Anne Hathaway has the world’s worst bukkake porn face. We know you don’t like it, but put on a smiley face. Stop thinking about the drought. If this were real cum you’d feel less guilty. Anne Hathaway is one of the hardest celebrities to capture in any kind of revealing outfit because she hates the way her body looks almost as much as the guy she married who at least pretends. She’s not a bad looking girl. Learn to love yourself before it’s too late. Why is my husband below deck with Valentino again? More water please.
Anne Hathaway miming Miley Cyrus is not as shocking as learning there’s a show called Lip Sync battle on Spike. Isn’t Miley Cyrus lip syncing her own songs already? Did everyone at the last Spike creative meeting try to hide in the back until the Chipotle arrived? I’m left with only questions when all I wanted was to pretend that karaoke was better left to the drunk girls in accounting. C’mon, Spike. I’m prepared to drill down five more layers in MMA. I’ll watch Thai boys beat each other with sticks. A bobcat just ate a shark. Bring back motorcycles on ice. I think my balls just cried. I’d like a written apology.
There comes a time in every truly obnoxious person’s life when they must accept the fact that only their opinion of themselves matters. It’s not easy completely dismissing the thoughts of the rest of the world and embracing the indisputable truth of your own ego. But if you are to be one super twatty annoying piehole, this is a must. Anne Hathaway tells the dig deeper journalists at Elle magazine that fame used to be a bitch because she cared too much about what people thought of her. Now she’s free from any concern over social judgement and so much happier for it:
I’ve realized that I don’t need validation from anybody. At all. I’m not sitting here now worrying, ‘What do you think of me?’ With all due respect, you seem like a lovely lady, but I don’t need you, or anyone else, to like me. And that’s so liberating.
Fuck yeah. Wallow in your own slather of wonderful me and shit bubbles of joy into the ether. Here’s the thing though, this plan never fucking works. Certain sociopaths and elementary school teachers can live a content existence not giving a damn what people think of them, but actors in Hollywood can only talk this talk. They feed off adoration. A tiger can’t change its stripes. And nobody likes a cunty tiger.
Anne Hathaway is trying to seem more down to Earth to stop people from wanting to punch her oversized mouth. Around the time she won the Oscar for bleating like a menstruating cat in Les Miserables, the American public turned on their precious fucking sweetheart. Her false modesty, diva behavior, and general twattiness made people treat her like a Fukushima tuna. Internet trollers even organized a posse they called Hathahaters to cast shade at the Dark Knight Rises actress on Twitter. That’s the modern day equivalent of toilet papering somebody’s house. Anne has decided enough is enough and it’s time to show the world, just like that French whore she portrayed in the movie, that she’s all heart. So, she gave away a lot of her expensive dresses to her staff of servants. Because what every middle-aged thrice village raped Guatemalan maid needs is a $3000 Versace dress to wear while they are cleaning her poo bits from under the rim of her toilets. Anne has also committed to pretending to be more humble and pleasant like the character she played in those shitty Princess Diaries movies that first fooled people into thinking she was sweet and cute. An adopted Malaysian airliner orphan can’t be far behind. Anne Hathaway 2.0 will be impossible not to love.
If you put a seashell to your ear, you can hear Anne Hathaway’s nipples bitching at you. It’s not the overly obvious type of verbal incursion, more the subtle toll taking as if those nipples were the clapper on some suicide by shaving death knell. I might be projecting. But that’s what I see when I look at Anne Hathaway dressed like a middle-aged woman on her period at the beach.