As somebody who almost took a journalism class once, I have to consider running with a story that Suge Knight just killed a dude in Compton. It certainly rings true, but is it really news? Suge Knight murders Hmong family of seven? Maybe. If he used his pinky fingers to finish off the babies. Angrily leaving the scene of an altercation and backing his car over a bystander? That won’t even make his dear diary entry for January 29.
Update: Suge Knight’s lawyer confirmed that his client did indeed run over an old dude with his car. I’m not exactly sure that’s how Suge Knight lawyering is supposed to go. Not even willing to try the race card or the picture of Suge in the Bahamas with two ladies time stamped to align with the car mauling? There must be fifty witnesses. Some small number of whom don’t mind the fact that Suge is going to murder them and everybody who owns a phonebook with their name in it when he gets out of prison next.
They don’t fuck around at Texas schools with sensitive solutions to serious problems. When the principal at an elementary school kept finding human kid shit on the floor of his gym, he rounded up all the tykes under his roof, split up the boys and girls to keep biblical, then had them drop their pants for shit stain inspection. Parent outrage ensued. You might think, yeah, fuck, you can’t ask my ten year old to show you his bare ass crack because some troubled kid keeps crapping in the gym. I’ve got two words for you. Patriot Act. The authorities, including school principals and anybody above junior greeter at Walmart, can demand your kids get naked whenever the hell they want. What are they hiding in their underpants? Isn’t that your real concern? Is it Mexican hash? Weapons? Or just fresh treadmarks from dropping a deuce in the multipurpose room. It’s called security. Start dressing your kids in clear plastic bags to make this go faster. That’s not a request.
I’m told denim was the hottest fabric at Paris Fashion Week. I don’t know exactly how many fabrics there are, but if you’re discounting Kazakhstani mohair and human flesh made by horror film bad guys, I think there are only four to choose from. Still, good on you, denim. This means you’re going to see tons of models marketing denim this year. But denim reminds many people of horse stink and low sperm counts. The solution is topless chicks in jeans. You don’t give a crap how they smell.
Goop goddess Gwyneth Paltrow is recommending her readers steam their vaginas. Apparently, Gwyneth shoots scented steam up her love tunnel like an 1800′s locomotive. Doctors and sane people don’t think you should do this. Lesbians remain cautiously neutral.
If you’ve ever thought to yourself I’d like to smell like a pale chick in a slip, I’ve got the fragrance for you. Rosie for Autograph. I have no idea what that means. Only that it will make you smell like lilac and isopropyl alcohol rather than Jason Statham jizz and Mayfairs. You can’t put a price on that. Though if you did, it’d be $70. It seems nonsensical but for the millions celebrities rake in on this crap. Then it just seems sad. I prefer to think about what really dumb people might spend $70 on if it wasn’t Rosie for Autograph perfume. It’s not healthy meals and vocational training manuals. Not so sad anymore.
I want my baby girl to grow up a very strong, and independent woman just like I am, and you know what? I know that she will! My daughter will grow up to be a leader and stand up for all of the people who cannot stand up for themselves. My daughter will be beautiful just like her mama, but at the same time I will raise her to be a humble and loving person who respect herself and others.
That’s some inspirational Mommy of the Year type talk right there. You throw in the Nazi rally cries, the comes and goes schizophrenia and the gaping porn and I’d say it’s a lock. Farrah Abraham places in a distant second. Just like with her staged ass porn. Suck on that Teen Mom, Tila Tequila is your related celebrity nemesis. That has to be disconcerting on so many levels.
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.