The wide eyed animal lovers at PETA are pushing a line that cows are water hugging motherfuckers who will be the parched death of us all. I don’t know if that’s true. I feel confident I could take out a cow if it came down to me versus bovine for the final watering hole. During Gore’s global warming stampede PETA was buying ads to remind people that cow farts were cooking the planet and asphyxiating disabled children who sing hymnals from their attic windows. For an animal they seem hell bent on saving, PETA sure does have a poor opinion of cows. I’m a burger lover and I’ve never said a bad word about Guernseys in my life. Shower all you want, you will never be clean.
Four times divorced and drunk-ass broke single mom only begins to describe the highlight of Pamela Anderson’s match.com profile. There’s the tits. You know those are comp as part of the package. Anderson is currently flipping through her Rolodex of former older dudes she used to bang hoping they remember her in better days or maybe just don’t remember much at all. You’re scrolling down pretty deep when Chuck Zito’s ticket comes up. Strap on that sheer dress, throw back the rubbing alcohol your sobriety supervisor failed to confiscate in her last sweep of your home, and dine like royalty. You were once a queen. Just like New York cabbies all used to be doctors. Never Neverland is as real as you want it to be, Wendy.
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Pamela Anderson brought a young man out to the Gunman premiere and told everybody it was her son. It seemed relatively plausible. The kid worked the party with snippets of his mom’s sex tape on his iPad and politely asked all the older rich guys if they wanted to be his new daddy. Pam mainlined so much Botox into her temple that the right hemisphere of her body collapsed ten centimeters, from her eyelid down to her right tit. Pacquiao could have given her three lefts to the body and she’d have only noticed from the backwash of Jager streaming back out of her liver. Everybody gushed over Pam’s son since they hadn’t seen him since he was just a toddler. Neither had Pam, but again, not able to gush.
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Seeing as how Pamela Anderson is financially triangulated somewhere between flat broke, dead broke, and, you’ll really give me $50 if I tug on that moose’s dick til it cums?, her soon to be ex husband is trying to get out ahead of spousal support requests. Rick Salomon hasn’t really worked a day since he pushed his way out of his mother’s vagina, but it turns out the man knows how to play Hold ‘Em. To the tune of many millions of dollars in gambling earns. The saving grace of fat lazy men who don’t shave. Salomon’s lawyer is asking for an annulment to the marriage, claiming his client was tricked into the nuptials. Considering you’re a savvy card player and this isn’t even the first time you’ve married Anderson, that seems like a stretch. If the judge accepts ‘I was wasted off my ass and she was reverse cowgirling my cock and asking me to sign my name on some paper duct taped to her back’, he might have a thing. But most likely that thing is you’re now paying Pam Anderson’s Malibu rent money. Congratulations. Next time stick to Vegas hookers, they understand the arrangement.
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Nothing says, hang in there Haiti, we’ve got more bucks for building grade recycled cardboard like a couple veteran Hollywood inebriates showing up to help those wretched voodoo fuckers with a fundraising gala. Without an accurate BAC, it’d be tough to say who was more sauced between Sean Penn and Pamela Anderson. You only know above .20 one will try to fuck you and the other will kick you in the head and then try to fuck you. Everybody else assembled did what most people would do at a Save Haiti fundraiser. Pretended to care and wrote as small a check as they could get away with and then left for a party with better music. At last call, Charlize Theron and that unemployed poker playing slob chuckled knowingly to each other then went to go find their respective significant others in the toilet to give them the good news. Haiti has now been saved. Also, Detroit is on the rebound and Ebola dosed out properly regrows your hair makes your dick grow three inches. Off to bed now, kittens.
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There comes a time in every woman’s life when she realizes she’s no longer going to get six figures to strip for Mexican cartel chiefs and that chunky unemployed BFF might make a solid fall back position. He doesn’t bitch about the rashes or having to come saucer you up at 3am and he vaguely remembers the names of your kids stashed away at boarding school within trudging distance of the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station. If he had more credits than just the Paris Hilton sex tape to his name and didn’t gamble so much and maybe lost a few pounds he might be your knight in shining armor. But maybe now it’s time to settle for the fat squire in soiled britches. Silicon doesn’t age as gracefully as your other tetravalent metalloid.
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