Eat…Lick…Snort… F*ck…BRITNEY SPEARS!
Can I get something off my chest? A small confession? Britney Spears has stolen each and every sweet juicy drop of nectar from that big beautiful fruit that is trash talking celebrities. I loathe even the taste of her name on my tongue at this point. Loathe it!
Overexposure? Thy name is Brintey fucking Spears.
So, with that clearly in mind, I submit to you this question: Who the hell gives a flaming turd pie WHAT that crazed blonde bimbo was talking about when she began raving and raging in court this week and screamed something exactly like, “Eat it! Lick it! Snort it! Fuck it!” as she rushed all a-flurry from the room where the latest of her uncountable custody hearings was being held? Not the fuck me. That’s the fuck who. And not the fuck you either, I bet. That’s why the fuck I love you.
And it has been reported by men far wiser than I that a great big poofter (that’s British for “fagwad”) calling itself Pierce Brosnan is the latest so called “star” to jump upon that speeding train of the felonious and famous, as he is “currently” (as the say) under “investigation” by “police” in “Los Angeles” after “allegedly” beating the crap out of some poor idiot who tried to take his picture.
Of course Pierce should frankly get down on his scabby Irish knees and praise sweet Jesus that anyone, anywhere even WANTS to take his picture instead of beating the crap out of them, as everyone knows he is the undisputed most horrible James Bond ever, and damn annoying in general.
Mr. Brosnan evidently doesn’t feel the same way. This of course isn’t the first time Mr. Brosnan has been associated in violent random outbursts, as it is widely known that in the Simpson’s Tree House of Horror Halloween Special that I just watched, he was a homicidal house that tried to murder Homer by cramming him down the garbage disposal.
So. There you go.
Adrian Ryan
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The Spears’, The Lohans, That Penis…Oh, Ick!
Britney Spears’ alleged MOTHER (who is not a jackal, oddly enough) has been signed and/or contracted to write a book. Indeed, a word book. In English. It’s supposedly “Lynne Spears’ personal story of raising high-profile children while coming from a low-profile Louisiana community”, and all of the best sources confirm that she thinks it is going to be some kind of guide to….ahem…parenting. PERENTING! And, perhaps even more blasphemously, it’s being published by a specifically. CHRISTIAN. Publisher. As in Christ. Jesus Christ. Who, when reached for comment, said, “Whoa, whoa, WHOOOOA, man! I don’t got NOTHING to do with THAT mess! Keep me out of it, man!”
Jesus is, of course, Hispanic.
In completely related news: The so-called “Lohan family” has allegedly been booked to star in their own reality TV show. Filming for the series, which will be shown on E!, is set to begin on Oct. 30 in New York, Dina Lohan, who is the mother I guess, will serve as executive producer, and I just threw my fucking TV out the window and shot the cable guy. I’m sure you understand.
Elsewhere: Experts have long postulated that Danny Bonaduce is a “grower not a shower”. And they agree that and at least as ugly as a box of Chihuahua assholes in a blender. There suspicions were horribly confirmed last night as Danny Bonaduce drove an entire audience of horny people to totally hysterical blindness at San Francisco’s infamous annual Erotic Exotic Ball by storming the stage and revealing—against all advice and logic—his terrible orange and hairy completely naked self!
Yes, God help us all, the man stripped quite nude, and revealed to the world his tragic, tragic, little (little, little!) wiener, which witnesses agree “looked like a deformed mouse nose nestled in a bright orange nest of steel wool.” You’ll have to Google the matter if you want to see the photos, as our insurance underwriters insist we are not quite covered for the psychological devastation they will cause. You understand.
Right?
Adrian Ryan
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Gay Wizards Rising…PLUS! Owen Wilson Speaks from Almost Beyond the Grave!
Spooky!
Agents of hell report that Own Wilson, who is not quite as dead as he’d apparently like to be just now (if you’re just tuning in), has given the only interview he has yet given—or may EVER give!— since he downed a bucket of Draino or whatever and tried to cut off his own hands, leaving the world with disturbing questions and his carpet with rather rude stains. The interview will appear on Mypsace.com on Friday at the so-called stroke of midnight (like I said) and it has been reported that Mr. Wilson will speak quite “candidly” on the messy matter, which will be a tremendous disappointment for everyone who was expecting complete bullshit.
What, indeed, a douche. No wonder Kate Hudson dumped his ass. But I didn’t say that. The elf in my pocket did.
In other things: Well, Dumbledore is gay, and I can’t say I didn’t have my suspicions. (It was the pierced nipples.) Now that the question IS Dumbledore gay has been once and forever put to rest, the question which faces us now becomes exactly HOW gay IS Dumbledore? We turn to Harry Potter for answers, says, “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! My asshole! My bloody asshole! It really hurts!” Then he took off all his clothes and screwed a horse. But now were mixing metaphors or something, and I don’t think any of us want to get into THAT mess.
Then: Marie Osmond fainted! Oh, holy sweet Jesus on a sesame cracker! Marie Osmond! Fainted! Fainted! Get God on the phone! Call India! Declare DEFCON 4! Did you hear me? Marie Osmond! She…she…FAINTED! FAINTED! FAINTED!!!!
Can we please fucking move on now, world? PLEASE?
Elsewhere, in ever more perverted perverted wizards: the FBI case against David Copperfield grows as dark and thick as his eyebrows almost as it is uncovered that any and all so-called David Copperfield “Magic Shows” or whatever were apparently nothing more that “sticky webs of sexual intrigue” cleverly designed to ensnare possible pumps! Through a scary complex and highly technical system of walkie-talkies, secret code words, video cameras, and a bunch of paid lackeys, David would single out and interrogate audience members for a possible backstage rendezvous with his floppy magic wand. Allegedly, if approved, the lucky lady was whisked off to a magical land where “No” means “Yes!” and no one can hear you scream. He denies the entire thing. But so would you. And you know it. You filthy beast.
Lastly, in other Myspace garbage: the sad stink of betrayal blows on the Myspace winds, as a bleary-eyed gaggle of Britney Spears’ former “friends” and “employees” (AKA “The Concerned Turncoats of Britania”) have banded together to beg the world—yes, the entire world!—to boycott any and all of Britney’s doings—her new album, her paid whorings, whatever—until she “gets better”. The site is called Be Proactive to Help, and I don’t know exactly how these phony sons-of-bitches are planning to make money off of it, but trust me. Someone’s cashing in on this crap.
God I hate Myspace.
Adrian Ryan
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And Courtney Love Says…WHAT?
I, alone and very afraid, have faced the mad ravings (to say nothing of the insane inanities) of that thing called Courtney Love.For centuries (it feels much longer sometimes. Sometimes shorter. But mostly much longer…) I have collected and studied and puzzled and pondered and poured over each and every peculiar and rather intimidating syllable of her demon-like screechings and crack-induced squallings, which many experts agree are her vain and strangled attempts to communicate with us “normals”. It’s a confusing and thankless job.
And although I alone, like a punk rock Dianne Fossey, have managed to perhaps penetrate the mysteries of Courtney’s madness deeply enough to catch even a glimmer—a glimpse!—of their deeper meanings, the innermost workings for her tortured blonde brain, most of the time I just want to shove hypodermic needles filled with anti-freeze into my eyes and plunge, plunge, plunge in hopeless frustration!
But no. The work must continue.
One thing that I have ascertained beyond a shadow of a doubt in all of my years of Courtneyology is this startling fact: of all of the shapes and forms her methods of attempted communication may take—her “books”, her “music”, her not murder of Kurt Cobain, etcetera—none is so riddled with bonafide c-c-cra-zazy than her very own Myspace “blog”. Whatever the fuck this thing called “blog” is. (A mystery.) Her most recent post provides an excellent example. And I quote…
“love chyo aoshimas ballpaper and inkjet stuff and Aya Takanos l,ine drawings and Sam Taylor Woods photagraphy and of c ourse LaCHAPELLE TEH BEST PERfumne is so NOT gaulter. im so not down with that . i thin kperfume should be so individual that its better to make it yourself thaN mass buy what everyone else is wearing , i think Christian Laboutin makes the best heel s by a landslide although they are far harder to wear than Choos or Manolos and the ONLY jeans on this EARTH are Hytseric Glamour from Tokyo= Kinky is Nobus brand for girls, i cant even get it up to vomit about it anymore- most designers would never aska real rockstar and most real rockstars could not pull it off anyway= for fear of selling out or not living up to some ideal or cos tbhey just dont wanna - but heres this looooooong crytsaL spiral and up it come sand out pops/
IGGY?”
“Spiral and up it come sand out pops/ IGGY?”, indeed. Whatever the hell it says, I think it just about says it all.
Don’t you?
Adrian Ryan
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Run for the Border (of Outer Space), Katie Holmes!
It has been reported by sources so secret they aren’t even sure who they are that the terrifying robot bride called Katie Holmes is in training for the epic and most very difficult New York Marathon next month.
“Katie is determined to complete the race and make Tom proud. She’s been training for months, both in Los Angeles and in Berlin. She’s as fit and toned as she’s ever been in her life. Katie is going to surprise a lot of people,” somebody said.
“But she’ll have to wear tape on her nipples, to prevent friction burns and tearing, just like a regular earthling,” observed somebody else.
“Great! Speed will be imperative in my upcoming battle with Lord Xenu!”, said Tom.
“Bwahahahaha! Run, then! RUN, puny mortal! It shall do you no good!”, said Dark Overlord Xenu.
“Arf! Arf!” , agreed Spot.
Moving on, then…
In other news: the frumpy house frau/misguided dog rescue person that stole Ellen’s puppy from its new home has been awarded The Leona Helmsley Total Evil Bitch Award. “All I wanted to do is save puppies….SAVE PUPPIES!” she screamed hysterically upon receiving the award, mere seconds before several shots rang out, fatally wounding the evil puppy woman. Oh. Wait. Has this really happened yet? Am I reporting the fucking future again?
Forgive me.
And very, very lastly: Bobby the fuck Brown may be guilty of any number of sins: spousal abuse, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, ear abuse, abuse of fat hotel managers (long personal story, remind me to tell you some other time), has-been-ness, raging stupidity, ugliness, reality tv, etc., but until just this very moment, he remained free of that most heinous and tragic of all sins…COUNTRY MUSIC.
But all that’s fucking over now. Yes, siree, yeehaw little doggie.
“Bobby Brown signed for CMT’s new show “Gone Country,” where cowboy heavyweight John Rich will attempt to re-invent Brown’s career — as a country superstar!”
In response to this news, the corpses of Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty have risen from the grave and have joined forces with Dolly Parton and The Mandrell Sisters to plot the total destruction of Bobby Brown. But that’s to be expected, I guess.
Yeehaw!
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Amy Winehouses’s Norwegian Pot Party, David’s Tricky Trick!
In news that will shock you, knock you right on your ass, and potentially fuck-up your entire view of the universe, your roll in it, and your faith in God, Amy Winehouse has been arrested in NORWAY (for the love of ursegurvvurti-gurven haagen) for (are you sitting down? Are you well braced?), well….for MARIJUANA! There is just no other way to say it.
I KNOW!
The pot, the ganj, the kine’ bud, the chronic, the sticky, Robin Williams fuel, frat boy lubricant, the only reason to go to Jamaica, Mary Jean or whatever, the five-fingered bandit, the Canadian cash crop, legitimate medicine….need I go on?
Sources so sourcey I forgot to laugh (have I used that one? Am I waxing repetitive? Repetitive?) report that the walking anachronism called Weinhouse was arrested in that frigid northern land of fish and sweaters for possessing almost a full skunky ounce that most unglamorous of drugs, after huffing Hi-Liters ™. The sources say:
The British singer, 24 — who is currently on tour in the Scandinavian country — was arrested along with her husband Blake Fielder-Civil at the Hotel Norge on Thursday night, after local authorities were tipped off by staff about the smell of marijuana coming from their suite.
And so. When asked whether or not she’s learned anything from this experience, Miss Weinhouse remarked, “Fuck yeah! Never go to fucking Norway!”, and then she took a hit off the crack pipe.
Heroin, ever a jealous lover, is reportedly furious.
In other things: Mysterious powers report that world famous Satanist David Copperfield is under investigation by the FBI on charges of forcing his magic wand upon some unwilling and equally mysterious girl. When they finally answered the god damn phone, Copperfield’s lawyers said, “We aren’t concerned at this point. The man made the Statue of Liberty vanish; I’m sure some lippy slut ain’t gonna be a problem.” Experts remain shocked that any lawyer would say “ain’t no.” But aren’t we all?
Of course we are.
Adrian Ryan
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Ellen Crying, Bitches, Weeping and Dogs!
I’ve been drunk in a ditch, as usual, so we have scads to cover. Some of it involves dykes, some of it involves puppies, a little involves a penniless tramp, and all of it is really quite horrible. Let us begin.
The week in useless trash starts, appropriately enough, with Lindsay Lohan, fresh from rehab amidst the salty Mormon wastes, newly substance free (tick tock, tick tock) and as broke as a retard’s teacup collection. Allegedly. Sources say she has squandered her entire 7 million dollar “fortune” (I keep that much in my sock drawer) on crotchless panties and her world class collection of celebrity autographed coke-spoons, and, now? She’s discovered yet a new meaning of the word “spent”. Observe:
“Lindsay supposedly spent mountains of money on everything from clothes ($1 million) to grooming ($70,000 on hair care and self-tanning) to keeping a roof over her head (a hefty hotel bill at the Chateau Marmont in Los Angeles). The double-DUI-busted star’s other ostensible expenditures include her substantial rehab and legal bills, along with a purported half-million bucks to keep a chauffeur — yes, someone who’s paid to drive her around — on standby 24-7. The only reason she’s coming back to L.A. is to earn some money fast.”
Of course, Lohan’s official “people” deny every syllable. Satan was busy gloating over all of their corrupt and wretched souls and could not be reached for comment, but former president Abe Lincoln is reportedly “outraged” that Lindsay Lohan is still allowed to have “people”. “After all I went through!” he remarked before dissolving back into the Ouija Board.
I’m rambling again, aren’t I?
Moving along…
Ellen DeGeneres. Do you really want to hurt her? Do you really want to make her cry? Of course you don’t. No one in their right mind does. She’s Dorry the Fish, for Christ’s sake! She builds houses for homeless New Orleaneans! She’s the nicest lesbian ever to hand roll her own tampons and kick-start a vibrator! She’s…she’s…DANCY! Yes, dancy. And only a seriously sadistic ass-hat with an iron fist up their yahoo would DARE to make sweet, dancy Ellen DeGeneres cry… or a frumpy puppy rescuer. Ellen DeGeneres broke down in sobbing uncontrollable tears on her Monday show as she explained the situation, which she explained thusly (WARNING! Stop reading here, or you will cry!):
“I guess I signed a piece of paper that says if I can’t keep Iggy, it goes back to the rescue organization, which is not someone’s home, which is not a family. “I thought I did a good thing. I tried to find a loving home for the dog because I couldn’t keep it. “Because I did it wrong, those people went and took that dog out of their home, and took it away from those kids. “I feel totally responsible for it and I’m so sorry. I’m begging them to give that dog back to that family. It’s not their fault. It’s my fault. Just please give the dog back to those little girls.”
Did you cry? No? Well, I guess you had to watch it. So then:
No you’re crying, aren’t you?
Of course you are.
Adrian Ryan
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Anna Nicole’s Bloated Shade Screams from Beyond the Grave: Avenge Me!
The California Justice League or whatever has begun acting on the dark and terrible suspicions
they’ve been suspicioning since the moment she dropped dead, dead, DEAD, and are finally warranting potential perps in the mysterious and now surely foul play-ish death of Anna Nicole Smith!
“It was murder, I tells ya! MURDER!” said District Attorney Loraine Newman, and then she ran howling from the room, into the dark, dark night.
So far, Anna’s psychiatrist, Dr. Khristine Eroshevich, has been ordered in for questioning, and Howard K. Stern, who I’m pretty sure is the little Jewish lawyer and not the big jackass radio personality, is surely next!
Or is he?
Yes!
“We’re told that eight warrants were served altogether by armed officers, and these may be connected to the Department’s investigation of Dr. Eroshevich. Sources say the warrants were served at several businesses connected to Anna’s doctors and at a storage facility. Ellyn Garafalo, a lawyer for Dr. Sandeep Kapoor, who prescribed methadone to Smith shortly before she died, confirmed to the AP the doctor’s home and offices were among those raided.
But what, if anything, do the Kennedy’s have to do with this? Good question!
“We’re looking into. Anytime a fat famous blonde whore overdoses mysteriously, we have to haul in the Kennedy’s. All of ‘em. It’s just standard procedure.”
Anna Nicole’s tortured spirit was busy screaming for justice from the particular bowel of purgatory in which she sizzles, and was unavailable for comment.
In other news: In a scandal that has shocked the world a little bit maybe, Britney Spears announced at a press conference just moments ago that her children—Sean Preston and Something-something–were never actually taken from her, and she never divorced her ex-husband Kevin Federline…because these people don’t even really exist! “That’s right y’all,” the gum-smacking cootch-flasher said,” It was all a big publicity hoax thingy! Yes, sir! Kevin and the boys? Why they weren’t all nuthin’ but C-G-I tek-nowl-o-gee! In’t that just a hoot! So y’all can go back to lovin’ me again now! Love me! PLEASE LOVE ME! LOVE ME!” and then she broke down into heaving, wretching sobs and finally fell asleep in a fetal position on the stage. Wait for it….
by Adrian Ryan
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Orlando Bloom… Decent Elf, Bad Driver
Look. I don’t care much for Orlando Bloom. No, sir, I don’t. Actually, to better clarify my feelings (which is so important in these uncertain times, don’t you think?), it is truer to say that I don’t really give a crap about him. He’s invisible to me. I just don’t care.
The problem with Orlando Bloom, let’s face it, is that he is only “attractive” inasmuch as he is “completely generic”. He’s okay to look at, and he’s not going to offend anybody, or do anything startling. He’s unthreatening….easy. That little blue hoodie he was wearing when he almost killed that guy with his car? A perfect example. With his hood up, the plain nose and unremarkable eyes and undistinguished jaw line poking out from under it could be, let’s face it ladies and gentlemen, anybody’s at all. It could be Justin Timberlake under there, or Kevin Federline’s ass, or my mom or the guy that pumps gas at the Circle K or your little sister’s scummy jock boyfriend. Indeed, the fact has to be faced that Orlando Bloom is considered, widely and broadly, as “cute” merely because he is so milquetoast white bread fucking average. Plain. Ordinary.
Boring,
Shudder.
Of course this might seem rather at odds with the maniacal motorized rampage he just went on, plowing his car into some other car, hurting the owner and thrilling everyone with a camera phone for a hundred miles, but not really. Look:
“Orlando Bloom was involved in a minor car crash on a Hollywood street early Friday morning, police said. “No alcohol was involved, and he wasn’t speeding. There was minor damage to his car.”
See? He was in a car accident, and STILL he’s boring. He could set himself on fire at Disneyland, he could fly a plane into the White House, he could get a sex change and learn to sing “There’s No Business Like Show Business” with his new twat. It wouldn’t matter. Boring. BORING!
Indeed, Orlando Bloom (whose name really sucks ass too, now that I think about it), didn’t get drunk and smashed into a fan, who was slightly injured, and rushed by authorities at the seen to his lawyer.
by Adrian Ryan
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Jude Law Beats, Off!
Sources so sourcey they don’t even have to source if they don’t feel like it report that “actor” Jude Law has been acquitted, absolved, and otherwise let of the hook for an allegedly alleged and most violent attack upon a poor innocent celebrity photographer, who was just out doing his job, trying to keep food on his table, by taking harmless pictures of spoiled inflated douche bags like Jude Law, and am I rambling again? Stop me if I’m rambling. I am rambling, aren’t I?
Of course I am.
Indeed, the “actor” was arrested last month for the largely unprovoked attack just outside of his posh London home, where the aforementioned cameraman was apparently lurking when Mr. Law spotted him and went all “Princess Di’s Revenge” on his ass. A neighbour (British spelling, please note) noticed the fracas and dialed whatever the hell the English equivalent of 9-11 is and sent Scotland Yard or whatever racing to the scene, where Mr. Law was detained and questioned.
But that’s not what really happened at all.
According to colorful cockney court witness that magically appeared at the last moment for dramatic effect, Mr. Law and Mr. Cameraman weren’t in the throws of violent assault at all, but in the throws of heated passion!
“I sawr it all, I did, as clear as day–they wasn’t fighting at all, so sir, they was buggerin’, the dirty buggers, right there, against the garden wall, without so much as an “as you please!” Well, I dropped me flower basket right there and called for a constable or whatever, I did!”
Tragically, however, that cockney witness was entirely fictional, as was her account; the authorities merely decided not to pursue charges. But isn’t MY version MUCH better?
Of course it is.
In more better things my way: Bobby Brown, who TOTALLY just had a heart attack, has TOTALLY denied having a heart attack. The monstrous truth lies somewhere in between as doctors discover that Bobby Brown has NO HEART AT ALL!
“We opened him up, and where the heart should be, we discovered what can only be described as some kind of horrible mutant crack baby, actually living inside his chest. Apparently they exist in some sort of strange and sickening symbiotic relationship we can’t begin to understand”, Drs. report.
When reached for comment on her ex-husband’s condition, Whitney Houston said:
by Adrian Ryan
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