A crack about Madonna breaking her hip is just too obvious, I am more worried that she may have fractured the tiny souls she’s consumed over the years to look this good at 56. Those souls live in her body and Madonna thrives off of their sweat, tears and blood. Don’t worry though, Kabbalah heals all.
Guiliana irks me as she fuels the fire for strangers to urge her to eat a cheeseburger. I try to keep my thoughts on people’s weight to myself because, well, have you seen me lately? However, for G, as her E News’ family of horrors call her, she made her health personal by chronicling her infertility and her fight with breast cancer. Her insights were touching, but G’s insistence that her career necessitates that she be rail thin is bogus, she demands that on herself. I don’t pretend to understand, kleptomania and an eating disorder are probably the only two dangerous behaviors I did not
dabble with in my troubled youth, but G looks frighteningly frail. Regardless, Fashion Police should end and G needs to take a few weeks off, regroup, get back to her “journalistic roots” and rejoice in the absence of Kelly Osbourne.
Kelly, my favorite, most annoying violet-haired, uneducated
celebrity spawn. Let’s all celebrate that she jumped from the sinking ship that is E Fashion Police, but spun it to appear that she was offended by G’s ruthless comments about Zendaya. Kelly O. is not as dumb as I thought, she’s got some of Sharon’s rotten blood flowing in her veins: she knew that without Joan Rivers, this show is useless and she got out before it got really bad.
ABC’s Secrets and Lies is worth the watch. Ryan Phillippe is the star and his glorious abs have a costarring role. I never knew how much I missed Ryan until I watched a few minutes of this show. How I longed for his strong jaw, shifty eyes, off-key delivery and yes, his abs. Juliet Lewis strips herself of her usual quirkiness and plays a detective, the best in her field, of course. It’s entertaining and there’s some kind of murder mystery wrapped around Phillippe’s defined biceps.
Kid Rock’s getting stale.
People are like, ‘Beyoncé’s hot. Got a nice fucking ass.’ I’m like, ‘Cool, I like skinny white chicks with big tits.’ Doesn’t really fucking do much for me.”
An excerpt from Kid Rock’s insipid interview in Rolling Stone.
If you want a hearty laugh of the “oh, where’s the humanity?”
variety, pick up the latest issue of Rolling Stone and read the Kid Rock article. No, I’m not whining about his love of hunting, I’m no PETA card-holder, but just read it to witness Kid Rock’s coolness thin like his scraggly hair. I don’t hate Kid Rock, he’s stayed relevant for years and he hasn’t changed his redneck ways, but I have a problem with his created existence. Kid Rock is from Romeo, Michigan. His father owned several car dealerships and the family lived on a six-acre orchard where they would ride horses and pick apples. Sounds ideal, right? Sounds drastically different than his “American bad-ass” persona. Yes, rednecks can hail from affluent backgrounds, but that is not what Kid Rock professes to be. He wants you to read about his simple life, shooting wildlife in his double wide. Bore.
Harrison Ford is landing a plane at the age of 72 and I need to swallow a fistful of anti-anxiety meds to get on a plane? Damn, this man is a true American bad-ass, can he show Kid Rock how it’s done? In true Beverly Hills fashion, after Harrison Ford landed his plane, he was assisted by a spine surgeon who just so happened to be golfing in the area Ford crashed. Only in L.A.
In my mind, Prince was on the basketball team that I cheered for in high school, but then I remember that my high school was 99.4 free of funk.