Floyd Mayweather is being sued by his ex fiancee Shantel Jackson because he allegedly beat the shit out of her and publicly outed her for having an abortion. She sees this as an invasion of privacy and definitely no way to impress a lady. Floyd thinks making his former fetus Thanksgiving dinner conversation for the masses serves as a worthwhile tribute. Mayweather insists that his actions did not cross any lines because Jackson was in a relationship with him, thereby making her a public figure and fair game for abortion shaming. He has a point. If you don’t want to be a public figure, stop getting punched in the face by Floyd Mayweather. People have come to expect a certain standard of normalcy. To deny them this would be plain selfish, you baby killer. Here’s some concealer.
Richard Sherman protested his teammate Marshawn Lynch’s $100,000 dollar fine levied by the NFL for not speaking to the media after a recent game. NFL rules clearly state players must tell reporters tired lines like ‘one game at a time’ and ‘we left it all out on the field’ and ‘we got faith in each other’ so that we can pretend interviewing guys took some criminology at Central Florida is going to produce insight into the human condition. Sherman thought it’d be hilarious to mock the NFL with a shoddy comedy routine with a cardboard cutout in front of the media. Sherman’s point was simple: force me to speak to the press and I’m going to be insolent as fuck. Sure its hypocritical the NFL is sponsored by Budweiser but won’t allow its players to endorse alcoholic products, although I’m pretty sure Bud Light is healthier than Chunky Soup. The league is not going to stand for this. Look for Sherman to be called for some questionable holding penalties in coming weeks and for Roger Goodell to tell Ray Rice he can come back if he shows his loyalty by planting crack in Sherman’s locker. Nobody fucks with The Jesus.
Obama pardoned an Ebola riddled turkey and launched it free from the West Wing balcony so no single person should know the stigma of Ebola. This year, we’ll all be dead by Christmas. Cancel the shopping. Spend time with your loved ones and write a goodbye note to that family in Guatemala you’re supporting on forty-seven cents a day. Happy Thanksgiving. This is your fault.
Girls without bras shopping for lingerie is a much needed break from watching 99-Cent stores burn to the ground. Angry mobs around the country are outraged at cops, and apparently at the former Vietnamese boat people who worked their asses off to own 99-Cent stores. I don’t know what possesses people to turn to fire in their destructive frenzy. I’ve thrown a punch or two in anger, but never felt the villainy to construct an incendiary device and destroy somebody else’s work. I remember the kid back in middle school who was always leaning toward fire to deal with his pubescent frustration. That kid who had pocketed his dad’s lighter and waved it around behind the gym like he was the actual inventor of fire. We all just assumed he had water on the brain and would be dead before he got a driver’s license. I guess he made it to Ferguson. This was supposed to be about tits.
Photo Credit: Splash
Nobody understands the aroma of rogue love better than Rihanna. It might smell like the back of Chris Brown’s hand or the taste of a Barbados fishing charter boat deck after too many mojitos and Strawberry Cough, but mostly to Rihanna, it smells like:
…that moment when love first hits you with a wild rush that goes through your whole body, A mixture of fresh citrus and succulent peach with juicy berries.
I’ve ever experienced that kind of fruit-filled sensual rush before. Though I’ve come close while erotically perusing a farmer’s market with Emmanuelle in Bangkok. Rogue Love is so complex, it requires yet another paragraph of overwrought description:
The scent is likened to the fluttering of the love-struck heartbeat with layers upon layers of lush, rich florals. The petals are a radiant texture with vibrant colors of honeysuckle, jasmine and orchid splashed with the simply irresistible seduction of coconut”
I’m from the northern climates so I’m going to assume I can substitute the seductive scent of moldy keg lines and Frank’s Hot Sauce for coconuts when tapping the erotic memories in my own hippocampus. I’m not sure who buys this shit at $70 a pop, but I’m guessing it’s the millions and millions of people I like to pretend don’t run this planet because we can’t possibly be that naive.
A woman never looks more serious than when she’s gazing into the distance without any underpants on. The thoughts that swirl deep within her cranium. Did I do right to divorce The Dream? What happens if I tell the world my nipples tingle several minutes before an earthquake? The eyes are the window to the soul. The bare ass, the doorway to getting paid.
Photo Credit: We Are Pop Culture/Twitter
Hutt gangster Roseanne Barr posted a picture of her mutilated chemical-peeled face and said she had been beaten by Bill Cosby. Not funny. Cosby is a rapist not a woman beater. Also it’s Roseanne, so inherently not funny.
See Roseanne’s fucked up grille, if you dare. (TMZ)
Gigi Hadad is covered topless in Rolling Stone and it’s giving me a Rolling Bone. (Drunken Stepfather)
Nicola McLean has got some ridonkulously huge tits. (Hollywood Tuna)
I would like to slip Keke Lindgard my peepee. (Popoholic)
Kevin Federline says that penis is not his penis. Penis. (Dlisted)
Here’s a video going around of Batman and Vader fighting. Nerds need to get laid, yo. (Moviepilot)
Lady Gaga looks like a fat busted Little Mermaid. (Celebslam)
If your grandmother posted selfies of her ass on the Internet you’d disown your entire family. If an Associated Press photographer starts documenting her senior citizen husband and herself naked around the house to show the beauty of aging, it’s necessarily a work of significance. With each one of these increasingly gross exhibits comes a motley set of hipster college sophomores assessing it in amazement. They come in pairs. One can’t stop laughing and wants more free wine. The other is pretending to find it moving. One’s a cunt and the other’s either a poser with a beanie or a gay guy in denial. Swap it around and play patty wack. Who gives a shit. The point is they’ll grow out of it. I don’t know what excuse these old fuckers have for getting naked on camera, but if you’re buying into that beauty of aging crap, you haven’t searched Craigslist Casual Encounters lately for 65 and over. Geezers are up to some wacky fetish shit.
Photo Credit: Marnaclarke.com