Anne Hathaway is the totem head of women obliged to offer a bogus excuse for posting bikini pics. Hathaway fired off a blurry beach Instagram designed to remind everybody that she’s pregnant and her husband isn’t as gay as his boyfriend believes.
So, posting a bikini pic is a little out of character for me, but just now while I was at the beach I noticed I was being photographed. I figure if this kind of photo is going to be out in the world it should at least be an image that makes me happy (and be one that was taken with my consent. And with a filter :). Wishing you love, light and blessings for the year ahead! Annie.
You’re photographed every time you’re at the beach. Your blurry shot from over yonder dune doesn’t magically stop the less flattering paparazzi photos from being published. You know all of this. Thanks, Annie, but I’m choosing light. Don’t ask your husband to quit his bowling league during your pregnancy. Or ever ask to attend.
For all the animosity toward her high maintenance Bohemian artist shtick, Anne Hathaway does movie premieres well. At Les Miserables she flashed her bare vagina. For The Intern, you get a nipple. Maybe she thinks less of this film. There’s no singing. Twice a year she likes to remind everybody they’d lie and say how smart and amazing she is just for the chance to fuck her. She understands how the business used to work. Respect.
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.