By Lex March 13, 2015 @ 10:42 AM
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.
Photo Credit: Getty
By Lex February 20, 2015 @ 11:23 AM
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.
Photo Credit: INF
By Lex January 12, 2015 @ 12:01 PM
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.
Photo Credit: Splash
By Lex December 29, 2014 @ 12:35 PM
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.
Photo Credit: FameFlynet
By Lex December 12, 2014 @ 12:02 PM
You hate to see magazine people run out of ideas in series so quickly. When Maxim named Miley Cyrus the hottest woman in the universe despite her recessive marmoset features, the magazine circled the tank like a floater preparing for a five mile trek to waste treatment. Love magazine is only a few names into their video calendar feature series and they pulled out Pamela Anderson. When you don’t get the race car in Monopoly, you don’t dive down for thimble. You’ve got the battleship. The Scottie dog. Don’t back into the thimble just because it once blew Tommy Lee in all eighteen Southern California Norms restaurant parking lots one lost weekend.
Photo Credit: Love Magazine
By Lex October 09, 2014 @ 1:07 PM
I have that dreaded disease where you have trouble recognizing faces. Sometimes I walk right by a guy I spent three years sharing an apartment with or some girl I don’t recognize comes up and slaps me for having sex with her sister while we were still married. It’s confusing. I rely on body parts to figure out who’s who. Last week I identified Pamela Anderson in a car without needing to see her face. I can describe to you ever centimeter of her tits in greater detail than the Rover can digitally map out the surface of Mars. I look at this blond chick and all I see is drunk stripper with a mullet. Without her tits hanging out, she may as well be a coat rack. I know many men who don’t have my same ailment still share a similar opinion.
Photo Credit: AKM-GSI