While we’re decades past the era any news outlet is going to wait an entire several days to get an accurate story to report, maybe they could say something like ‘First! But, yeah, we are wrong 89% of the time.’ My crappy reporting is more accurate than cable TV news outlets and I don’t even try. Really, I don’t try at all.
Video surveillance released today shows the dead Ferguson teen, Michael Brown, described by friends and family as made of 100% warm and fuzzy and on his way to college, was actually the 6’4, 290 pound dude muscling a tiny convenience store owner in a petty robbery. Darren Wilson, the officer who shot Michael Brown, had no idea that Brown had just robbed a convenience store. Which fills in a nice missing piece for why Brown might have reacted violently to the police officer who was trailing him and telling him to get over to the sidewalk. A convenience store robbery certainly puts your Harvard chances at risk.
None of this has anything to do with asshole cops, racist cops, tanks in the streets, the justice system bias against minorities, civil rights, lady justice, or why the Raiders are allowed to still be an NFL franchise. It’s just another turd on the modern state of journalism. You can’t hold your turds in. You’ll end up like Elvis.
The Chicago Blackhawks responded to an online petition urging them to make their intermission show way less fun. Between periods, The Blackhawks select random fans to play Shoot The Puck, where you try to score a goal to win considerably mediocre prizes. They often pick good looking girls in heels to Shoot the Puck. Its funny to watch a chick in stilettos amble on ice and if you’ve got two minutes to please the mostly male crowd, why not pick the hot girl.
The petition calls for women of ‘All body types’, meaning fat, fatter, and comfortable with my curves, to be selected for the contest. The petition also demands that female members of the short skirts wearing Ice Crew start dressing like Boo Radley and be generally less sexually attractive. The revolutionaries also want the organist to stop playing a song called ‘The Stripper’, because it’s by its very nature offensive to people who hate fun. Finally, the petitioners want more non-fat frozen yogurt options at the concessions so they can pretend they’re dieting.
The Blackhawks have responded to the petition by pledging to put an end to The Stripper and to consider the other requests. This may not seem like a big concession, but it’s farther than the Native Americans got when requesting the hockey team stop using their sacred heritage to promote a sport invented by Canadians. This is because fat women are multiplying like Chipotle locations as the Native population ever dwindles. The income disparity between the BBWs and the Navajo is immense. These ladies will stop at nothing to make us pretend they are exactly like slender women, minus the exercise and self-control. Soon the Hawks will host a Positive Body Image Night where everyone will applaud as Rubenesque women drink liquid fudge out of the Stanley Cup. That’s actually kind of hot. I’d go to that. If they played The Stripper.
Alyssa Arce is making the business rounds. She was caught coming off Justin Bieber’s boat in Cannes a couple weeks ago. Probably just laying down some background vocals with her vagina. In the old days a Playboy Playmate could expect a wealthy older man with real estate holding to make her his trophy bride. Times are constantly changing. Those guys want foreign girls now who come from a culture where when your husband tells you he’s found somebody younger and prettier to take your place, you drink a shot, shed a single tear, then go back to milking the llama.
Gene Simmons has a simple solution to people suffering from depression or who drink or do drug: kill yourself. While many of us can relate to the desire to tell unhappy sons of bitches to just go and end it, when they’re standing on the stepladder with the homemade noose, not many of would actually yell “Jump, you fucking pussy!”.
Read what a guy who wears demon makeup has to say about psychiatry. (Huffington Post)
Jessica Alba lacy panties flashing full upskirt. A fine place to dine! (Egotastic)
Someone fucked up on a Downton Abbey promotional shoot and left a water bottle on set. (Dlisted)
Tiny-peen troll Justin Bieber is likely banging Selena Gomez again. (The Superficial)
Kendra Wilkinson has a new reality show coming on one of the seventeen ladies channels I’ve previously deleted from my remote channel lineup lest I accidentally grow tits and a fondness for grapefruit. The show’s called Kendra On Top, which I suppose is a multi-layered play on words related to the fact that’s how she made her way up in the business, or that she’s the dominant figure in her social sphere, or maybe it just randomly tested well with the 22-49 female demo that got free cheese sandwiches to sit for an hour in a marketing agency testing room. Fortunately for the show, Kendra’s husband got conjugal outed by a tranny hooker while his wife was eight months pregnant. Suddenly, the show has a real hook.
In the previews for the show, Kendra equates learning of her husband’s jock-on-cock infidelities to being shot by a bullet, repeatedly, right in her fake tits. It’s certainly evocative. She mentions that her marriage is down the drain and that she even flushed her wedding rings down the toilet to emphasize the metaphor. The last time a trailer park stripper who had to bone a creepy old man to get her first break in life flushed jewelry down a toilet was never. But I appreciate the dramatic scripting.
It’s hard to blame Kendra for any of this mess. If you’re a dude who can’t stop thinking about greasing up the male boner, you ought sneak that nugget out to your wife before you make two babies inside of her. She still might let you, but at least she’ll be able to time her reality show tears more precisely.
If you’re still amped to see Justin Timberlake in concert, you’re probably not ready to settle down with the fried onions toppings guy from Florida. You need the swarthy hunk from True Blood. I get that. I don’t care if you’re 22 or 42, those massive tits are not ready for commitment to anything other than a dude who can bench 400 lbs. while you’re riding him and screaming out the Spanish names of the Catholic Saints. The old money business guy will always take you back when you’ve sewn your oats. Women have options these days. If only I could go back in time and prevent that from happening.
Every few months Tara Reid makes a Sharknado movie or posts an ungainly photo of herself to Twitter so that her parents don’t have to speed dial the coroner to go take a peek in her apartment. It’s really more of a social service than a means to garner attention. Tara’s proof of life photos tend to be of her in a bikini looking like she’s just gave birth in the storage room of a third world bar. There are many reasons to admire Tara Reid. They all escape me at the moment.
Immigration doesn’t seem like such a head scratching social issue when viewed through the lens of Laura Cremaschi’s mons pubis. Cremaschi is a political asylum candidate in the U.S. ever since she got caught hostessing the Italian Prime Minister’s teen bacchanalias. If you consider that for every one of these Cremaschis, we get thirty thousand Central American pre-teens who can de-tick a burro and patch holes in burlap, that seems like a solid plan. Good job, Washington. You may now take a three month vacation.