Saturday, February 5, 2011



– Yes, it’s true! I can’t believe it! Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! Miley Cyrus has her fifth tattoo! If this isn’t the most exciting fucking news of the millennium, I don’t know what the hell is! I thought it was huge when I had those lobsters tattooed on my tits, and then that fucking ‘Kiss Me, I’m Eye-Rich’ on the left cheek of my ass, but hell, that’s nothing compared to this news! Along with the lame-ass tats on her fingers (a heart and a small cross), ‘love’ on her ear – what the fuck is that about! – ‘and ‘just breathe’ on her ribs, she now has a dream-catcher under her armpit. Apparently it has four feathers, one for each of her siblings, to protect them. I have no idea from what, but I suspect they are hoping like hell she wears good damned deodorant! A friend says that the tats all have ‘deep meaning’ to Cyrus… mine do too, especially the Kiss me on my ass. Not that it matters, because they will be down around her ass in a couple years anyways, unless she does a Joan Rivers and has them stabled to her fucking forehead. My tit lobsters now look like they are itching to pinch my fucking toes! Tats and gravity – another of God’s ways to keep us humble. My only question today is ‘why the fuck should I give a god damned rats ass about Miley’s ink?’ because, you know, the world really doesn’t need to stop spinning for this shit.

DATELINE: IN THE OLD FOLKS HOME, OVER THE HILL IN DALLAS – On the long list of television programs that are better off gone, Dallas and the other ‘prime-time soaps’, so rather than leave them where they belong – locked safely out of sight – the fucking brain surgeons that run television programming have decided to revive it. Hopefully they have lots of staff on hand to do some reviving as they bring Larry Hagman, Patrick Duffy and Linda Grey back to resume their roles in the show. I suspect instead of the fancy cars racing out to Southfork, we will be watching JR, Bobby and Sue Ellen fighting to see who gets the last bottle of Geritol, and JR scheming to hide Bobby’s walker. There are some things that are better off gone… the AMC Gremlin was one of em, disco halls were another, and Dallas the soap-opera rounds out the top three.

DATELINE: HEADING TO THE BIG HOUSE – Of course, for the likes of Lindsay Lohan, I suspect it will be more like a short stay with fucking Club Med than real jail, and of course it will come with much more drama… the poor dear. How fucking unreasonable can we be? This little spoiled brat with more money than the damned Catholic Church and the same elitist sense of entitlement is simply misunderstood and should not be held responsible for her actions. Could she help it that she felt the need to drive while she was pissed out of her mind… of course that was worth probation for her (whoop-de-fucking-doo), and then she had no choice but to steal that necklace… seriously… her name had not been in the papers for at least a couple hours so she had to resort to extreme measures to get people to pay attention to her again. Here is my suggestion for Miss Lohan. Take the diamond necklace, shove it up her ass, toss her in with Betina and Ingrid the bearded biker, give them a metal detector and let them go prospecting for riches… again and again and again. Let Miss Lohan know what real trouble is, what real problems are so she doesn’t have to bore the fucking crap out of us with this bullshit. Maybe then she will get a fucking life, because right now she is nothing more than a pathetic waste of plasma.

DATELINE: WALKING THROUGH THE BOOK OF EXCUSES – Of course, we’re talking Charlie Sheen. Who the hell is NOT talking about Charlie Sheen! His problems are bigger than fucking Mubarak’s right now… at least that’s what some would have us think! Apparently now it is being speculated that his problems are because of the praise his character gets on Two and a Half Men. On the show he is a playboy, a party dog, a womanizing, substance-abusing hero who gets laughs up the ass… now how the hell can a person possible separate that fictional role with real life? I know exactly what he is dealing with. In my dreams I pretend that I am a 5’10” 110 pound fucking goddess, and god knows how many guys’ hopes, nuts and laps I have crushed when I forget that I might not really be that same person. Maybe Charlie honey needs some Bambi time to help him understand fucking reality. It could be fun – for me!

DATELINE: STUFFING MY FACE, SCREAMING MY ASS OFF AND DOWNING BEER – That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? It’s Superbowl weekend, a perfect February excuse to get shitfaced and have a tailgate party in the living room. I have a hard time watching that shit… hours of boring crap just to see what the damned Budwieser horses will be doing…. Oh, and those two fucking swamp frogs. Damned if I can remember what they sold, but my money is on it being beer, because what the hell else is there? This year, the game will be even more boring, because both teams are wearing fucking yellow pants. Who the hell was the sick bastard that came up with THAT idea? Seriously? Yellow pants? You cannot get excited about huddles when they look like fucking artistic renditions of god damned daisies. There is NOTHING sexy about yellow pants. Who the hell do you cheer for when they both wear fucking yellow pants? It ruined the game, so I guess that means I will just sit back, shut up and drink my damned beer.

DATELINE: LOOSE-LIPS ISLAND – I bet this is where the producers of Survivor want to send that vile little asshole Russell Hantz, the wanna be ‘ultimate survivor’. Sorry, Russ baby, each of us is only entitled to one ‘Ultimate’ title. Antonio Banderas has the Ultimate Hottie title, Jon Stewart has the Ultimate Smart Hottie Comedian title sewn up (byte me, Stephen Colbert), and your ultimate title is ‘Ultimate asshole’. Sorry. That’s just the way it goes. We knew it when we watched your several attempts on the damned show, and now that it has come to light that you blabbed the results prior to the rest of the world knowing for your shows, it is to be hoped that the producers of the show take whatever action is necessary to plant you permanently on ‘Poor House Island’ where you can no longer annoy the crap out of the rest of us.

DATELINE: ON THE RED CARPET AT THE SAG AWARDS – These are not your ordinary SAG awards though… these are for those Hollywood lovelies who have so god damned much money they can think of nothing else to do with it than to make themselves look like living, breathing muppets with their yarn hair sewn on too tight. It’s hard to drum up sympathy for any of them. Oh look! Here comes Joan Rivers with that perpetually surprised look that prevents her from blinking her eyes. And there come some lips we all can recognize as they come into the room a good minute before the rest of Lisa Rinna, rivaled only by Pamela Anderson’s boobs. Honey, those things are going to be demoted from knockers to knee-knockers as you are, unless you invest heavily now in duct tape. It’s hard to know if that is Donatella Versace walking down the carpet, or Janice the 60’s flower child muppet singer with Dr Teeth and the Electric Mayhem. What the hell is the matter with you people? You got money to burn? Send it to feed some children or get medicine to those dying in Africa or build a fuckin school in Haiti, and in the process grow old gracefully, not like a bunch of fucking fools that will look like shit once the staples start to stretch.

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