Canadian chode Drake is now officially and exclusively dating Rihanna. The two annoying superstars have been rumored to be hooking up for a while. This has reportedly caused tension between Drake and Rihanna’s former lover, Chris Brown, who thinks he still owns Rihanna because you can still see his knuckle prints in her face. Rihanna really likes Drake because he’s quite and about as exciting as mold growing on a rock. Their private life together is probably equally as lame. I imagine that they get back from antiquing or watching a Canadian hockey game or whatever and settle in for a night How I Met Your Mother on TV. They then eat some leftover vegan Lo Mein and go to bed at 10pm. Maybe they have quick and passionless sex before Drake turns out the lights and cries because his ancestors were once escaped slaves in Egypt with no time for their bread to rise. This relationship should last about Chris Brown released from jail time plus one hour. He’s going to break it up with his anger and what is commonly referred to in professional wrestling parlance as a ‘foreign object’.
Singer’s have always been seen as style statements, regardless of their knowledge of the daunting science of fashion. Sometimes, when these chicks veer toward the clanging side of the intellectual bell curve, designers just say they ‘like dressing them’, which is dehumanizing, but in the good way. Rihanna seems like this. Designers like to dress Rihanna. She either doesn’t care that she’s an experiment or she’s so super fucking high she thinks she’s riding a jet-ski in Barbados. She definitely seems clueless to being in Paris freezing her nipple off looking like a largely disabled stripper from a John Cameron Mitchell version of 101 Dalmatians.
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The more expensive the clothes, the less they cover. Which makes sense, because you figure people who can afford a $2,000 outfit probably have the resources for a personal trainer or twenty bucks for a Vegan sprout salad at a place with variation of the word ‘Earth’ in the title. I’ve walked the streets of South Boston recently. You don’t want to see that crowd in slinky see-through ware. Burlington Coat Factory deserves a humanitarian award for developing jackets that cover all the way down to the cankles. In contrast, chicks who fly private jets to be at Paris Fashion week, they can’t afford to pack on an extra winter twenty. They’re forever on display. I don’t know what any of this has to do with Rihanna who was high as fuck and forgot to wear a bra in Paris. But I do get paid by the word. Word. Word.
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A jacket that keeps you warm is a jacket and will run you about a hundred bucks. But a jacket that shows off your bare tits in Paris is a coat that’ll tick you two-thousand at the register. To understand the world of fashion, just imagine being an idiot with cash. I got half of that down already. You could do worse than having Rihanna using her tits to sell your fancy coat. I’ve never heard anybody say they wished they could sing like Rihanna, but I’ve heard tons of women say they wish they had her body. I also heard a guy with an thick Austrian accent say he longed to have her thigh meat marinating in his basement freezer. Austrians are like that, super friendly. Still, I reported him to Interpol.
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Seeing a black chick and a midget get it on has been on my bucket list for just about forever. I’ve seen lots of diversity at the lesbian make-out rallies I attend hoping someday somebody there won’t look exactly like Camryn Manheim, but this is a new combo for me. Shakira and Rihanna are getting it on in support of whatever crappy song comes next. It’s the natural extension of these pop girls shaking their asses and being naked with tigers and the shit they’ve been doing to help you pay less attention to the music. Even girls are going to get randy when they’re naked with tigers. Shakira is from Colombia and Rihanna is from Barbados, so as always, you still have to go international to see hot lesbo shit on American TV.
With that inked up paw of hers, Rihanna is starting to look like the Maori pimp master. I like that Rihana doesn’t give a fuck and posts photos of her titties or her smoking weed or having sex with coconut trees. It would be super annoying if she wasn’t a decent looking chick, but she is, so it’s fun to watch her rebel with fifty mill in the bank shtick. Still, you don’t want to make your public feel like Thor Heyerdahl drifting endlessly across the Pacific only to wind up on Polynesian rape island. Class this shit up with a Vader glove, Ri-Ri.
Photo Credit: Rihanna/Instagram