The Kardashians headed to Armenia to honor the 100th anniversary of the 1915 Armenian genocide where anywhere from several hundred thousand to several million ethnic Armenians perished so that System of a Down could someday have arcane song lyrics. Genocide took a back seat on this day when Khloe Kardashian and Kim Kardashian and Kanye West and a camera crew landed in Armenia for a ten day trip visiting museums and memorials and seventh cousins who made themselves available for a family reunion when E! offered up unfiltered packs of Camels for anyone willing to hug Kanye on camera.
My husband and daughter came to Armenia as well to see my heritage and learn about my ancestors! My cousins came along too! So excited I can’t sleep. — Kim, on Instagram, our nation’s newspaper
In her previous thirty-four years, Kim’s jetted to pretty much every single other country in the hemisphere except for Armenia. It’s just been too precious too touch. Like her virginity. But now, it’s just the right time. Or when the camera guys says ‘rolling’. Imagine the connection when you learn that you’re great-aunt Marena was a prostitute who tea bagged village men in exchange for buckets of water from the less dirty well.
Armenian locals were originally miffed when they heard the Kardashian circus was coming to town during the Genocide memorial events until they realized Armenia was finally going to crack the Google Top 10,000 popular daily search terms. There’s principle and then there’s finally having tourists to sell some sweet and sour mustache wax.
I don’t know what Barry Manilow does or where he has been. I believe he plays piano and was in a sitcom at some point or got AIDS during the disco era and then cured himself with an even more powerful form of AIDS that killed the first AIDS and then itself. It’s highly possible he was in Gerald Ford’s cabinet. Maybe I’m profiling but I always assumed flamboyant gay guys with bad toupees have a love affair with cock and easter bunny costumes. Manilow married his longtime love because he surveyed the climate and figured it was safe now just like his shitty music:
“Barry has lived a very secretive life and the wedding was no different! Barry and Garry did not tell friends or family that the occasion was their wedding.”
I’m telling my kids to hit up Barry and Garry’s house for farmhouse eggs and fresh squeezed orange juice every fucking morning. Followed by lunch and a light dinner. We’ll call it even for having to listen to your keyboard across the cul-de-sac. Live long and prosper.
Sarah Silverman called out some club booker who gave her ten dollars for popping into his club forty years ago. The comedian she was rolling with, Todd Barry, was given sixty because she was tagging along and the booker was being nice. Silverman’s comedy world relatively good looks allow her to engage in trivial arguments in which any other comedian or even a practicing nurse would be told to fuck off. She related her meta experience to the hypothetical women’s rights struggle:
“He got sixty dollars, and I got ten dollars… we did the exact same time back-to-back at the same show.”
He was probably booked because he’s funny and also was probably trying to bang you. People have been doing you favors. I’m all for anecdotal evidence but this is pushing the envelope. My black friend Jamal got a free lunch in grade school but I’m not twisting into a discrimination issue. Read up on shit. I’d listen to this on the pillow for about 36 hours and call it a story. Those tits gave you everything you have don’t tread on them.
I’m sympathetic to people who were put in the spotlight against their will. That sentiment ends around their first DUI and if they haven’t killed it in an acting role they didn’t audition for yet they’re dead to me. Hence I don’t understand what Tallulah Willis is doing or why she didn’t file a motion for a nickname by now. Willis hiked Runyon Canyon in Los Angeles which takes all of twelve minutes to get to the selfie station. Apparently she’s doing well in terms of the drugs:
“Today marks the day I have kicked 9 months of sobriety’s ass.”
You just scratched the devil’s belly. Nobody celebrates nine months. Come memorial day you’ll be holed up at the Stratosphere wondering why you tempted Fate with a selfie jinx. Meantime do more hiking. You’re going to want fresh mountain climbing symbolism for your next four week stay at Weeping Pines.
Some Banksy disciple erected novelty signs across popular destinations in Los Angeles including the Kardashian owned DASH clothing store which read “No Kardashian Parking.” I tend to generalize artists as a loose group of self-indulged assholes who live off the misplaced kindness of others. But I also believe that in the specific. Why do you have this much time and given those signs cost $40 bucks a pop I’d like to know who’s financing this. Yeah your dad’s an asshole but he can see you doing this from his office. Sorry they ignored your watercolor work. Get a real job, like machine pressing real parking signs that confuse people into tickets. That day, you’ll be a man. Artists don’t sit at the big boy table in Valhalla.
In case the candles are still burning from your last Michael Jackson vigil, snuff them out. Michael Jackson was most definitely a pederast if you didn’t know already. He didn’t write any songs but the dude could certainly dance his ass off and since he was a castrado your racist aunt allowed it in the sedan because we all know what Marvin Gaye was up to. Jackson paid $200 million to 20 kids who claimed he sexually abused them. $10 million a pop seems a bit much to cover a small misunderstanding. Sexual abuse is a bit of a vague term so just imagine his Brazilian fabricated nose like object going down on the child of a broken seventh generation failed actor whom his private detectives sought out at the Rosewood. Jackson got away with levels of molestation only guys with money and power can. The justice system isn’t set up to deal with a predator who own his own amusement park. The only shot at cessation is to murder dudes like this and catch an overnight to Belize. You can apply for sainthood at Vatican.org.
Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was found guilty on all thirty charges of pressure cooker bombing the Boston Marathon in 2013. His older brother killed in the manhunt after the attack seemed to be the junior jihadi mastermind while Dzhokhar was probably the cowardly go-along sack of shit with not much else going on in his life. A lot of trouble could’ve been saved if the cops who found the younger brother would’ve offed him during his arrest. Police these days don’t seem super reticent to shoot, maybe a couple more slugs in this wayward little fellow would’ve saved everybody a whole lot of effort and bad memories. The White House won’t call this a terrorist attack, maybe an unfortunate cooking equipment related disaster, but it was clearly designed to kill and maim innocent men, women and children. Closure and justice remain two completely mythical salves without any real world application. Nobody’s going to be cured of their misery when this guy’s given bad ecstasy and made to watch Rihanna videos or however it is they humanely put down death row inmates these days. The guy with the binder clipped sign beat me to the rest.
When you’re feral and roaming the wasteland and an outlander from across the great sea asks you when the apocalypse began, remind them of the time that model chick started posting her third trimester six pack pregnancy abs on Instagram. Millions of large pregnant women sucking on cliches about eating cheesecake for two went into a stampede causing a dust storm that circled the stratosphere and killed our ability to produce soy based meat substitutes. All the pretty women rolled themselves up in their yoga mats until asphyxiated and we decided to launch the nuclear arsenal because why the fuck not. Now, we survivors wipe our asses with unsold copies of Rolling Stone and pray the crickets hop into our traps. I bet the baby’s suffering. She seems like a horrible mom.