Somewhere between Josh Duggar serving as cruise director of kiddy sleepover nights at the compound and acting like Bella Thorne hasn’t been traveling around the world with a dude banging the snot out of her for the past several years lies a decent policy on how to treat seventeen year old TV and movie stars who walk around town without bras on. I only mention this because idiots love to send in letters repeatedly mentioning how she’s underaged and you should only view her via reflection in the mirror while apologizing to Jesus. Then I need to mention how I fucked their mothers at seventeen and they should really go searching for the older half brother they never knew they had. Build roads, not walls. I’m sure that can be applied to teen tits in some manner.
No matter how badly a teenager asks you to stare at her tits, it’s probably not a good idea. Turn away from the promotional tag they’re placing on their bodies and teach a young immigrant child how to read or murder the hobo in the alley because nobody will notice. Bella Thorne knows exactly what she’s doing. Don’t hate the player, don’t even hate the game, hate that fucker over your shoulder who calls you a creep for checking out her pushed up self-shot teenaged boobs. It’s all about the music. That’s the lie I’d go with.
The last great hope of the Thorne family of stage girls is this redhead line reader. Her Disney bio age is seventeen which makes her a Dominican shortstop prospect age fifteen, or both about twenty-four in rotations around the sun. She made the cut this year for the Joel Silver Memorial Day house party. She had memorized the ‘play ball’ speech before arriving earning her bonus points for not wasting anybody’s time. In the practice of the Chumash Indians, Thorne beelined for the chilled salt water envelopment of the Pacific Ocean for a therapeutic cleanse. There will be plenty of cute black babies left in Africa when you turn thirty-five and the bulk of your feature work is behind you. Keep your eye on the prize. Your parents dumped their retirement savings into your tap lessons and crotchless panties. You don’t want RadarOnline stories on them living in the street like Madonna’s brother. Can you lose the freckles?
Bella Thorne, who is either seventeen or thirty-five depending on how you read her jimmied up Hawaiian birth certificate, is the latest chick to be out to dinner with the Patrick Schwarzengger. The lithesome USC undergrad is supposed to be sworn in body and bacterial stew to Miley Cyrus but he seems to be captured routinely in photos out with other women. It’s possible these two socially evolved millennials have an open relationship and understand that fucking other people is the key to happiness with one another. Some dude invented that ruse generations ago and it’s still going strong. Every time Schwarzenegger doinks a girl hotter than you, it only brings him closer to you. Have somebody produce a song for you about heartache. The truth of your situation will hit you halfway through your cover. That’s how you win an iHeart Radio Award, sweetheart.
The last and final hope for the Thorne stage family of girls is now bumping teen uglies with Brandon Lee. I thought at first the headline referred to Bruce Lee’s son who died twenty-two years ago filming The Crow. That would’ve been an angle. But it’s just Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee’s kid who just turned eighteen and doesn’t have much to do except golf and party and explore the bushes of this redhead who’s a Dominican baseball prospect aged 17, so about 22. Mom’s flat broke, but Tommy Lee’s worth in the neighborhood of $70 million. If this kid also inherited his dad’s wang, he’ll probably do quite well with the ladies. To be young and rich and pretty. Putting that on the iCal for next life.
I don’t know why this amuses me so. This dude Photoshops images of young Hollywood chicks as godzillas coming ashore to terrorize the puny humans. I don’t know if this is a commentary on the over-emphasized power of celebrity or just a chance to imagine a four story tall vagina where Ellen summers. It’s a disturbing, yet awesome reminder that women like Patricia Arquette top out at $400,000 a week on television. Somebody fire up the Change.org petition. This world needs fixing.