I have no idea what this is. I only know it’s Candice Swanepoel in her underwear, which seems to be enough. It’s called Unplugged. Somebody sent it to me and since it didn’t contain an unidentified white powder or a court order to turn over DNA, I opened it and was pleasantly surprised. I assume she’s selling something, but other than free hard-ons, I’m not sure what.
The most shocking aspect of seeing Billy Ray Cyrus with Fred Durst on the Arsenio Hall show last night was only everything. I didn’t know Arsenio Hall had a talk show again after twenty years. I didn’t know Billy Ray Cyrus was still singing. And I didn’t know that Fred Durst was still alive. I’m still trying to process this surreal moment. You can watch the musical travesty here. It’s like some computer program is executing an algorithm for which two crappy singers, when combined, can produce a sound so intolerable, that you’re actually looking forward to throwing back to Arsenio.
People who write ‘Open Letters’ are almost entirely humorless dicks. What is an Open Letter but a self-serving excuse to grandstand your inflated sense of moral superiority. Case in point, Sinead O’Connor’s open letter to Miley Cyrus telling her to be less of a total skank in her music career:
“Nothing but harm will come in the long run, from allowing yourself to be exploited, and it is absolutely NOT in ANY way an empowerment of yourself or any other young women, for you to send across the message that you are to be valued (even by you) more for your sexual appeal than your obvious talent.”
I felt like the baldy unisex singer had something of a point there, until she mentioned Miley Cyrus’ obvious talents. Now I think this might just be an elaborate prank.
“The music business doesn’t give a shit about you, or any of us. They will prostitute you for all you are worth, and cleverly make you think it’s what YOU wanted… None of the men oggling you give a shit about you either, do not be fooled.”
Because, Miley, you and your parents from this place called Tennessee can’t possibly be smart enough to see through the music industry bullshit, even though you’ve already been a top star in the business for five times longer than I ever was. Jesus, Sinead (no offense), just because you’re old and Irish and bitchy doesn’t give you instant wisdom points. Miley and her management team know exactly what they’re doing. And, yeah, maybe someday Miley will regret all this untoward behavior on camera, but unlike the rest of us who look back on our slutty stupid years with some regret, she’ll have $200 million in the bank.
But, thanks for the open letter, you praying mantis looking fugly has-been.
Photo Credit: Getty, WENN
Unlike your typical fame-obsessed Kardashian, Rob Kardashian is truly a grounded guy. He doesn’t need to be in the media spotlight for being fat or useless or punching women, he just wants to be left alone to make his designer socks.
“Literally, my job is I make socks. That’s all I do. I don’t necessarily care about the show. I would rather film this — me doing what I do — than being around my family.” — Rob Kardashian told the WSJ
For those of you who’ve been living under a rock or not completely obsessed with everything designer mens sock related, Rob Kardashian started a custom designed footwear line called Arthur George. Arthur George is Rob’s imaginary friend he invented to comfort himself after walking in on Khloe pleasuring herself with a house lamp. Sometimes Rob likes to use stripes, or circles, or swirly patterns in his designs. They can be blue or yellow or purple or anything he really wants. His creative visions are limited only by the ability of his powerful family to insist retail outlets carry his bright gay socks.
“But I’d like to do my own thing and focus on what I love. If people accept it, they accept it. If they don’t, they don’t.”
We accept you, Rob. You and your socks.
I think I must be getting old, because I’m starting to appreciate women in lingerie teasing the camera. There goes the promise I made to myself never think of a woman in any clothing, short of the high school cheerleader I was certain would let me take her in her uniform one day. I’m not sure she ever even knew my name though I’m quite certain she could tell by my smiles in the hallway that I was committing a sin of commission to thoughts of her. Fuck it, I’ve overshared. Here’s Kelly Brook teasing her 2014 calendar by writhing around in see-through lingerie. So if you’ve got the time or inclination, you can see her nips.
By now we’ve all seen Miley Cyrus’ construction equipment humping Wrecking Ball video. Well, in a new commercial for Hostamania, a web hosting site, Hulk Hogan rides a wrecking ball in a thong to the tune of his classic theme song Real American. Yes. That happened. This, alas, isn’t the first time we’ve seen the Hulkster’s ass. Remember his sex tape? Of course you do! There are certain things that you can’t unsee. The rest of the commercial doesn’t make a lot of sense. A guy is eating crayons and then another guy drops from the ceiling and steals and eats the first guys crayons and then Hulk Hogan beats him up. If Hostamania really wants to beat GoDaddy they might want to throw in some tits or hot chicks at least…not a 60-year-old leather purse-looking dude’s ass.
I’m all for equal rights. Everybody walking this planet should have the right to bang, love, marry, and be totally fucked over and forever screwed by whomever they choose. I could give a rat’s ass if Adam loves Eve or Steve or just wants to shove his pet turtle up his ass and sing Katy Perry songs. Go for it. But stop with all the staged activist nonsense. Like this letter buzzing around the Internet supposedly written by a dad who uses tons of quotation marks in a letter to disown his daughter for disowning her son when he came out of the closet. Here’s the rousing conclusion:
So, while we are in the business of disowning our children, I think I’ll take this moment to say goodbye to you. I now have a fabulous (as the gays put it) grandson to raise, and I don’t have time for heart-less B-word of a daughter. If you find your heart, give us a call. – Dad.
Somehow, his touching bit of Hammurabi code justice made its way to FCKH8, a gay activist group that you can tell by their edgy acronym is in touch with the youth of America. Since the daughter who received the letter obviously didn’t send this letter to the group, you might wonder how they got it. Yeah, you might wonder. Apparently, the gay grandson, Chad (as if a guy named Chad needs to come out of the closet) is a big merch shopper on the FCKH8 website. These groups have been posting more and more of these touching private letters unexpectedly made public, sort of like Teen Mom didn’t expect her sex tape to be seen.
I suppose it’s okay that this hype is manufactured since it’s for a cause that allows tons of people on Yahoo and similar sites to write supportive comments in posts showing how tolerant they are. And it’s okay that this real or fake dad didn’t see the hypocrisy in intolerantly disowning his daughter for being intolerant. As long as I don’t have to see pictures of the guy with the turtle up his ass, I’m good.