Slash and the girl he started banging after leaving his wife recently got matching GPS coordinate tattoos. Slash got them on his neck because he’s bolder in selection of tattoos he’ll soon come to regret. Based on my ability to type into Google Earth, the dual set of coordinates leads to a Chicago hot dog stand near Wrigley Field and an apartment building in Woodland Hills, California respectively. Nobody but these two romantics know the precise significance of these locations, but it’s safe to assume when we all find out, we’re going to think even less of them than we do now.
Angelina Jolie made the GPS coordinates tattoos trendy when she body inked the latitudes and longitudes of the locations where she bartered UNICEF t-shirts for her various Benetton babies. But that was mostly so she could remember where to return them if they proved defective. I’m going to guess these are two locations behind which lies an alley where this girl blew Slash. The memorialization of which might just piss off his two kids whose names he can only recall during court hearings.
There’s some kind of quiet dignity in being a colossal dick. An arrogant ass who doesn’t give a fuck about anybody but himself and how he’s feeling from moment to moment. Not those small time punks who piss and moan. I mean one ginormous a-hole who fucks everything he pleases, pisses on his sycophants, and reminds you how he can buy you several times over. Justin Bieber. It wasn’t noble, but it was definitely remarkable.
This Justin Bieber ‘I’ve changed’ nonsense is simply disheartening. It’s like popping in on Bin Laden and he’s tearfully watching Precious. You don’t want to shoot that guy in the head. You want to give him a hug. Bieber’s whispered apology for being an arrogant dick these past eighteen months (he checked his calendar apparently) just makes him pathetic. In the end, you’ve left us with nothing, Justin. Well played, you tatted up miniaturized fuck.
Best I can tell some Make-A-Wish kid asked to see Chelsea Handler’s tits. Maybe after he was told he couldn’t suffocate a white rhino with his Phantom Menace pillow. That’s the most popular wish. Those kids really fucking hate endangered species. Seeing a famous person’s tits isn’t such a bad second choice, though the drugs have to be playing a large role in selecting Chelsea Handler. I’d ask for Michelle Obama because I love really awkward situations. And Michelle Obama. Meow.
Actor and part time drug hatch Emile Hirsch kind of assaulted female Paramount exec Dani Bernfeld at a nightclub near the Sundance Film Festival in Park City Utah. Police investigated the matter but let Hirsch go because domestic violence remains legal in Utah and Hirsch can do whatever he wants since he’s a nonthreatening midget. According to some chick who won’t be invited back to the festival:
“[He put her in a] chokehold. He attacked her from behind, he completely blindsided her after he’d been shit talking and was already led away from her once.”
You left out the part where you blew him afterwards. If Dwayne Johnson was merely accused of this he’d never work again. You just can’t take Hirsch seriously enough to think he could do any damage since he’s a coked up warlock baby. Whatever happened it was bad enough for Bernfield to call the cops and break up the party. Look for Hirsch to blow off rehab and secure some major film roles. Maybe twenty years from now he’ll be mentioned alongside Bill Cosby. For now it’s smooth sailing, lots of Ativan, and more of these cute little kerfuffles.
Courtney Love has both affirmed and denied using heroin while pregnant with her daughter Francis Bean Cobain in the past, the contradictions most likely stemming from brain damage due to heroin use. In the new documentary Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck, Love hedges her bets:
“I used it once, then stopped. I knew she would be fine.”
Using heroin once most likely doesn’t mean one time but several months of watching the ceiling fan while experiencing the joy of becoming a mother. I heard when you’re expecting you tend to vomit a lot and see the devil in the mirror. Sometimes you even crave marshmallows or more smack. Luckily Love was an expert in the field of pre-natal care and knew beyond a reasonable doubt that a bout of heroin use can’t harm the miracle inside you. It’s basic science. Her daughter seems fine. Fuck it break out the needles and rack some lines at your shower. It ain’t contagious like the measles. Courtney Love says thumbs up.
If you aren’t really into football but love gambling on minor nuances of the Super Bowl then you’re a poser dipshit who will ruin the game for anyone in the same room. The fucker who’s entrenched one minute because he bet on the length of a punt and walks in front of the TV on Fourth and Goal. The following are prop bets you can make if you haven’t already destroyed your marriage and woken up in the gutter grasping soggy sportsbook tickets:
How long will it take India Menzel to sing the national anthem? Will India Menzel forget or omit at least one word of the National Anthem? Will Marshawn Lynch grab his crotch after scoring a TD? Will Bill Belichick’s hoodie have sleeves or not? How many times will Gisele Bundchen be shown on TV during the game? What color will the Gatorade be that is dumped on the winning coach? Who will win the opening coin toss? Who will Barack Obama pick to win the game? Will Katy Perry show cleavage or not?
I always recommend trusting shady overseas online gambling sites with subjective material such as a crotch grab. My friend, he has the jock itch and lightly scratched his left testicle. File a report with the Embassy if you don’t like it. If you are making these bets it’s clear you have too many to keep track of. Do you have four hours to re-watch the game on DVR the following Monday and count the Gisele sightings? Of course you do. Otherwise you’d put a few hundred on the game like a man and suffer in silence.
I’d lie and say I don’t like seeing this spawn of various Satans half naked, but I kind of do. Not in the same way I sort of like to see her midget porn older sister. That’s purely physical, for a few minutes, before wrapping her in a blanket and driving her out into the Sonoran desert and reminding her that God has a plan for everyone. This one I’d treat well. I’d coddle and console and encourage her to learn how to read and write. Not enough so that motorists could understand the notes she slipped to them when I wasn’t paying attention at the gas station, but just enough to check the channel guide from the basement and tell me when This Old House was airing.
You don’t hear much about cold fusion these days because most of science is now involved in piecing these Housewives together and sending them out into public to see if they can pass. Water is the new environment to be tested. A few of the Atlanta wives completely dissolved in failed trial runs. If this chick can go three hours in the aquatic, the next step will be strapping torpedoes to several of the shows’ girdled up barflies and shooting them up the Euphrates toward ISIS strongholds. Nobody wants to risk the lives of real people.