When the front isn’t working, why not turn around. That’s some Henry Ford type next level thinking. Chelsea Handler’s attempt to keep her name in the press by means of bare tit shows on social media was something of a fail beyond her klatch of queens and jocularly crippled. She’s moved on to ass shots. Will it work? Fuck if I know. When you’re digging out of prison you don’t always have the option of choosing spoon or fork. You just dig.
Justin Bieber and his extended entourage were denied stage access to the Drake set at Coachella. Venue security excuse that the backstage area was already too full would’ve flown if they hadn’t just let Madonna pass to orally impregnate Drake with her cloacal mucous. Bieber insisted that it wouldn’t be safe for him to watch the show from the audience because he’s too famous and tiny like a child and would be mobbed. Which is actually probably true, though perhaps he underestimates the percentage of the population who root for his death by trampling. Bieber’s security started getting pushy with Coachella security because that’s just one big angry testosterone laden sausage standoff. The Bieber group was ordered by Coachella organizers to leave the premises. One security guy took the general green light to put Bieber into a chokehold and drag him away. A bit ambitious, but imagine that opportunity. You have to take it.
You can’t really see shit in this TMZ video, but they paid a bunch for it, so pretend you can. It’s like the Saddam Hussein hanging. I couldn’t really make it out, but I still felt better for watching.
Mother and tender care provider Amber Rose and fellow fallen debutante Blac Chyna demonstrated how to lick a pussy with their fingers. It’s not exactly what our nation needs in terms of educating the next generation, but it can’t hurt either. If you’re not good at math, you might as well figure this skill out.
Watch these two “ladies” show off their carpet munching skills. (TMZ)
Charlotte McKinney displays her massive jugs for Guess. (Egotastic)
Chrissy Teigen loves her stretch marks. I don’t care. I’d still fuck her. (Huffington Post)
You can’t just pick up Derek Jeter’s glove and become a Hall of Fame shortstop. Neither can you inject your ass with seventeen pounds of suet and anoint yourself the next Kim Kardashian. Being a midget with a ginormous fake ass alone doesn’t make you heir to the iron whore throne. It’s what’s on the inside that counts. For instance, the sperm of a thousand famous black men. You got that? Kim’s uterus was so filled with man crust, she had to have it surgically excavated. How about a cloying succubus manager who schooled at the foot of Satan? Y tu mamá también? That’s Spanish for, were you forced to blow many important foreign men during kindergarten nap time?
Kim Kardashian wasn’t born famous, she was built famous. You want to replicate her formula, you’re going to have to break into the vault. It’s next to the ingredients of Coca-Cola and the genetic code for Sea Monkeys. Until then, you’re just a fat ass with a dream like the rest of us.
The Manson family running this bottled water ruse is prolific. Most people with creepy intent are just plain lazy. Uncle Terry slaps his tallywacker against a Ukrainian girl’s face and he needs to slumber for a month. You find your Type-A ambitious folks with a penchant for getting girls to take their tops off and you are creating memories every day. A model named Stefanie Knight, because Pussy Stuffins was already registered, is the latest chick to flash her hooters for some small sack of gold pieces. You can’t blame Adam Smith’s invisible hand for free market groping this chick’s tits. It’s only a sin if she has regrets.
The body acceptance bandwagon is leaving the station, ladies. Get on board or accept your role as part of the problem. You don’t necessarily want to highlight your every woman flaws until you’ve made yourself oodles of fame and fortune with a decade of Photoshopped modeling pictures. A marriage to a dude worth $20 million should be in the bag. Then, you are ready to show off some subtle stretch marks on your legs and point them out on Instagram. Real women get stretch marks. Deal with that, all you men out there who would give your left nut to bang Chrissy Teigen and don’t give a shit about her stretch marks. Pigs.
Step one. Get fat. Nobody’s fat shaming Giuliana Rancic (see: anorexia shaming). You’re going to need at least a working muffin top. Step two. Get out in public and on social media and let everybody see those truck drive arms. Now, sit back and await the body shaming from dudes in their drawers stroking one out to their zings. This won’t take long if you’ve got some decent up-jowl shots. Give the sad emoji cycle about twenty-four hours before your comeback about not caring what the haters think. The increasingly hefty Pink chose this:
Willow said to me the other day whilst grabbing my belly-’mama-why r u so squishy?’ And I said..’b/cuz I’m happy baby,’” And my hubby says ‘it’s just more to love baby’ (and then I smack his hand off my booty cause we’re in a supermarket).”
Nailed it. Kids love fat moms. And if you’re husband is a chubby chaser, down those Hydrox like they’re only $2.99 a pound, because they are. The dudes who have to hoist your stage harness may differ, but fuck them if they don’t like your squishy. Pink followed with a brief lecture about her support for cancer charities and how sad it is that people had to focus on how fat she looked in her dress. Now who feels shamed? You didn’t see that coming.
The final step involves hyperbolized kudos from commenters and mommy bloggers and overweight people everywhere who pen endless notes about how brave and bold and smart you are for sticking it to the shamers. The process is complete. You could lay off the stress eating and eliminate the need for this vapid assembly line of emote and counter-emote on social media. But these inane opinion cycles are the After School Specials of 2015. The kids need to learn how important it is to feel good about yourself even for the simple accomplishment of getting fat.
It’s hard to know what’s real about Tori Spelling. The ambitious but untalented souls who sell their lives into these reality show purposefully blur the line between fact and fiction. Who knows if her husband even banged some dward chick in Canada. Might be made up. Maybe she’s broke, maybe she’s got three million in her right front pocket. It’s all smoke and mirrors and chest cleft. There’s only one thing in this world you can count on as fact, the grill at Benihana is super fucking hot. You can’t fake the sizzle. Tori Spelling took an Easter tumble in the Benihana in Encino and landed forearm first on the smoking hot grill. Four sales guys from a Des Moines machine parts company started reflexively applauding. Those fuckers are in every Benihana. Tori was whisked to the hospital for skin grafts and a roots bleach.
Since everybody is going to ask, the baby in the photo is fine. Tori was fortunate he was there to help break her fall. He was only mildly concussed. Doctors say he likely won’t remember the incident though he may cower dramatically during the Dolphin Discovery show at Seaworld.