Amber Rose and Blac Chyna were hard to make out in their disguises over the weekend in Hollywood. Amber Rose went as a desperate weight gaining attention whore while Blac Chyna opted for the same look but with a different colored wig. Paparazzi trailed the two around town because they had nothing better to do and they also like tits in their face. Amber’s gearing up for her Slut Walk in October when she will lead up to eleven women high on meth and Sunny D along one of the abandoned streets of downtown Los Angeles in Spandex and push up bras demanding not to be raped by the still slumbering Skid Row homeless. A couple bipolar vagrants might lean up from their cardboard boxes long enough to stroke one out. That’s a win. This is just the first year of the event.
I’ll watch a kid with sausage fingers dominate on some nonsensical war game app just because he’s superior to a million other future fatty livers comprising the field. There’s just something special about watching a craftsman at the top of their game. This chick is the best lingerie model in the world. That body combined with that look like she just popped out of an alien pod and started asking if any earthlings can tell her about this whole fucking business she’d dying to try. It’s too good to be true. It is. I’ve heard she has combination skin and her jaw grinds in her sleep. Her vagina is filled Saginaw warts and until you’ve bedded a woman in Saginaw, please don’t dismiss this as inconsequential. Just leave her be. The Chinese robot guys will be by to pick her up in the morning. We almost had it all. I blame the imitation satin.
The selling point of the Big Brother TV show continues to elude me. You gather up disturbed sex workers you’d never want as roommates, pack them all into a fake house, and spy on them except when they’re changing because that might be viscerally compelling. In England they do a celebrity version of the show, if by celebrity you mean Backyard Teen Mom and twelve stone Jenna Jameson who is now left with only fond memories of taking splooge in the face when she was called queen. Of course nobody wants these salty twats in their house. I’d call the cops. Or the CDC. I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of restraining order that prevents former porn stars from gathering within three hundred feet of each other. STD superstorms. Condemn the house. NIMBY.
Fashion Week went four seconds before Kendall Jenner and her pierced nipple came down the runway. It does save a lot of time. Like if we had the Super Bowl and Russell Wilson just threw the ball into Malcolm Butler’s hands at the end zone on the first play of the game and we all went back to getting drunk and eating polish burrito dogs from Costco. Fashion Week has peaked. The one tenth of one percent of the population that purchases seventeen hundred dollar lunch ensembles isn’t even watching. It’s us. Watching for nineteen year old girl’s tits. Blow the whistle. There’ll be plenty of time in the offseason for second guessing.
Demi Lovato had little economic choice but to hint at being gay curious, maybe bisexual, not fully sexually fluid or gender neutral, but mostly definitely some slurps at the lady gob. Her tortured explanation was gross until you set it against the fact that she bones Wilmer Valderrama on the regular, that’s her comparative Get Out of Jail Free Card. Demi’s rubbing leeches on her labia and reciting Hillary Clinton stump speeches? No, still not as bad as Valderrama cock in your clam.
Alan Carr, who is both British and gay, not just British and super effeminate, asked Demi on his talk show if the lyrics in her crappy new song she clearly didn’t write were about her dabbling in lesbianism:
Got a taste for the cherry, I just need to take a bite.
Gay. Case closed. Or she likes cherries. Lovato cheekily responded that she would neither confirm or deny that she also digs chicks because that tested best with the marketing focus group. If I give her any credit, it’s for sparing the sexually progressive nonsensical lectures popular among her peers. So, maybe she rubbed up against a chick at band camp. That’s her business. I miss Jimmy Jam. He did this whole crappy chick pop music with greater aplomb.
Taylor Swift survived more scary shit that didn’t actually happen when some weisenheimer pulled the fire alarm at her Houston concert venue when it was announced Wiz Khalifa would be performing as a special guest. That shit doesn’t fly in Texas. Call it brain dead racism. It means less Wiz Khalifa.
Taylor did want all dullards Millennials raised on social media do during a time of alarm and crisis, she started filming herself during the arena evacuation. The center of the universe must be documented. Swift’s mom is heard in the background begging her daughter to put on some real clothes on before exiting the building because offering motherly advice a decade too late seemed appropriate. Keep trying, karma. You’re getting warmer.
Broke-ass statutory raping rapper problems. Having a rich white teen girlfriend shopping at Neiman Marcus while you’re forced to wait outside. The whorelet has an Amex Black. She’s cool. The prepaid cash card and three spliffs means you’re pacing like a douche on the sidewalk. Survey for BHPD. You know they’re out there waiting for you to flash a gang sign you picked up on YouTube. The chokeholds will be tremendous. Ponder BlackLivesMatter and ask yourself if you matter back. I’d use pencil when marking down the protest march date.