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.
Kendra Wilkinson said she was unaware being one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends entailed fucking him even though that’s what girlfriend means. ‘Someone I’m seeing’ or ‘we’re dating’ or ‘he invited me to see Wicked’ might imply there’s no sex, yet, or ever for that Wicked bit, but girlfriend clearly means you’ve been inside of her. Ask a caveman, he’ll tell you the same.
According to Wilkinson she thought the girlfriend gig just entailed living in the Playboy Mansion for free room and board. She may be the first stripper ever not deeply rooted in the no such thing as free lunches axiom. I wouldn’t mind hanging out in a mansion in my pajamas all day, but when it entails sucking a wrinkly pump action dick on a contractually obligated basis I’d rather pass. I’ll pay for my own Kung Pao delivery, thank you. Wilkinson is now in a troubled marriage with an unemployed man who secretly loves cock. Looking back, she has to think of that 78 year old and an occasional sludgy quickie rather fondly.
The video for Beyonce’s latest auto tuned braggadocio is pretty stripped down. Another way to say that is minimal or failing that dull, shitty, uninspired, and lazy. It features Beyonce drinking booze in a hotel suite and occasionally some local strippers show up to shake their asses and probably try and score blow cut with less Bayer aspirin. The vid features several outfit changes on Beyonce’s part because that’s super exciting to chicks and turns the gay dudes who listen to Beyonce on. It looks like it was shot in about fifteen minutes but with the costume changes and visits to the on-site bulimia chamber I’d liberally give it a few hours. If you ever get to a certain point where people start blindly buying your music for no discernible reason you may as well seize the opportunity to make a point. In this case that point is, fuck you, you’re stupid and lack self-reflection. I’m going to get hammered and relive my slumber party days because I’m bored and you’re going to watch it. Guilty as charged.
Footage has emerged of Lana Del Rey playing a rape victim in a short film shot by Eli Roth, the creep who made all the Hostel torture porn movies. It vaguely ties into a Marylin Manson project. Basically those two guys wanted to shoot a bunch of fucked up shit including a rape scene and thought they’d figure it out later. You never know when you might need a good rape scene. The staged rape footage was stashed after everyone on the set fucked and came down from their Ketamine highs and only reappeared recently. Roth once mentioned it to Larry King, passing off his lack of action as an attempt to shield the masses from his earth shattering art:
“The footage is so sick, it’s been locked in a vault for over a year.”
By locked in a vault do you mean saved on a flash drive at your house in the valley next to the basket of dog toys? At this point this pseudo Goth shit is only fooling the ten people in Hollywood who still think its’ cool and three of them are involved in this video. The rest of us have moved on. We know Marilyn Manson is Brian from Ohio. Nobody gives a shit. This isn’t Berlin pre-Internet. Pull your heads out of your asses.
Biting an opponent’s dick historically does not pan out well in any conflict setting. CNN Anchor Don Lemon awkwardly and weirdly asked Cosby’s 1969 alleged rape victim why after Cosby moved off her vag and onto her mouth she didn’t just chomp on his cock to make him stop.
You — you know, there are ways not to perform oral sex if you didn’t want to do it.
Thanks, Don Lemon. You just got a bunch of women killed. What do you think a violent felon does after a member of the opposite sex who vexes his very evil soul bloodies his dick? In a Tom and Jerry cartoon I guess he covers his groin and screeches and shows up in the next frame with an unduly large Band-Aid over his privates. In real life, he beats the living crap out of you until you stop moving. Once you’re in a guy’s hotel room and he’s drugged you and he’s laying on top of you with his dick in your mouth, the good options are pretty much off the table.
Every five to ten years, Bono and Gay Beethoven and Bob Geldof and whoever’s hot in the British pop music scene spend another few hours re-recording the exact same fucking song to cure the latest African hardship. It started thirty years ago with Band Aid’s Do They Know It’s Christmas?, an ensemble recording designed to heal Ethiopia of being one super crappy place to live. Fifty million radio plays later, Ethiopia is still a shit hole. For Band Aid 30, it’s Ebola. The boys from One Direction are determined to snuff it out. They changed ‘feed the world’ to ‘heal the world’ which is short for can somebody please fucking buy the Congo some indoor plumbing already. If Ebola was feeling perhaps a bit over-confident what with Obama offering it red carpet welcomes in the U.S, and the fact that half of Sierra Leone still sees diarrhea as a potable liquid, this new Band-Aid recording ought to send shivers down its viral spine. You’re done, Ebola. This song cured famine in sub-Saharan Sudan, turned Haiti into a thriving economic juggernaut, and it’s going to flush Ebola right down Santa’s crapper.
Photo Credit: AKM-GSI
Any man who rapes a woman deserves a bullet to the back of the head. Rape, date rape, forcing yourself on an eager beaver teen actress who agrees to hang out in your hotel room to learn the craft. Still wrong. As a general rule, if you have to drug a girl, just assume you’re doing something that deserves that bullet.
Barbara Bowman claims she was drugged and raped by Bill Cosby back in the 1980′s when he pretended to be her mentor, you know like successful guys in their 40′s do with attractive teenaged models and actresses. Whether or not she knew going by herself to man’s hotel room late night was a bad idea is relatively moot. Even the shockingly naive don’t deserve a Jell-O pudding pop forced up their hiney.
Barbara Bowman wants to know why nobody ever took her claims seriously, while now thirty years later everybody is finally labeling Cosby a rapist only after a Philly standup made Cosby is a rapist jokes onstage:
Only after a man, Hannibal Buress, called Bill Cosby a rapist in a comedy act last month did the public outcry begin in earnest.
She put ‘man’ in italics. That seemed like an unnecessary feminist reflex. Had other alleged victim Andrea Constand gone through with her accusations of roofie rape by Cosby back in 2004, you can bet it would have been a monster media story. Nancy Grace would’ve shit her pants and left it sitting there throughout the trial. But Constand took a suitcase full of cash and and a non-disclosure agreement instead so everything quieted down
I don’t doubt that especially thirty years ago it was difficult for a teen girl to get people to believe the beloved Dr. Huxtable raped her. Even more incredulous than the pastor dad from 7th Heaven made me touch his willy. But if I’m passing out unsolicited advice, take to heart the fact this predatory piece of shit is finally getting what’s due. It’s not what should’ve happened three decades ago, but not everybody gets to live to see justice served in any manner. That goes for man and woman.
Fergie opened up about that time she pissed all over herself onstage, either to generate promotion for her new album or because she was wasted and about to pee on herself again. There’s not really much to the story according to Fergie, she just really had to piss and didn’t have time before the show. Muscle relaxers or vaginal trauma were not involved:
“I’m running on and we jump and do Let’s Get It Started, and I get crazy and I jump and I run across the stage and my adrenaline was going and gosh… I wish it didn’t happen…It was so embarrassing!”
It would have been embarrassing in the car driving to Vegas with your girlfriends for a bachelorette party. Doing it to a packed house just means you’re mistaking your purpose in life. Let will.i.am sing the hook and take a leak on some cables backstage. With any luck you’ll short out the system and people will have the pleasure of listening to Prince on the PA while your band reflects on why they were forced by their label to make you a member.
Joy Regullano has a web series called White Fetish in which she attempts to explain the horrific plight of being a young Asian woman in America. Other than having above average income levels, above average education levels, and no longer needing to eat the draft horse during the cold winter starvation cycle like grandma did, it’s tough being Asian in the States. According to Joy’s complete lack of irony, all white people generalize all Asian people. White people see Asians as weird aliens even though most of us have known them since childhood and met several more at the college where they represented an overwhelming majority of the students who gave a shit about going to class. Generalizing is okay if you’re a reasonably cute Asian chick. It’s less okay that being Asian is the most interesting thing about you. If you hate this place so much, why don’t you go back to China? Vietnam? Macao? Malaysiana…sapporo?
There’s now a cottage industry around girls with large racks walking the urban landscape with hidden cameras for the purpose of showing the world what the world already knows. Some percentage of dudes are skeevy predators. You don’t say? I can’t even tell if this video is completely staged or only mildly staged and biased in the editing, but apparently drinking to excess out of a brown paper bag in a short sundress on a street known to be littered with petty thieves and miscreants is a bad idea. So, ladies, if that was your plan for today, please, watch this video before it’s too late.
I’m not clear on the exact purpose of these lesser tier feminist YouTube forays. Short of castration and imprisonment, you can’t really stop rapey dudes from being rapey and the courts tend to frown upon harsh punishments for people simply because they’re creepy. I suppose it’s for everybody to gasp and add their sycophantic I’m anti-rape too declarations. The net effect is to make most men hate feminists for lumping them into some all-male predator status that the vast majority simply don’t deserve. As a white male, I’ve always been immune to stereotyping and prejudice and I’d like to keep it that way.
Wonderful, you found (or hired) four dudes on Hollywood Blvd. trying to convince a hot drunk girl to come back to their place. I could go down to Hollywood Blvd. right now and unmask four costumed superheroes with actual felony convictions. I win. I guess.
The City of Fort Lauderdale has arrested a 90 year old World War II vet named Arnold Abbott twice in the past two days because he feeds homeless people, a charitable act he has been doing for over twenty years. The city’s mayor Jack Sieler has defended the arrests because he is a bad guy from a shitty Bruce Willis movie:
“Mr. Abbott has decided that he doesn’t think these individuals should have to have any interaction with government, that they should be fed in the parks. We disagree.”
Since when is everyone supposed to be fed through the government? Government exists as a safety net for those in need. In this case nobody needs it. Arnold’s got it covered. The food looks piping hot pretty fucking spectacular. Explain where you come into the equation, Mayor Jack? Student Council nimrods really never go away, their dicks just get smaller and their rule books thicker.
Here’s something to think about before you arrest a famous person for ordering a hit, make sure you have decent evidence. It’s like accusing somebody of ethnic cleansing or watching The View, it’s not the kind of thing you can just take back. One day after booking AC/DC drummer Phil Rudd on murder for hire charges, New Zealand authorities dropped the charges. Rudd is still in trouble for tripping on meth and screaming about killing people, but now that they fucked up the big charge, expect to see Rudd receive a slap on the wrist in exchange not suing the last living sheep out of the New Zealand government. I’m just glad Bon Scott had the foresight to choke on his own vomit before witnessing this legal travesty.
Two guys in Brooklyn got their hands on a drone and filmed a porno featuring solely drone footage of people fucking. Luckily they weren’t creeping on real people but hired actors although it looks real enough to freak you out and masturbate to. The filmmakers have some grand artistic vision about what they are doing:
“We wanted to explore the whole idea of drone privacy and strikes—this idea of ‘make porn, not war.’ It started as a kind of funny commentary on privacy and voyeurism, but it quickly became a conceptual grounding.”
It started because you had a drone and found a way to shoot a porno without being demonized by your film school buddies and their spiritual partners. The film does play on our biggest concern with drones. Blowing up schools and hospitals is one thing, but deep down we’re really just concerned about someone filming our rooftop gender non-specific orgies and posting them to YouPorn. It hasn’t happened just yet, but these guys are pointing a ton of basement dwelling perverts and Pentagon interns in the right direction. Get on this before you leave office, Obama. You can track my movements, read my emails, and monitor my phone calls, but leave my popular fucking venues alone and we’ll call it even.
Discovery Channel is set to air a special called Eaten Alive where host Paul Rosolie is actually swallowed whole by an anaconda while wearing a special suit he made to survive the ordeal. Rosolie is one of those naturalist conservation dudes who love and respect nature yet decide to pull ridiculous stunts and prank the animal kingdom for television entertainment purposes. No word on whether having a dipshit in an Ironman suit passing through their rectum is good for anacondas, but I’d guess not.
What’s for sure is Rosolie gets laid whenever he visits a bar and tells stories. Maybe not this one since it’s fucking gross and inhumane, but definitely that time he drove a bonobo around in a Go Cart to draw attention to their dwindling numbers before he was involved in a head on collision and the little guy perished at which point he wept for the state of the planet.
Multi millionaire pharmaceutical exec Gigi Jordan was convicted of the lesser charge of manslaughter for killing her son and will probably only serve five years in prison, even though she admitted to poisoning his food. Jordan was found babbling incoherently next to the lifeless body of her severely autistic son with an empty bottle of vodka and over 5,000 pills strewn about which is a standard last supper for Pfizer senior management. She claimed she had to poison the kid because the child’s biological father and members of a Satanic Cult were coming to kill her and take the child into a life of Beelzebub. Instead of taking legal action, Jordan figured the logical approach was to Blue Lagoon her kid to death in a $2,300 dollar a night hotel room. Her legal defense in a nutshell was that she was emotionally overwrought and in fear of her life and that of her child:
“She did this because she loved him so much she couldn’t bare the thought of him living without her or him being subjected to the life she’d tried to rescue him from.”
It’s so refreshing to find a woman who doesn’t let her busy career get in the way of the unnecessary mercy killing of her child.
Here’s a tip if you’re ever on a high profile jury, listen to the facts instead of the handsome high priced lawyer. If someone admits to force feeding their autistic kid poison, that’s probably murder. You can write your shitty book either way so why not try and get it right instead of passing a verdict which makes homeless people call you stupid whilst staring at a TV through a RadioShack storefront.
Rob Lowe’s half funny DirecTV commercials are under fire by a group called the International Paruresis Association because one of them shows his character too bashful to piss in a public latrine. Paruresis means ‘Shy Bladder’ in Latin or ‘Embarrassingly Small Dick’ in every other language. Steve Soifer, the CEO of the IPA and biannual Yellowstone tourist thinks we should exercise some caution on the subject:
“It’s a situation that a lot of people don’t understand. In this particular case, the portrayal is making it look ridiculous, that this guy is a loser for having a problem. What if he didn’t have a leg or an arm, are you going to make fun of them?”
I wouldn’t think you’re a loser because it takes you a minute to get it flowing with a drunk lumberjack standing over your shoulder at Safeco. Tight quarters with fifty dudes with their dicks out squirting into a basin should make any man’s reproductive organs take pause. So you can’t piss in group settings. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Using your real name and declaring yourself CEO of Shy Bladder sufferers, that’s another matter.
The Brooklyn Nets Russian oil tycoon billionaire owner still isn’t happy about last season when rookie coach Jason Kidd led the highest paid team in the NBA on a season long shame spiral. Prokhorov spoke of Kidd’s decision to flee the big city for Milwaukee like dozens of other former Brooklyn dwellers who will lecture anyone who will listen about property value and are bored with their lives:
“You know, I think there is a nice proverb in English. Don’t let the door hit you where the Good Lord split you.”
It’s really a good burn with the benefit of the Bond Villain accent. Kidd pretended to take the high road in order to avoid talking about his fuck ups:
“I’m no longer in Brooklyn. Unfortunately they keep talking about it. I don’t.”
That’s because you made an ass of yourself pretending to spill soda on the court and stood around looking like a dick all the time. Of course people are still talking about it. If you had been fired for humping German Shepherds in the locker room people would be talking about it. Sometimes life unfairly deals you a shit sandwich and other times you get on the bread and start taking a dump. It’s on you, Kidd. You sucked. Even the evil Russkie knows it.
Like every rich person in Hollywood not named Gene Simmons, Adam McKay feels super fucking guilty. He’s the SNL writer who teamed up with Will Ferrell on all his comedy movies and is now worth about $40 million. The two also launched Funny or Die together with their Landlord video and a bunch of other shorts before turning the reigns over to the general public ensuring that only one out of a thousand videos would henceforth be watchable.
Now McKay has created his signature piece for Funny or Die. A My Little Pony cartoon spoof to serve as a JuCo lecture on income inequality, the ills of capitalism, and why America sucks for not paying Burger King employees better wages. McKay got several of his wealthy entertainer friends to help create this video so Madame Defarge might knit them onto the short list of rich people not to kill when the revolution goes down . The video is neither funny or amusing, it’s a talking points memo from the Daily Kos posing as a satire, all of which is fine, except that he’s using it as signature comedy material on Funny or Die.
Just because a guy’s getting $2 million to write Talladega Nights while the teacher writing his kid’s school lesson plan is making $20 an hour doesn’t mean he can’t lecture others on income inequality. I’m down with not having to be the average Joe to want to fight for the average Joe. But cartoon solutions about sticking it to the evil rich and corporations paying janitors enough to buy the new Corolla is just shtick designed to make you feel less guilty about being a college drop out who gets paid a ton to make people giggle. You earned it, a-hole. Nobody hates you for it save for yourself. Put down the crucifix and get yourself another Lambo. Drive to the local Burger King and buy some shit. That’s how the economy actually works. When you’re there, order some extra Whoppers for your house staff and announce that Funny Or Die is closing shop. It’s time.
Aaron Lewis, lead singer of Staind which may or may not still be a band, apologized for badly screwing up the lyrics of the National Anthem at the World Series. It’s understandable he fucked up. The National Anthem is unnecessarily complicated and long winded for a ditty you sing before every fucking sports event. Take Me Out to the Ball Game seems far more contextually relevant and a family friendly composition that puts everybody in a good mood.
There’s a lot of pressure to perform in front of 45,000 adults and a national TV audience versus badass suburban tweens at a mobile phone company named auditorium. What is not forgivable is the way Lewis sang. Think drunken Scottish hobo yelling over a chainsaw while a frat boy belts out Creed at karaoke night. I accept Lewis’ apology, but I’m still waiting for Major League Baseball to apologize for subjecting us to this dork’s Eddie Vedder impression.
When you’re a mustached middle management ex jock shelling out several hundred bucks a ticket to watch the worst team in the NFL suffer another loss, you tend to be on edge. The traffic getting there was shitty, the game is fucking frustrating, and that fifth pull of Southern Comfort in the parking lot gave you wicked heartburn. There are only a few options at this point. Sit there stewing in your tiny seat waiting to return home and beat your wife or kids, pull a gun in a road rage incident and await suicide by cop, or find the nearest guy talking shit and clock him in the face. If possible make sure the guy is stumbling blind drunk because you’re really not that tough.
There’s something to be learned here. Stay at home, watch the game for free, and try to bargain basement your wife into a halftime blow job on the couch. So what if you’re doing dishes for the next week, at least you can flip to Con Air in disgust after the nail in the coffin pick six and avoid prosecution. Plus the beers are a lot cheaper. Buy your kid a new bike. Pull your head out of your ass.
Kat Von D flipped out on paparazzi filming a fire at her tattoo parlor and reality television set. Clearly Von D values her privacy and personal space, unless there is a appearance contract and merchandising deal involved, at which point you’re free to watch her drop a deuce into a seat-less toilet and spit out staged dialog borrowed from Ice Road Truckers.
Von D’s entire house burned to the ground a few years back. Most people go their whole lives without pulling a fire alarm outside of a high school prank. This chick can’t seem to keep a structure standing. As an entrepreneur Von D is financially savvy. I wonder if that passion extends to the insurance business. Maybe that’s why she wants to keep this under wraps. Gone are the days when someone can let their commercial property and reality television set burn to the ground on the down low. It’s tough out there in this new digital world, where your fairly transparent motivations are visible not only to the prying eyes of the public, but also the arson unit and your insurance carrier.
Mostly I just want to know how a brooding tattoo artist in a cape gets a twelve person posse. Von D scolds the paparazzi that they should be ashamed of themselves for their chosen professions. What about the assistant to your assistant bag holder? I’d rather tell my mom I film celebrities torching their workshops for cash than I’m the backup tampon guy for Kat Von D.
Gwyneth Paltrow wants everyone to know she can turn the world on with just one smile. Six months or so ago, she just wanted to let everyone know she could kill you with just one phone call. How one unconscious coupling can change even the most pretentious woman. Especially when the media is saturated solely with news of Gay Beethoven and his semi-erect shtupping of Jennifer Lawrence. The Wicked Witch doesn’t mind being called wicked, she just can’t abide not being talked about at all.
Gwyneth Paltrow is everywhere. She’s gushing on talk shows, penning Obama fantasy fiction, and showing off her more human side she had a team of market researchers outline for her on Powerpoint. Gwyneth even let someone film her doing group aerobics while laughing like a schoolgirl on camera. Where is our mega-bitch and what have you done with her?
When the holidays come around, expect to see Gwyneth ‘caught’ on camera ladling out soup at the homeless shelters and helping random parents afford organic moisturizing hand lotion for their children. Operation Make Gwyneth Slightly Less Hated, engage!
Photo Credit: Instagram
Some anonymous old guy beat the shit out of some dude in a sparring match. This isn’t a good situation if you’re an up and coming pretty boy on your first cycle of creatine trying to impress the bros at the gym. Either plaster some geezer’s face or get your ass handed to you and slink off in disgrace. This old guy is trying to take someone’s head off, in a fucking sparring match. If anyone not on a pension did this they’d be jumped by the entire gang and told never to return. Then some guy would throw a Molotov Cocktail through your window a few days later for good measure.
Old guys know they can get away with anything. If you feel like kicking some unsuspecting good sport’s ass for the cheap thrill, go for it. Whatever gets you through the day. Those sweet memories of mixing it up on the boulevard and pulling off Maggie O’Mally’s knickers to reveal that sweet bajingo will come rushing back. Stop at the Drive In and peel out without paying for your shake. You do you old man.
Carmen Electra appeared on Oprah’s “Where Are They Now?” and talked about her marriage to Dennis Rodman and some other shit that even Oprah couldn’t pretend to care about any more. Getting screen time is a bitch these days, so why not dredge up some old gossip for a younger generation of unemployed single parents and stay at home chardonnay drinking divorcees who can still locate Oprah on their Magnavox floor units.
“Our relationship was very passionate. When it was good, it was amazing. And when it was bad, it was the worst.”
Often times gigantic cross-dressing manic depressive alcoholics are a bit volatile. Few people needed this update, but the subject matter is neither here nor there. Electra wants you to know she is still a hot piece of ass and is available for acting in the role of escort or real escort work if the price is right. Naturally, Oprah gets a taste. If this were charity, she’d build another rape school in Africa.