman’s tits grow. Take Bar Refaeli who is about to bust out of that dress.
It’s unclear if Lamar Odom knew exactly where he was last night when the Kardashian family walked him into the New York arena where Kanye West was showing off all the new booties he fashioned in his mind. Since Khloe Kardashian grabbed Odom’s vegetative state hand and had him sign papers calling off their divorce, he’s become the legal property of the family. Like a show pony trotted out for promotional events and kids birthday parties. His drool cup carefully angled so as not to be picked up by the press photography. This could’ve been unadulterated sad if only Odom hadn’t coded out following an overdose of booze and erection pills at a desert whorehouse. There’s that lingering element of reaping what you sow. Nobody deserves his hell. Blame the first responders who couldn’t foresee this future. Also the doctors who ignored the Do Not Resuscitate If I’m Still Legally Married to Fat O.J. order in his records. Why does Lammy keep chewing on his Air Yeezys?
Gun rights activists are akin to pro-choice activists on the opposite end of the political spectrum. The doomsday rhetoric doesn’t really match the practical ease of access on the ground. You can obtain pretty much any non-combat weapon you want in this country whenever you want. After five Republican administrations since Roe v. Wade, you can still grab an abortion at the corner clinic with fifteen minutes notice and a Groupon. Ted Nugent is perhaps the most prominent of the alarmist 2nd Amendment dudes. He’s constantly ranting from his bunker about the black helicopters and the Illuminati coming to take away his hunting cannons. He’s 67. He’s had guns his whole life. He’ll go out with guns. But not if the Jews have their way.
Nugent uncovered a series of Jewish politicians working within a vast Israeli conspiracy to de-arm American citizens for reasons that make complete sense if you’ve been slipping slowly into delusional paranoia since 1990. Nugent took to Photoshop to make the cabal super real looking with clipart. There’s always that moment when your drunk uncle moves from whimsical iconoclast into unhinged unabomber and he stops getting the Thanksgiving invites because everybody wants to live. Manifestos and Jewish conspiracy theories are a sign that it’s time to cut off communications. The ease at which Nugent’s rocker nickname, Motor City Madman, will be used in news headlines once he’s shooting people from up in the clock tower will be something to behold. Sleep gently, Ted. Who’s getting the snake skin hats?
Celebrity lyme disease is so badly misunderstood as an illness. Some days it renders you glued to the couch in a lethargic brand dead fog. Other days you’re up all night having European dudes take pictures of you in your underwear. So it’s like cocaine, but for the social media age. Will these girls live to see their third abortions? Somebody start a fucking telethon.
If you disseminate sexualized pictures of underage girls on the Internet, you get arrested by Chris Hansen and the guys at the FBI not working on a Hillary Clinton indictment. Unless you’re Justin Bieber, in which case the lucky kid featured in the dubious pic gets paid. Bieber recently posted a photo of a hot chick on his Instagram and queried his fans something eloquent along the lines of, “WTF who dis yo?!” Now the girl in the picture, identified as Dutch-born Cindy Kimberly, has signed a professional modeling contract. Also, she’s seventeen.
Bieber may look like he’s fourteen, but he’s twenty-one. And in the states that matter, it would be illegal for him to fingerblast the 17-year-old’s Netherlands with his third thumb. Good thing she lives in Spain, where if there’s grass on the upper lip, she’s old enough for more than just the tip. That expression sounds better in Spanish. Siri, when’s the next nonstop to Madrid?
Gwyneth Paltrow is backing the construction of an exclusive London style Arts Club on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. Membership to the multistory hangout will be expensive and exclusive. To gain membership, you must be nominated by an existing member. Also, members must “have an interest in creative arts and sciences.” So, Hollywood actors or beat poets with an extra twenty-five grand lying around. The regulations within the Arts Club will be stringent and classy. For instance, no swearing. Also, you can’t talk about that rich billionaire who killed a dude with a helicopter that Paltrow fucked while married to Chris Martin.
There’s nothing inherently wrong in being a snobby bitch. Not everybody wants to be universally adored. If you can afford to build a hi-rise club to literally look down upon people, you should be able to look down upon them. The dumpy, short-haired housewives across America who buy into the Paltrow’s homemaker front can pretend she’d love your company on an outlet mall shopping afternoon. You’re paying for the tower she’s building to get away from you. I think I read this parable in my Goop bible.