The tabloids both reputable and not are reporting that Sandra Bullock’s husband Jesse James cheated on her with a tattoo model named Michelle Bombshell McGee. Sidenote: best name ever. Just sayin’.
Now, whether or not he cheated is none of my damn business. And I’m sorry he felt the need to apologize publicly, because again. None my bidness.
However, my darlin’ told me this evening that McGee was raised Amish. What is it with former Amish peeps? Something about the quiet, some might say repressed childhoods lead to rebellions of massive proportions. Meth labs in barns? Puppy mills in backyards? Peanuts. Bombshell McGee is just another in a long line of defectors who when they rebel, rebel hard.
Whatever the truth may be about the situation, it got a little more interesting.
I watched The Ugly Truth with the intent of writing a long and involved post about its sexist, misogynistic, misandrist nonsense. But instead, I’ll say this. It’s stupid. Everyone involved with it from the writer to the second extra on the right is phoning it in. And it shows.
To boil it down, the movie was not worth my time. Not watching it and not writing about it. The End.
So, hey, Miss Beverly Hills 2010. If you use a Bible verse that explicitly condones killing gay men as your “proof” that God doesn’t want gay people to get married, you cannot later claim to have gay friends. You may know gay people. You may even pretend that you like them. But you certainly have no idea how to talk about the issue of equal rights and same sex marriage without sounding like a bigoted jackass.
It’s super fun when companies co-opt famous children’s shows to make weird, overly sexy costumes for a holiday that really needs to stop being ridiculous.
The random pop-up text over the Cookie Monster costume kills me.
Dear Diary,
Do you think I’ll ever have my very own Ouija board? One that doesn’t look all scary and dudish? One that makes me feel totes like a girl while I try to contact the dead? Cause I just want to know who’s thinking about me right now. From beyond the grave that is. I hope it’s Heath Ledger, cause he was, like, the sexiest Joker ever. My mom told me that if I’m lucky, maybe James Dean will say hi, but I don’t want to talk to some weird sausage guy. What’s that Diary? There is a Ouija board for me, the girlest girl who ever chicked? I want three!
It has been five years, FIVE YEARS, since Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt split up. I didn’t happen to know this info off the top of my head. Thanks to People Magazine, I won’t have any trouble remembering.
Why People still continues to frame Aniston’s life around her ex-husband is beyond me. She’s a movie star. She seems like kind of a cool chick. She’s had other relationships, and she rarely talks about her marriage to Le Pitt except when asked. It isn’t as though the tabloids and rag mags aren’t interested in Pitt’s romantic life, but there’s something off-putting about this kind of coverage.
It’s a throwback kind of attitude that defines a woman by her man, and it stinks. The way reporters write about her, you’d think Aniston was sitting around every night all, “I has a sad and my saddy sad clown face hurts me every night when I think of Braddy boy.” Ridic.
Also astoundingly gross? That they would run this story below one about the earthquake in Haiti. That is what is known as a sensitivity fail.
People make fun of American Idol. Call it the death of music and an affront to real artists. But truly talented singers audition and get noticed. Take Jermaine Sellars:
He’s a church singer taking care of his mom who has spina bifida. He is the opposite of cynicism. Such a great voice…
I was on a t.v. website I used to love, and their poll of the day was Jersey Shore: Appalling or Awesome. I voted appalling, because everything about the show reeks of desperation and penicillin, but the results surprised me a little.
Sometimes I watch Bret Michaels: Rock of Love. I am not proud of it. Inevitably, I need to shower afterwards. What I really don’t get is why women find him attractive. Dude is busted.
He wasn’t always so cracked. In his Poison days, he had a dirty, rocker appeal.
Not really my type, but I get it. The muscles and the the insouciant smile. (Yes, I used the word insouciant to describe Bret Michaels. No, I am not on drugs.)
But in the past few years, he has started to…lose his appeal. To put it nicely.
The perma-tan. The ratty extensions. The Botox. The stench of desperation and Penicillin. Yeah, I just don’t get it.
