Drake writes all of his lyrics on his BlackBerry, which is impressive, but pales when compared to what Mel Gibson’s ex-lover, Oksana Grigorieva, can do on an iPhone.
Eminent purveyor of truth, TMZ.com, reported, “Mel's lawyers believe the emails show Oksana as a manipulator who was not fearful of Mel at all, but rather someone who was scheming to extort millions” based on emails that the website obtained, sent from Oksana to Mel back in May.
This conclusion, true or not, is ostensibly gleaned from such memorable passages as:
“...my lawyers also told me that tom Hansen said i woudn get a penny and more importaunly, my lawyers warned me that ur laywers are capaple of false fabrication about me in press, i.e., an unfit mother, a prostitute etc. so you can have the baby and I get to go to my f...ing moth hole as u told me.”
Then there’s the big one that TMZ.com says Mel’s lawyers claim shows just how conniving and intentional and (let’s just say it, shall we) Russian Oksana is, when she wrote that she has “Too much evidence, my dear.”
It would seem that, in the end, Mel Gibson’s lawyers are pinning their case to the precise wording of emails written by a woman who types things like,
“Forgive me for my accasional weekness and for not being able to set the boudaries for my acasional insecuruty.”
And,
“I thank God for his immaculate interception in so many ways.Even the texts exidentaly send to me , but ment for smone else is Godsend , telling to me.”
False fabrication.Acasional insecurity.Immaculate interception.Clearly English isn’t her first, second or eighth language, and yet a group of really smart, well-fed lawyers want to use that language – written words and phrases whose meaning their author probably doesn’t even come within a midnight train to Moscow of fully comprehending – as evidence against someone’s character.
In their defense, Mel Gibson hired these lawyers because they’re the same people that believe being homosexual is a choice.
Finally, the big news I’ve been waiting for: Ben Stiller’s kids opened a lemonade stand. I think that Lindsay Lohan went broke, Randy Quaid went to Canada, and Katy Perry and Russell Brand went to India for the kind of wedding a couple can get only in a country to which westerners pilgrimage in order to find either a) inner peace or b) a place to disturb the inner peace for everyone else. But fuck all of that because Ben Stiller’s darling kids opened a lemonade stand.
People Magazine wasted space and time reporting that Ben Stiller and his allegedly deaf and blind wife Christine Taylor encourage "their children, Ella, 8, and Quinlin, 5, to give back, which led their daughter to start her own lemonade stand."
Christine told the magazine, "They raised $120 – I think a few parents stopped by and dropped twenties." And Ben added, "When you're lucky enough to have things in your life and you're brought up with that, it's hard for kids to know what it's like not to have that because that's just not their reality."
I hope it’s not too late to nominate these guys for Publicity Whore Parents of the Year. The girls might as well have learned to get acting roles based on their last names, not on how much skin they are willing to show on camera. That’s your reality.
The lemonade stand was probably set up at the corner of two streets with nary a foreclosure in sight. The girls learned about as much selling Crystal Light as they would have making Barbie and Ken slow dance to Justin Bieber mp3’s.
Pack up the Range Rover and take the kids down to Crenshaw Boulevard, if you want them to learn what it’s like not to have. Set up a stand there. See how many parents you get coming by in Bentleys to pay twenty dollars for a Dixie cup of warm sugar water.
I wonder if lemonade stands in Beverly Hills accept food stamps.
Today, I saw a promo for the season premiere of CSI. That’s CSI, formerly the most popular show in America and still the most watched show in the world. I have to admit: I’ve never sat through an entire episode of this show – and have seen just enough CSI: Miami to get the jokes about David Caruso’s sunglasses and overratedness.
Still, it’s downright insane to me (consider me qualified to judge) not that Justin Bieber is in the premiere episode, but that he is acting and still has the same fucking hair in the premiere episode.
Bieber is playing a character. Are we afraid that no one will know who he is without the carwash blowout? Will CSI ratings dip if El Biebs has a buzz cut? Will he be unable to say his lines without the perfectly coifed follicles in their assigned seats?
Maybe I’m missing the detail that Justin Bieber is playing Justin Bieber, Teen Icon-Turned Serial Killer in the Season 11 premiere. But, if that’s the case, television should be canceled. I’m not just talking CSI, and I’m not just talking CBS. I’m not even talking putting a hit out on Viacom owner Sumner Redstone. If that’s the story line for the premiere episode of CSI this season – and, based on Justin Bieber’s hair, combined with the fact that this is a fucking fictional, scripted show, I don’t see how things could be any other way – the ability to transfer interlaced moving images accompanied by sound should be revoked from humanity.
When I reported for jury duty around a year ago in Los Angeles County, we were informed within the first ten minutes that we should not expect to come in on Friday or Monday… or Wednesday afternoon because, if we weren’t already aware (and those who weren’t were quickly selected to serve), there was a budget crisis in the state of California, and the courts were closed at those times in order to save a little tax payer pocket change.
The case, about which I’m not allowed to speak, was a breaking and entering arrest of a homeless man with which a number of those selected to serve professed ethical problems in an attempt at jury evasion. This went on for a number of days. There were undoubtedly more pressing cases upon which the courts could have focused. If this case wasn’t reason enough to question LA County’s ability to prioritize, the Lindsay Lohan case certainly is.
While Judge Vaughn Walker had the pleasure of writing a 136-page essay on why a ban on same sex marriage is unconstitutional, Judge Elden Fox is now famous for grounding Lindsay Lohan. A Google Image search for “Judge Elden Fox” brings up around ten-thousand photos of LL in around 0.38 seconds. Now that’s a legacy.
Judge Fox put a great deal of thought into the restrictions on Miss LL. As reported by Us Weekly, Lindsay must “reside at her Los Angeles-area home, and is not permitted to leave the state until [November 1]; she must attend psychotherapy sessions five times per week; she must speak with a ‘chemical dependency mentor’ at least seven times a week; she must attend meetings for a 12-step dependency program five times a week, and submit to behavioral therapy twice weekly. Most importantly, Lohan will be subject to random drug and alcohol testing at least twice a week.”
And. If she EVER tests positive for drugs or alcohol, it’s 30 days in the clink (from which she was previously sprung due to “chronic overcrowding”) for old Lindsay. I admire Lindsay Lohan because she has managed to become such a danger to society, we need to threaten her with captivity in order to keep the streets of Southern California safe. In a state where early release of gang members (ok, shoplifters) was implemented because they didn’t have enough money to keep a watchful eye, they are going to lockup a depressed starlet if she has just one more Mai Tai.
These measures and the time spent by the LA County court system may seem extraordinary to you, but, if that’s the case, you must not live in SoCal, where, every time we set foot into the Santa Monica crosswalk, we are alert with gazelle-like fear that a white SUV, piloted by the star of “Freaky Friday,” will turn the corner on two wheels and plow over our sober souls without enough courtesy to even active the wipers, thus expunging our splattered remains from the windshield.
If we can’t sanction Iran, we will, by god, at least sanction Lindsay Lohan.
This is a warning to everyone in a relationship, but mostly to girls in relationships: Don’t believe anything Orianthi has to tell you.
I’ve been driving around listening to an Orianthi song called "According to You" for the past month. This isn’t by choice; my car radio seems to be incapable of playing anything else, any other music or talk or beautiful, beautiful, soothing static.
The song petulantly decries the troubles of a lovelorn young woman; she is in the throes of an unsatisfying (perhaps bordering on abusive) relationship; she feels unloved, unappreciated, unwanted by her current lover. However, she meets someone that (ostensibly) loves, appreciates and worships her as she (ostensibly) deserves – don’t we all, ideally, I suppose, when it comes to the person with whom we’re closest. Instead of leaving the old and running off with the new, she decides tell the old, loudly and boldly that, look there is someone out there to appreciates me, so you should, too. Or I’m gonna go fuck him:
According to you, I’m stupid, I’m useless, I can’t do anything right/According to you, I'm difficult, hard to please, forever changing my mind/I'm a mess in a dress, can't show up on time/even if it would save my life/According to you/According to you.
But, according to him, I'm beautiful, incredible; he can't get me out of his head/According to him, I'm funny, irresistible, everything he ever wanted.
Which brings us to our lesson for the day. Go fuck this new guy, fine. Leave the abusive old guy, absolutely. But don’t do either because you think the new guy is going to be better than the old guy. Odds are – and I’ve done research on this – that the new guy is just as big of a douche fountain as the old guy.
Secondly, your logic is borderline absurd. Your currently boyfriend should appreciate you because some other random Joe Six Pack does? Should Julliard grant me a scholarship because my mom says I have the best arabesque since Anna Pavlova?
On top of that, complaining to your boyfriend is just proving his point, if not provoking him further. Stop it. If you want him to appreciate you more, stop changing your mind and start showing up on time. We both know what you really need to do is get nice and drunk and sleep with that other guy and leave this guy because (and I hate to get all Greg Behrendt here) it’s already over.
Do the letters NSFW mean nothing anymore? Not if you work at the Security and Exchange Commission.
ABC News reported last night that "senior employees of the SEC spent hours on the commission's computers looking at sites like naughty.com, skankwire, youporn, and others" instead of investigating financial infidelities as their job descriptions dictated they do.
Having read that, it would serve to reason that if women were in charge of regulating the markets and security exchanges of the United States, there would be no economic crisis.
Something like this porn obsession is overlooked if you’re good at your job. Christian Bale: verbally abusive, but a great actor. John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr.: adulterers, but we don’t consider them to have been bad men. Half of Nashville: coke heads, but the sweet, sweet music keeps playing. But if you overlook a billion dollar scam or let slide shady security ratings that lead to a housing crisis, sorry, no more porn for you.
One would think that this would have never been an issue if women were at the helm of the regulatory commission. Perhaps the SEC network bandwidth would be jammed by visits to Facebook and PerezHilton.com, but let’s face it: there are only so many status updates and a limit to how many anorexic starlets can drive drunkenly through Malibu each day. There is no limit to porn.
The memo ABC obtained claimed, "One senior attorney at SEC headquarters in Washington spent up to eight hours a day accessing Internet porn. When he filled all the space on his government computer with pornographic images, he downloaded more to CDs and DVDs that accumulated in boxes in his offices."
It went on to say, "An SEC accountant attempted to access porn websites 1,800 times in a two-week period and had 600 pornographic images on her computer hard drive."
I’m sorry. What? Her computer? How deeply seeded is the porn problem at the SEC? Was it the "thing to do"? If you had less than 500 gigabytes of hardcore on your (wanna touch my) hard drive, you were totally lame? You wouldn’t be invited to the Christmas orgy this year?
If anything can be gleaned from this SEC revelation, it is that the adage of women leaders mitigating warfare is complete bullshit. Sure, I’m basing this conclusion on one woman – but, hell, she attempted to hook up some "skankwire" 1,800 times in two weeks. That’s over 22 times per hour.
And these were just her attempts. Evidently, with women in charge, we’d have the exact number of wars we have now. They’d just be unsuccessful. So: not less warfare, just less death. I suppose that’s something.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been over eight minutes since I’ve checked for updates on giantblackcocksinlittlewhitemouths.net.
We all like to laugh at how dumb the Kardashian sisters are.How Kim doesn’t know when the camera is on.How Khloé marries an NBA player after knowing him for a month.How Kourtney is impregnated by the biggest douche bag this side of Spencer Pratt.
You could assume (and you’d be correct) that they don’t care how dumb they are.Nothing unusual.Most reality stars are smart enough to play up the dumb as part of some silly routine a 4-year-old would play, throwing their dinner on the ground over and over again, after getting a laugh the first time.And the second time…
Most reality starts get paid discouraging amounts of money to act like 4-year-olds – as Kim, Khloé and Kourtney do; Kourtney earns the least of the trio per year, coming in at $2 million.Most reality stars exploit their fame – as Kim does, earning around $10k each time she posts something on Twitter.
However, there is something about the Kardashian sisters – when you see them on talk shows, when you talk to them on the red carpet – that goes beyond the normal reality TV star obliviousness.There is a thick confidence to these girls.They are unflappable at any question.The make steady, warm, but unintimidating eye contact.They speak through agreeable smiles with measured congeniality.
We like to laugh at how dumb the Kardashian sisters are, but I have to admit, their confidence is to be admired.
I just figured something out. You know how Spencer Pratt sucks? And no matter how much you scream that he SUCKS, nothing brings him down -- in fact, saying how much he sucks just makes him stronger? Well I thought of one way to deflate him, to take him down, to cut the head off the monster. Four words: Sex Tape with Heidi.
Levi Johnston continues to rival his former baby mama’s mama (and the chick that invented Aqua Socks) for the title of My Favorite Person Ever. It’s a close race. Every time Sarah Palin says "Death Panel," Levi says "retarded baby." As Levi clamors for fame and Sarah clamors for book sales, every line uttered is better than the last. It’s like watching lemmings self-immolate or drunken teenagers try to talk themselves out of DUIs by offering free beers. Or an episode of "The Hills."
My love of Levi started 13 months ago, when we all met him as the kid who knocked up the daughter of the woman John McCain just picked as his running mate; I swooned when he and Bristol were considering a summer wedding (and maybe at the White House!); I got a bit giddy when he and Bristol Palin called it quits and said it was "a mutual thing"; I smiled for days after my friend called me from Wasilla to tell me he’d just bought weed from Levi’s friend; I couldn’t have been prouder when Levi’s mom was arrested on drug charges; I gave a round of high fives when the teenager Levi had knocked up became the poster girl for teen abstinence; I ROTFLMAO when that teenager was on the cover of People, holding her mistake I mean baby, saying, "If girls realized the consequences of sex, nobody would he having sex. Trust me. Nobody"; and I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming when Levi began to open the floodgates, saying that Sarah resigned the governorship due to marital troubles.
But the first time I said "I Love You" to Levi was when I saw him in the October 2009 Vanity Fair. The first quips were honey on my brain, but the final jab, coupled with more recent news is what sent me into love’s blind ambition, and now I can think about little else.
We started with " Tripp Easton Mitchell Johnston was born a month later, on December 27 at 5:43 a.m. ("Mitchell" is Todd’s middle name and "Easton" is for my favorite hockey-equipment company.)" That led to the perhaps overly ambitious:
After Tripp was born, Sarah would pay more attention to our son than she would to her own baby, Trig. Sarah has a weird sense of humor. When she came home from work, Bristol and I would be holding Trig and Tripp. Sarah would call Trig—who was born with Down syndrome—"my little Down’s baby." But I couldn’t believe it when she would come over to us and sometimes say, playing around, "No, I don’t want the retarded baby—I want the other one," and pick up Tripp. That was just her—even her kids were used to it.
That’s pretty awesome. But what really sealed my heart in a hockey bag was news that Levi Johnston was going to pose for Playgirl and that he was going to do it "tastefully." Johnston said on CBS' Early Show, "We don't want no bad boy image. I don't want to be looked at as someone who is getting naked for fame."
And he’s not getting naked for fame. He’s getting naked because he is a great father. "I don’t ever want to be a deadbeat dad," Levi said in Vanity Fair. "I love Tripp, and my goal is to take care of my family. I could go out and do movies, maybe one day even end up as a celebrity."
Really, that’s the goal: to remove enough clothing to make enough money to take care of your family. What more could a girl want in a single dad. That’s not a question. Cause the answer is, nothing.
Of all the things celebrities endorse (or ostensibly create) none is stranger than the celebrity fragrance. A celebrity’s name on a scent – Michael Jordan Cologne, JLo Glow, Usher For Her, and so on and so on – indicates one of two things.
The first is that this fragrance smells like the named celebrity, which would in turn suggest the celebrity is renowned for her or his natural smell (I know no celebrities known for their smell, save Matthew McConaughey, and that’s not for a good smell) or that the celebrity has been around enough people for enough people to know what he or she smells like, and this is possible only for politicians; and if you want to smell like Joe Biden, seek help.
Otherwise, a celebrity’s name on a fragrance suggests that that he or she in an aficionado of scents (i.e. his sense of smell is better than yours, so thrust him). Other than Adrian Brody, I would trust no celebrity’s sense of smell over my own.
Within the odd world of celebrity scents, nothing is odder than the celebrity perfume commercial – it is naturally impossible to convey smell over a medium that carries only sight and sound.
So these commercials end up as invasive, glossy candid camera shots that catch celebrities doing mundane things that some psychologist somewhere told some ad man stimulate the olfactory area of the brain – or they end up as a play on the title of the scent, combined with a situation in which you should want to find yourself.
Enter a new oddity of oddities: the scent of the fictitious character. While Sarah Jessica Parker will undoubtedly be remembered for playing the ugly chick in "Sex and the City," rather than the ugly chick in "Footloose" or the ugly chick in "The Family Stone," she is not Carrie Bradshaw, her character from "Sex and the City." Nevertheless, SJP (as she’s known, I suppose) is releasing a scent that was inspired by "what I now understand to be people’s impressions of seeing Carrie Bradshaw walk down the street and what feelings that evokes for her and for them — a real sense of freedom and possibilities, a love for the city around her and, of course, fashion," says Parker.
It’s curious that not only did we run out of metaphors for perfumes – fresh spring rain, floral field – we ran out of actual people – Halle Berry and Isabella Rosselini sadly already have scents. Now we resort to fictional characters.
Soon Meredith Grey will release a scent right out of Seattle Grace Hospital that evokes the first memory one has after waking up from anesthesia – called "Open Heart" – and with the next Batman movie will come a scent from Bruce Wayne, called "Nocturnal," that combines the fruitiness of the fruit bat with the lust for blood of the vampire bat.
I’d buy both. And wear at once. If that doesn’t get you to like me, I give up.
I just woke up in the weirdest fucking dream: Jon and Kate Gosselin are still in the zeitgeist. How the hell did this happen? It’s like slap bracelets and big hair refused to die after 1992.
I just woke up this morning to the standard measure of pop culture cool, the Today Show, to learn that, not only was Chicago given the finger by the International Olympic Committee (despite the best efforts of Barack Obama, Michelle Obama and Oprah Winfrey), but that Jon and Kate continue to be the two craziest kids this side of broadcast TV.
I just woke up this morning to Matt Lauer asking Kate Gosselin’s lawyer why Kate and Jon continue to do the TLC show "Jon and Kate Plus Eight" when their lives (and relationships) are sustaining fire and brimstone.
"TLC released a statement on behalf of Kate that said, in effect, I continue to do this show because it provides me a way to support these children and opportunities for these children – obviously money is important to her," said Lauer without a bit of irony.
Lauer was serious. He seemed to hide the bitterness and incredulity that must be boiling under his Adam’s apple. He wasn’t interviewing the lawyer of the wife of a sociopathic, narcissistic (that’s right, I diagnosed him) personality disorder. And people cared.
But the sad part for Lauer (as a journalist anyway) is that people cared before the interview. The story wasn’t interesting. The person in the story was already of interest before this morning.
Now, I’d like to give credit to TLC producers for finding the craziest fucking guy they could and putting him on TV. But then I remember that they are TLC producers. They’re not looking for "Bad Girls Club," they’re looking for Ken Burns with multiple babies.
It just goes to prove what I’ve always said: if you want to be on reality TV at all, you’re a fire-crazy asshole.
P.S. Have you seen Mariah Carey’s new album? Does she go up a cup size with each new release? Every album is like a Maxim magazine cover. In fact, she should start an Oprah-style magazine and put herself in salacious poses on newsstands every month. We need a licentious Oprah. We have for a while.
Christine told the magazine, "They raised $120 – I think a few parents stopped by and dropped twenties." And Ben added, "When you're lucky enough to have things in your life and you're brought up with that, it's hard for kids to know what it's like not to have that because that's just not their reality."
Which brings us to our lesson for the day. Go fuck this new guy, fine. Leave the abusive old guy, absolutely. But don’t do either because you think the new guy is going to be better than the old guy. Odds are – and I’ve done research on this – that the new guy is just as big of a douche fountain as the old guy. .jpg "http://www.eleventhdraft.com/fck_files/Image/Kardash(2).jpg")
