It occurs to me that there is an upcoming issue of Spooge or Jizz or some such magazine that will be doing a pictorial on the the women of Tiger Woods. And the good money says that the title will be something along the lines of "The Ladies and the Tiger" or "Wood Nymphs: A Tasty Pictorial Four Holes Short of a Round."
Maybe I'm the only person that thinks this but despite Jolie's in your face sex appeal and Pitt's sexy boy reputation and abs, I find it hard to imagine that sex between them is sexy in any way. I think they each lack a sort of earthiness that comes with good sexiness and that beard does not increase the earthiness factor in any way.
There was long an (alleged) rumor that the Enquirer and AMI's other gossip rags went easy on Arnold Schwarzenegger's spicy (and allegedly gropey) past when he was running for governor of California in exchange for keeping him involved with the company's muscle magazines. Synergy!
When you can't trust the journalistic standards of the publisher of Weekly World News, who can you trust?
I haven't lived in the states in a while, but is $13 an hour actually considered 'good money' in NYC these days? If so, does everyone still live with their parents and eat intermittently?
@Lysergic Asset: According to the Living Wage Calculator, $13 an hour would count as a 'living wage' though it depends on exactly where in NYC one lives.
Living Wage Calculator here: [snipurl.com]
@Lysergic Asset: $13 an hour is an awful wage. I was making $15 an hour under the table doing construction 20 years ago.
She doesn't live in NYC; I believe her moniker is "The Princess of Poughkeepsie."
Well, you just knew some kind of diabolical media dealings were happening. As much as Le Tigre likes to fuck it's almost like he damned near dared the media to find all his famewhoring fuck-holes and places he liked to take them, pics of his dong, his vicodin, his lame "daddy long stroke" voicemails...sheesh, I've never heard of anyone poorer at subterfuge. It's like he was Ron Jeremy doing his biz during the dinner hour at the Russian Tea Room and nobody noticed a damnable thing.
I think Brangelina (which to me sounds like some bran-based Tang) would be treated like the word "couple" in the AP Stylebook, which, I'm pretty sure means it's singular when referring to them as one unit (The Brangelina has to deal with that beard during sex) and when "couple" is used in the sense of two individuals together, it's plural (Brangelina aren't married, they're just living in beard-y sin).
Hugh Grant has never been married. I know, because I send mail proposing to him frequently and he always turns me down.
Brad Pitt always grows that billy-goat beard when he's souring on his woman. He did the same thing in the last year or two of his marriage to Jennifer Aniston. I wonder if it's in order to turn them off him physically? That's probably the last thing to go given he's not much of a catch intellectually.
@Trixie from Toronto: This is true; the article just lists those people as Trope's clients, but it doesn't mean she served in a divorce-lawyer capacity for them, which she obviously couldn't have.
Angelina had a tummy tuck after the twins (which she has admitted to). First thing the doctors ask you is: "you know there's no more kids after this, right?" Because they remove the blown-out muscles so there is not enough muscles left for a baby to expand. So I think she's letting these stories happen, but the only children they will continue to have will be adopted ones.
That dead ferret on Brad's face is just amazing. It's like, your eye runs down and sees a neatly trimmed 'stache evocative of Erroll Flynn, and then is sucked into a hobo maelstrom that ends in a sad dust bunny from a closet corner in a deserted haunted house.
@Chip Skylark of Space: Lookit here son, I say son, did ya see that hawk after those hens? He scared 'em! That Rhode Island Red turned white. Then blue. Rhode Island. Red, white, and blue. That's a joke, son. A flag waver. You're built too low. The fast ones go over your head. Ya got a hole in your glove. I keep pitchin' 'em and you keep missin' 'em. Ya gotta keep your eye on the ball. Eye. Ball. I almost had a gag, son. Joke, that is.
@BadUncle: I didn't think of that, but when I looked for a picture of Harlan Sanders, I was shocked to see how close to a soul patch his facial hair was. I guess I'd forgotten.
So, here's to our nation's fake colonels, and Angelina getting some fried chicken at home.
@BadUncle: It looks amazing, stunning even, from a safe distance. (Not in a remotely sexxxy way, but amazing. Yeah.)
But imagine being in the shower, having a pleasant daydream, when the curtain moves a bit and your beloved joins you. You feel warm breath on your neck, and then... IT happens.
A sodden tendril touches down, followed by more, until it's like a soggy convention of used Brillo pads on your neck. There is a faint scent of burger n' fries, which you recall he had for lunch yesterday. It's as though someone is scrubbing your neck with a roadkill hedgehog.
You scream and scream.
Somewhere, miles away, a small flock of seagulls thuds down onto a boardwalk, all feathers akimbo and lifeless eyes staring at eternity.
And when thought returns, it comes on a cloud of Barbasol.
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Didn't Tiger bite Roy in Vegas a few years ago?
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When you can't trust the journalistic standards of the publisher of Weekly World News, who can you trust?
12/18/09
This thing just never ends, does it.
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Living Wage Calculator here: [snipurl.com]
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She doesn't live in NYC; I believe her moniker is "The Princess of Poughkeepsie."
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Why not just have sex with the shoe, Jimmy Choo, Jimmy Choo?
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Word nerd out!
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Brad Pitt always grows that billy-goat beard when he's souring on his woman. He did the same thing in the last year or two of his marriage to Jennifer Aniston. I wonder if it's in order to turn them off him physically? That's probably the last thing to go given he's not much of a catch intellectually.
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i'm pretty sure THAT is my Fear Factor
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So, here's to our nation's fake colonels, and Angelina getting some fried chicken at home.
12/18/09
But imagine being in the shower, having a pleasant daydream, when the curtain moves a bit and your beloved joins you. You feel warm breath on your neck, and then... IT happens.
A sodden tendril touches down, followed by more, until it's like a soggy convention of used Brillo pads on your neck. There is a faint scent of burger n' fries, which you recall he had for lunch yesterday. It's as though someone is scrubbing your neck with a roadkill hedgehog.
You scream and scream.
Somewhere, miles away, a small flock of seagulls thuds down onto a boardwalk, all feathers akimbo and lifeless eyes staring at eternity.
And when thought returns, it comes on a cloud of Barbasol.
12/18/09
12/18/09
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