por Ted Casablanca | Traduzido Por | Seg., 7 abr. 2008 00:01
Dan Herrick/KPA/ZUMA Press
Point being, could we stop picking on the women (almost always) on these talent shows, encouraging them to become chatted-up, carved-up and starved-up cartoon characters? Let’s get a damn panel show going for that, shall we? Call it Who Wants to Be a Mutilated Millionaire?
A.J.’s donned blood vials around her neck, made out with her brother, dressed Goth to the Oscars, possibly broken up a Hollywood marriage and adopted kids of all colors round the globe. And this, a few slightly mature but certainly legal pics snapped 17 years ago, is a scandal? More like a slow news week.
We’ll tell you what peeves us more than media outlets treating this like past pedophilia—we sure as hell didn’t look as effing gorgeous as Angiekins did at 16. We were all pimples and puberty, like we assumed every other teen was at that age. Guess not! Who knew Jon Voight had flawless sperm?
Jesse Grant/WireImage.com, Angel Chevrestt/ZUMA Press
Next thing ya know, Obama’s gonna befriend Flava Flav on MySpace, and Hillary will do a guest spot on Gossip Girl. At least we know Spencer could step in as his political advisor, since he’s doin' such a bang-up job at Radar mag.
Warner Bros. Records
Is this A's way of getting back into the game after losing some relevance? Or is this a big eff-off to Ryan Reynolds, showing what a real woman looks like, as opposed to Scarlett’s movie-star, sex-kitten schtick? The whole hot-bod angle smells of desperation (not to mention Jen Aniston doing the exact same thing in Vanity Fair shortly after she got dumped by Brad for man-muncher Jolie), and we know something that sells better than sex: good music.
Now, haven’t we been saying for, like, friggin’ ever that Mr. C needs to shake it evil up to get his damn Oscar? And if the following nugget ain’t the type of Magnolia-esque, over-the-top delight that helped get T.C. his last nomination, I don’t know what is:
“My favorite line [from Cruise],” relays Desk Tropic, “was, ‘I am going to shove my fist so far up your ass, my wedding ring is going to come out your mouth!' ”
From Jane in Charlotte, N.C.:
“Can't I just get a prescription for antidepressants from one of the two quacks and pop them in front of Ms. Kidman's ex until he blows a gasket? That seems like such fun!”
Dear Pill Popper:
It is fun! It’s also pretty glib.
From Barbara in Manitowoc, Wis.:
Britney's lawyer, 'cause I'd get money.
Dear Britney’s Law:
Ya don’t think LiLo’s throwing a couple bucks her sponsor’s way to look in the other direction on all those Villa visits?
From Jen in Cleveland:
Xtina's kid. Hotter baby daddy.
No Good Charlotte fanatics here, but even we gotta say Joel Madden was a little bit more blessed in the looks department than Jordan Bratman. Hey, the guy’s the lead singer in a band, he’s gotta look the part...Whereas Jordy stays behind the scenes, thankfully.
I would rather give up Internet access altogether than even pick through that vomitorium of choices, each as flesh-crawling as the next. Maybe some more user-friendly choices next time?
Dear Puke Rebuke:
Vomitorium? So harsh, girl! You make it sound like we only offered up Teri Hatcher smooch sessions!
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