Wednesday, December 31, 2008

The Shitty, Or: Whitney Port Has Dumpface

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For real. Her emotive capabilities are limited to faces she probably makes whilst pooing. Hence, DUMPFACE. Let's start with the upper left and work around counterclockwise, hm?

1) omg i can't believe that much fecal matter came out of me. whats does fecal mean?

2)so thats where my cellphone was!

3)ew is that corn and blood?

4)mmmm gimme a spoon



I wanted to avoid droves of drunken mofos on this NYE, so I decided to punish myself in another way by watching the premiere episodes of The City. Some thoughts:

Whitney = twat. still boring, but more entertaining than LC. has manhands
Olivia = cunt
Erin = idiot. still not really sure who she is
Jay = douchebag. looks like if Adrian Grenier and Joe Jonas had a lovechild
Adam = douchenozzle. probably in love with Jay
Alex = toolbox. looks like if Pete Doherty got his grill worked on and stayed sober for a few days

Mostly, the girls appear to be sex robots whose creator forgot to program them. And Jay. . . seriously? When he first spoke, I thought he was deaf. Then maybe Australian, then confirmed Australian. Apparently "bob's your uncle" means "there you have it." I love when people with foreign accents imitate Americans. They always sound so cracker-ass-cracker-honky-whitebread-peckerwood.

Dear Olivia,
So I see you think very highly of yourself, being a "social" and everything. I just wanted to remind you that the only reason anyone knows who you are is that you auditioned to play the part of a Stepford Skank's frienemy on a nearly-scripted reality show. You're such a social, and you got your first pair of Manolo Blahniks at age 18? I'm calling shenanigans on you, bitch.
p.s. Stop trying to make "social" happen. It's NOT going to happen.
xoxo,
Schad

Diane von Fürstenberg's birthday was actually today. She's 62 but looks infinity years old. Quite undead. Methinks she feeds on the souls of babies.

I loved Olivia's reaction when Jay showed up at her dinner party. She was P-I-S-E-D. Pised?

I enjoyed Alex's confrontation with Jay at that club. It's a little difficult to appear intimidating in a loud club when you have to speak right into someone's ear, making it look like they're about to have an intense make-out sesh.

And Whitney: "I don't know who to trust." Really? What gives you that impression? The fact that these fame-hungry whores are paid to be your friends or was it all the producers and story editors whispering into everyone's ears?

In summation, Whitney Port can go eat a bowl of dicks. Bob's Your uncle.

Futuramadrama

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Let me tell you part of my plan for the future. It includes several disgustingly wealthy men dying in mysterious manners and leaving me all their money. I plan on being absolutely shocked when they keep dying, one after another. The following section is an excerpt from my future autobiography:

First there was Jerome. He made his fortune designing a revolutionary system of penile function for female-to-male transsexuals. He showered me with lavish gifts; and ironically, on the day his will was finalized, he passed away from an acute allergic reaction to peanuts. I blame Cook. Who leaves peanut oil next to the lube anyway? After him, I became involved with Eli. He was a great man who lobbied for and subsequently succeeded in reinstating the legality of hunting whales for ambergris. I practically bathed in it every night during our two short years together. I had no idea he was into auto-erotic asphyxiation until I found his corpse hanging from the ceiling with his swollen, purple dick out. Then there was Heff. He was so old by that time that he had no idea I was a man. He was blind, stroked out, and going senile. Our relationship consisted mostly of me giving him his afternoon viagra, manual stimulation, and drowsing off while he recalled the good old days. I had to wear a bra and heels for a few years of my life, but it was worth it. For him I mean. Worth it because. . . he was. . . so sweet. One day when I was away at the spa, he mistakenly took an entire bottle of viagra thinking it was his blood pressure medication. It broke his heart--literally.

After them, my friend Jay and I will move into a giant estate together. He will have had at least an equal number of men in his life, also dying and leaving him wealthy. We're going to get old in style. And by "in style," I mean doing whatever the fuck we want. Our staff will be comprised of attractive young men. My personal ones will be immigrants, mainly from Russia, who feel they have no choice but to work for me because they're in the country illegally. And I promise to get them legitimized for their service, and threaten them with deportation when they fuck up. Actually I think I'm going to need at least one burly, middle-aged woman in a classic maid uniform, maybe Zoila from Flipping Out. Jay and I will play the Blame Game. The point is to shit and piss somewhere in the house, blame the other, and convince Zoila it was the other nasty fucker she works for. I'll bribe her with promises of an educational fund for her grandbabies if she keeps Jay's "accidents" quiet. This will ensure whispers among the rest of the staff of how filthy Jay is. And we'll laugh all the while. And when we don't want to blame each other, we'll "accidentally" get our colostomy and catheter bags caught on furniture so they explode everywhere. I'm thinking perhaps every two years or so, we'll have Black Friday. We'll fire EVERYONE except Zoila, just to see those poor foreigners hearts and dreams break. We'll have already held interviews and hired replacements without telling anyone so they can show up at a moment's notice.

We think we might affix sex toys to the tips off our canes. That way, there are even more demeaning possibilities for when we sexually harass all the boys on the daily. I suppose we'll have pets, but we'll for sure have some dudes with buttplugs in that have wagging rubber tails. And when Barbara Walters rolls in to interview us, the "doggies" will be sniffing ALL up in her ancient, wizened crotch.

We're going to befriend Condoleezza Rice, gain her confidence, and call her Aunt Tom behind her back. Then one day when she least expects it, we'll push her down the stairs backwards. We'll keep Britney Spears in a cage and make her dance for her meals. The corpse of Janice Dickinson will haunt our basement.

Soooo, can anyone hook me up with Heff?

I'm Shallow

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I got a shirt one night for Hanukkah. I opened the package, looked at the shirt, and thought, "ew, no thanks." I tossed it aside. The next day I took another look at it. I noticed that it was in fact Custo Barcelona, so I thought, "cute shirt."