Mary-Louise Parker’s Memoirs Are a Must Read For Single Rich Urban Moms Living in Fabulous Country Cottages

By Lex January 19, 2016 @ 10:06 AM

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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.

Photo: FameFlynet

Mary Louise Parker is hot, naked

By brendon July 08, 2009 @ 7:54 PM

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Mary Louise Parker is in this months Esquire magazine, and you have to hand it to the foppish dandies over there, because they’ve once again managed to describe a super hot naked girl in the gayest way possible.

A few times now you’ve given Esquire your image – your long platinum neck, your deep Guinness eyes staring out from the photos, your movie-star nose, twitched a little, your long body lounging on our pages.

I have no idea what Lord Queerington is talking about, but that’s nothing new with Esquire and GQ. They should rename those magazines Restraining Order Digest and Exfoliating Weekly because that’s all they ever fucking talk about. A magazine about socks and truffle oil for guys is about as useful as a fantasy football guide for girls. Oh, what’s that Esquire? Brooches? For men? Ohhh, do I dare?!?!

(hq jump here. two full size pics here and here)