Gwyneth Paltrow is always telling us how to live our lives. She claims if we eat all macrobiotic and shit we’ll look awesome. Judging from her ass the main ingredient in her kale smoothies is cellulite. It looks like a deflated tire. To be fair to deflated tires, they eventually do shut up.
The Warner Bros. Wonder Woman film has started its eighteen month long marketing campaign with a bang of female empowerment and girl power. Wonder Woman isn’t just a superhero, she’s a brave powerful woman who doesn’t need your help opening doors, just a level playing field, equal pay for equal work, and maybe you could call and say something comforting after the first three abortions. Warner Bros. released the first promo piece for the film featuring Kevin Smith as the moderator and a bunch of people working on the film discussing Wonder Woman as an Amazonian Ruth Bader Ginsburg who is good and kind but still much stronger than the men she battles. Kevin Smith declares Wonder Woman a feminist icon. Some dude announces that she stands for gender equality. I’ve read the comics. I don’t remember that part. Wasn’t she born on an island of hot bisexual women who rubbed each’s tits with hot oil while talking about what real cock must feel like?
Chris Pine boldly asserts this is a pivotal moment in history to have a movie about such a powerful woman. Why? It’s unclear. Ten out of ten actresses nominated for Oscars are women. That seems like a lot. Getting into some Jennifer Lawrence isn’t as simple as it was just a year ago. Can’t Wonder Woman just be a superhero movie where she kicks some Kraut ass? Captain America seems less complicated. But I suppose that’s the point. He’s got male privilege and can afford to be. I appreciate a mythical women that fights for the world of men. Still, bitch better be making me nachos during the Super Bowl or back to the island.
The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. had his faults. He liked to fornicate. But he got a ton done for black civil rights. Every January government workers and bank tellers get to watch basketball at sports bars to celebrate his birthday. You don’t fuck with MLK Day publicly. It’s the one nicety America gave to black people after lots of crap behavior. Zac Efron couldn’t leave it alone. The star of many horrible films where he’s topless because sexism is rampant in Hollywood used MLK Day to promote his own personal achievement. I’m white and I see nothing super wrong with this. Which is why I know it’s bad. Tons of backlash Twitter responses later and Efron was forced to post a pro forma mea culpa pussy ipso facto.
This is why most celebrities employ robotic agencies and practiced girls from state college to write their social media copy. You split these two messages an hour apart and you’re fine. Maybe lose the black fist power emojis. Kind of racist. Hashtags can’t save everything, only mostly everything. When are the Oscars? I need to bathe in white.
Lara Stone is the European model known for her reckless behavior. Like eating. She’s clearly been doing that. You don’t often see a high priced fashion model with a Freshman fifteen around the gunt. It’s made her tits look spectacular. Vogue can Photoshop the rest out. Stone just got divorced in England where one party still has to admit blame for ending the marriage if you want to end it quickly. Stone copped to to “unreasonable behavior”. That assumes it’s unreasonable to want to fuck men your own age now that you got what you needed out of your older established first husband. If only you could Photoshop life.
Plenty of guys get laid. Pro athletes get laid all the time. They don’t have Jets cornerback Antonio Cromartie’s reproductive record. He’s obviously trying. Cromartie has eight kids by seven different women, not counting the two with his current chick, Terricka Cason. Cromartie just announced he’s having two more by way of twins with Cason. Odd since he claims he had a vasectomy. Very odd for Cason:
I didn’t even tell Antonio right away because I didn’t think it was possible. I was going back and forth in my head how it could even happen. In my head we were good to go, we were having free sex! I just really thought that his procedure was the best protection you could have at this point.
When you’re around so many gold digging women trying to get knocked up by your teammates, you learn a few tricks of your own. Free sex, huh? In the least, I’d ask to see the medical records.
Cromartie currently pays $336,000 a year in child support for the eight kids he’s not currently fathering. When you add the four more by the current chick who’s shelf life is likely waning, the tab climbs to well over half a million a year. He’s 31 and has maybe two to three more years on a fat NFL contract. Then he’ll get down to the business of figuring out how to pay that steep court order for the next eighteen years. Call a bankruptcy lawyer now to get the ball rolling. If the lawyer is a chick, resist the temptation to ask her if she’s ovulating then bareback her and pin her legs up in the air while your Santeria witch drains a chicken of blood and prays to the fertility gods. I know you thought a vasectomy was a European sports car. It’s not your fault. You never knew your daddy.
Pamela Anderson is a drunk ho cake but nothing so vile as the horrible people of France. The frog like turtleneck wearing people have cruelly derided Anderson’s visit to France to discuss that nation’s obsession with force tube feeding fowl to achieve an expensive fatty liver spread for baguettes that tastes just like liverwurst. Anderson isn’t even American, she’s Canadian, but she’s fucked enough of the lower forty-eight that she counts as one of our own.
Members of the French Parliament started talking shit when they heard Anderson was visiting their illustrious body where many famous surrenders have taken place throughout history. The French ever feel obliged to be outraged and cunty:
“I’m totally indifferent to her. To me she represents everything I dislike including the superficial … she does no honour to the institution I am privileged to have a seat in.” — Gay annoying French guy
I don’t know Pamela Anderson, I’ve never seen Baywatch, and I don’t believe her coming here will add much to the parliamentary debate. – Lying gay annoying French guy
The farmers who force feed the birds were particularly French, implying that anybody who paid attention to Anderson preferred “birds inflated with silicon to the fine geese filled with the corn of the Landes and the Périgord” Here’s an idea. Fuck the Landes. As for the Perigord, fuck that too.
This is all seems rather dramatic. The Russkies let Pamela Anderson into the Kremlin last month and quietly listened to her drone about whale hunting they will never stop while they mentally undressed her. And mentally dressed Putin who started fucking Anderson mid-presentation while on horseback carrying a shotgun because he’s Putin and he’s one bad ass motherfucker and does shit that would make Obama cry.
That cliche bit about France being our oldest ally is some bullshit line politicians like to say when trying to make people care what happens to France who for their part hate our guts. I’m not buying it. You’re not good enough for Pamela Anderson. That’s a low fucking bar. Take our un-vetted Syrian refugees and we might call it even.
Mary-Louise Parker is perhaps best known for having amazing looking tits on camera well into her 40′s. She’s completed her memoirs which according to the rules of not super famous people writing memoirs has to have some cloying novelty hook. It’s not like you can have a chapter on averting the Cuban Missile Crisis or that time you broke the color barrier in your sport. You’ve been on West Wing and Weeds. Nobody’s buying an autobiography about what it was like to work with Bradley Whitford or get the herp from Jeffrey Dean Morgan.
Parker framed her autobiography as a series of letters to strangers that provide a dramatic recreation of her life events without using anybody’s real names. Like a letter to a cab driver about being being seven months pregnant and learning that Billy Crudup has suddenly left you to start fucking Claire Danes. Only far less enticing because told as an anonymous fable about a chick in the back of a cab crying over her lot in life. Who the fuck fucks Claire Danes? Sorry, when’s the Q&A? There’s another letter to an “Uncle” about what Africa is like presumably about that time Parker flew on Virgin to pick up her Ethiopian baby. The happiest day of her life. Third happiest for the Ethiopian baby. According to the breathless New York Times book reviewer, this is heady stuff. I got ninety-nine percent of it already from her IMDB bio. I’ll assume the rest is fodder for women who admire single moms with nothing but millions in TV syndication residuals to furnish their Vermont homes in original Ethan Allen. The difference between an autobiography and memoirs is that you’re supposed to die after your memoirs. You’ve still got five years left on those tits. Take it back.