Justin Bieber is facing his haters with love and a shitload of attorneys. The twink pop star has chosen to stand trial for his DUI arrest in Miami. The prosecutors had offered the diminutive Canadian a plea deal where he’d get off with standard celebrity justice: probation and random drug tests. Justin reportedly told those Sunshine State hosers to piss off, aye. Presumably that drug testing part might prevent him from hotboxing private jets and drinking cough medicine with pops. So, now he’s going to have to borrow some big boy pants and go to the Dade County courthouse to face charges. This means that Justin could have his license suspended and could face up to two years locked in a building where his nickname soon becomes ‘Sink the Stink’. Though if you’re a betting man, figure on a fine and a couple weeks of fake rehab. This crooning Napoleon is going to get himself killed well before anybody successfully locks him up.
Lea Michele’s girlfriends have been urging her to move on from Dead Cory Monteith. That’s what girlfriends do. Check out your own lady’s circle of friends, someday they will be convincing her to stop visiting your grave and to start sleeping with the guy down the hall. Think about that the next time one of them needs help with her car or moving furniture. Lea seems to have accepted their advice. She’s been spotted dating boys again, one of which will be the next unwitting bastard to accept her shrill mating call and seals his ungodly fate. However, tragedy still sells better than hope, so Lea continues to hawk her gloom in V Magazine:
She [Stevie Nicks] told me from the beginning that music is going to be my therapy, and at the time, I was like, ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Stevie Nicks? I don’t want to listen to music. I can’t do anything. But once you get out a little bit of the tunnel, when you slowly start to feel like you can be yourself a little bit, it does help. It’s so cool I have her number.
Powerful shit right there. A widow’s tale mixed with a celebrity name drop, that’s like crossing streams (RIP Harold Ramis). I think even Lea realizes her Dead Cory Monteith tales of survival are wearing thin, so she agreed to do a Terry Richardson revealing photoshoot for the magazine. She also agreed to feel totally awesome about herself:
My friends call me Grandma, but, like, Grandma’s killing it right now. I’m pretty sure Grandma nailed it in a half-naked Terry Richardson shoot, okay?
Nailed it indeed. I can’t help but think Dead Cory Monteith is looking down on you from above and desperately trying to shit on your head.
Photo Credit: V Magazine
Robin Thicke separated from his wife Paula Patton after 9 years of marriage and being exclusive sweethearts since sophomore year of high school. According to baseless gossip, and a few less baseless photos, Robin has had wandering gonads since hitting it big with his anthem to getting over on girls, Blurred Lines. The reports of his infidelities have been flowing in steadily from various and sundry ladies of great dignity and self-worth. He kept denying it, saying that they were all just good friends, because all married men need hot lady friends to talk Downton Abbey with at 2am in their dressing rooms. Robin and Paula issued a press release to express their heartfelt and poignant feelings over the breakup.
“We will always love each other and be best friends, however, we have mutually decided to separate at this time.”
Who makes a better friend than an unfaithful ex-spouse? If you’re going to hit the arcade for a little Skee ball, that’s who I’m calling first. The tale of a guy cheating the minute he hits it big time is about as old and cliche as they come. But once more a reminder to women that there’s really little point to hitching your wagon to a musician or an athlete or any kind of entertainer. They exist in only two stages, broke-ass and dependent or they hit it big and they’re surrounded by tons of hot skank begging to extract their sperm. That interim period where he can take you somewhere nicer than Arby’s for your birthday but isn’t yet banging schools of cod is about ten seconds long. If you don’t want a husband who shows up in the morning with a rainbow party on his dick, try an accountant, or, you know, a doughy pale blogger. We never cheat, try as we may.
Taking a much deserved vacation somewhere on the brink of irrelevancy, Julianne Hough also took a moment to make a memory with the photographers that are keep her career on life support by whipping out her iPhone and snapping a shot for her album. The actress and her group of friends spent the rest of their time at Manhattan Beach walking and dancing around like they were starring in a tampon commercial, which, at this point in Julianne’s career, would be like a gift from god. After the fun, Julianne and her friends probably went home, rubbed some shoe polish all over their faces and then came back and did it again, except this time while singing Salt-N-Pepa songs. Those quirky white girls know how to keep it fresh.
Photo Credits: WENN.com
Scott Disick is famous because he’s the boyfriend of one of the sisters of a girl who fucked a nobody on camera, and because he knocked her up a couple times, he has secured some good face time on their bullshit reality show. If he wasn’t with Kourtney Kardashian, he’d just be another guy who dresses like a rich dick because he actually thinks that he’s the real life Patrick Bateman. When people like these two act like they don’t want cameras in their faces, as if they actually detest the constant attention and fame, it’s a total crock of shit, because if these photographers weren’t at the airport to harass Scott and Kourtney, they’d have Kris Jenner on the phone, raising hell to everyone who would listen. Why is the most ambitious photographer attacking Sam Worthington’s girlfriend when these two could use a good foot to the shin and more?
Photo Credits: WENN.com
Despite the success of the TV series, none of the actors from Entourage have ever really gone on to do anything else of importance, which is obviously why they decided to go back to the well and pretend like people still care about these hollow characters. For the actors like the guy with the curly hair, shoe boy, and the one who looks like a melting action figure, this is a chance to boost their careers a little and try to milk their 15 minutes some more, but it’s also an opportunity to surround themselves with hot aspiring actresses again, so they can trick other aspiring actors into thinking that Hollywood success means a non-stop pussy party, while young actresses are convinced that they need to spread on command. It’s a concept that we should appreciate, but frankly they’re just such damn douchebags about it all that it takes the fun out of it.
Photo Credits: WENN.com
I thought I was pissed about that waffle taco, but when I surveyed my true feelings, the Mexi-thing that was making me mad was this manhunt for Joaquín Guzmán Loera, aka El Chapo aka Shorty the drug kingpin of Sinaloa. Just look at this bad-ass. Forget Bin Laden, this Denny’s fry cook looking bastard has been killing thousands of Americans by forcing them to snort piles of cocaine. Without El Chapo, Lamar Odom is visiting juice bars at 3am and Chris Farley is making the same crappy movie for the fourteenth time. On the lam for years, El Chapo was finally captured over the weekend by the Mexican Navy, who couldn’t be bribed because nobody even knew there was such a thing as the Mexican Navy. With this drug kingpin behind bars, you can expect drug use in the United States to drop by anywhere from really close to zero percent to true zero. It will take the Mexican cartels minutes, if not hours to replace El Chapo in the hierarchy and keep the condom swallowing and government corruption unabated. The waffle taco can live, the fake drug war needs to die. I mean, we can kill this guy first too, for that pedo-mustache alone he probably deserves to choke on a tilapia until he’s dead.
It’s time for Mexicans to rise up in yet another futile and empty protest. Taco Bell has taken a centuries old complex cuisine, shit it out into pre-fabricated plastic molds, added spackle and minced termites, and called it Mexican food. We all stood by while Taco Bell raped Oaxaca with the walking diarrhetic called the chalupa, now, the waffle breakfast taco. That’s not a fucking taco. That’s a late-term Egg McMuffin abortion with a waffle that you bent in half. You’re not fooling anybody, you corporate marketing fucks. Even the extremely fat comfort eaters are going to see through that one. I’m not even Mexican and I want to punch the President of Taco Bell with a surprise jab though the top of my sombrero. Pendejos.