Proving that she's not as literally ill-equipped for public discourse as her sister, Pete Wentz' baby mama, Ashlee Simpson, has nonetheless displayed an impressively substance-less intellect regarding the ills of cultural prejudice and tabloid shaming.
After the blogosphere understandably recoiled with horrified curiosity at pics of Jessica Simpson resembling a middle-age metastasized version of her normal figure, lil' sis shot back with the groundbreaking rhetorical inquiry, "Since when did a woman's weight become newsworthy?"
Despite presumed muffled-cough interruptions from Jennifer Love Hewitt, Ann Wilson, Kirstie Alley and the late corpose of Luther Vandross, the recent mother (apparently having missed months of boilerplate commentary on weight-obsession in Hollywood while training a swat team of stay-at-home nannies) went on to add that it's "embarrassing and belittling to all women to read about a woman's weight
or figure as a headline on FOX News." And even expressed concern that the scorn surrounding her sister's fried-chicken chic would undermine the post-Obama "feeling of hope in
the air for our country."
Spoken like a truly out-of-touch celebrity with no conception of that fact that a vast majority of Americans are actually, contrary to herself and Jessica, struggling with issues much greater than cholestorol counting. Such as, oh, I don't know being unemployed and about 27 million dollars less comfortable than the Simpson brood.
I haven't seen this much fervor over the glimpse of a newborn baby since Jesus emerged from a pile of divine afterbirth. But alas, the regally christened Knox and Vivienne, kin of ones Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, have surpassed the fascination with Suri Cruise and become a point of obsession for paparazzi and pop-culture obsessives.
And finally, the little tots were unleashed before the salivating lenses of crafty cameramen.
You can view the pics here. Some folks are saying they're adorable. I personally don't get suckered into the ideology of infant adorableness by default. You gotta work for my kiddie kudos. Or at least develop into a toddler without regressing into something akin to, well, the father himself toward the conclusion of Benjamin Button.
Even amidst semi-legitimate websites and all-inclusive gossip blogs, one thing has remained resoundingly clear about the Internet: It was designed for the proliferation of booby pictures. OK, and maybe an occasional facial (NSFW) or finger fuck. But the "candid" celebrity shot and red-carpet nip slips that fill out headlines like implants in a waterbra have truly captured our cultural zeitgeist. Although the tried-and-true movie-still compilers, like Mr. Skin, still possess a necessary function for cyber-pervs the world over.
However, like a record-label A & R rep indiscriminately scouring MySpace for hot acts, the wider the net is cast, the more likely you're gonna catch a few stinkers you'd rather throw back in the ocean.
So for reasons no less superficial than these images' original publication, and if anything, to take the piss out of folks dangled on high as the beautiful ones, we present the 10 least arousing nude celebrity boobs (10, of course, as in five pairs of two). And in the interest of being an equal-opportunity sexist, we may even produce a sequel to this feature that reappropriates its, ehem, titular meaning and breaks down the most orgasm-killing male Hollywood mimbos. And suffice to say, virtually every link from here on out is NSFW, meaning we expect a hearty boost in page views between the hours of 6 p.m. and midnight.
10. & 9. Victoria Beckham, aka Posh Spice
It's hard to say which one of Posh's not-so-perky perforations deserves more of a honest, cups-off assessment, number nine or 10. Oh, heck, we'll call it a wash. But the bottom line is, for all her preening around in the newest haute coutoure, push-up-undergarment abuse and implicitly demeaning infrared glances at the rest of Earth's female populus, we wouldn't want to hop in the shower and soap up those plump-yet-shapeless post-pregnancy glands.
8. & 7. Teri Hatcher
Memo to Seinfeld's fact-checkers (and yes, we are contractually obligated to incorporate a Seinfeld reference in every other post): They might be real, but they're not exactly spectacular. When the would-be glamorous Desperate Housewives queen bitch bared all in cheapo flick The Cool Surface, someone should have ordered some hot maple syrup, because those babies are what those in the know refer to as pancake boobs.
Hey, listen. Once in a while this site has to live up to elements of its URL. Especially if it can secretly suck you in and divert your attention to awesome Golden Globe fashion wrap-ups like this one.
But OK, if you won't stop your clamoring for candidly nekkid images of your favorite reality television stars, I suppose we can suffice. Hell, it's not like a little thing called ethical standards have stopped us before. And who can say no to a little accidental, bikini-exposed side titty (NSFW), courtesy of Whitney Port, start of MTV's The Hills spinoff, The City? (See how that whole delayed rhyme thing worked there and made us feel less silly about using the word titty?)
First Audrina Patridge, now Whitney... Lauren Conrad better watch her ass, and boobs and vajayjay, because the stalkerazzi lenses no doubt have their sights set on the queen bee next.
Amy Winehouse getting on the mend was fairly apparent when nude photos (NSFW) of a healthy looking (if not wildly sexually appealing) Wineo frolicking on the beach with new boyfriend Josh Bowman smothered the Internet.
But in a new interview, she confirms that she'll avoid becoming the next Nancy Spungen, largely due to dumping her Sid VIcious-meets-Pete Doherty, soon-to-be-ex-husband Blake Fielder-Civil, getting off drugs and banging her new Beauman like it's, well, everybody's business.
Of course, it's unlikely many skeptics are removing her from the upper echelons of their death pool just yet. But given Winehouse's genuinely astounding talent (frankly, while apples and oranges, her voice rivals that of a Beyonce, accept she seems to actually have some sense of a soulful legacy), it's hard not to root for everyone's favorite wig-wearing Jewess to make it through. You go, girl!
Since the fine folks at TMZ have nothing better to do than spy on mismatched celebrities canoodling together, and since NCDSUV has everything better to do than play voyeur on their findings but opts for lethargy, we thought we'd put in our two cents about Nicollette Sheridan and David Spade. You see, apparently, the puzzling pair were spotted dining last night, after allegedly hooking up back in November, which of course came in the wake of Sheridan ditching adult-contempo super-stud Michael Bolton.
Now, do us a favor and read that again. Michael. Bolton. Being that mystified as to why she'd make the supposed step down from Mr. Sensitive to Mr. Sarcastic would be like feigning utter shock at Sheridan leaving a relationship with Kenny G for recent Awesome Celebrity Birthday honoree Kenny Loggins. Or in other words, it's a relatively lateral move.
Speaking of which, you seen this Desperate Housewife's lats lately? Daaaaamn! Someone's trying to make sure she comes out on the right side of the PR battle of her breakup.
Ah, the innocent days of 2008. When recession, war and high-profile celebrity deaths became the glue to bond us together like societal Siamese siblings. But now it's 2009, a whole new era, a whole new ballgame. And not just for Washington, who will call Barack Obama their overlord, or the New York Yankees, who will take the field with C.C. Sabathia and Mark Texeira and still manage to lose the pennant to smaller-budgeted organizations.
It is the final stand for celebrity land in a decade that has alternately enthralled and repulsed us. It is a time for Hollywood to make its mark on culture and the planet at large, and really give 'em the good stuff we all cream for in the tabloids.
And we got off to an intermittently intriguing start, thanks largely to the birth of what could have been the First Granddaughter-in-waiting, and a certain wayward actress' parent who may love his share of his daughter's spotlight more than the woman herself. So without any pregnant pauses, here's the top 5 things NCDSUV learned this week.
4. Paul McCartney may have had to navigate Heather Mills' body sexually despite her prosthetic leg, but at least he didn't have to stick around till midnight to ritualistically spray-tan the thing.
Always ones to make their own news by inciting celebrity tempers, or reporting on it when fellow paparazzi prod and needle the beautiful people, TMZ caught Jessica Alba's hubbie, Cash Warren, getting feisty with a cameraman the other night.
You see, the pap's car bumped into Warren's, so the emasculated spouse-of-someone-more-famous-than-him got out of his car to be all, "Hey dick, don't you see by the quality of my man-scarf that I mean serious business when it comes to fender benders?" But then when Warren tried to do the tried-and-true "muss up your equipment" girly-fight move, the photog scuffled back, and Warren wisely retreated to his SUV.
Granted, TMZ and their kin are a bit like a schoolyard bully who starts a fight just so he has something to tattle to the teacher about. But what is it with mega-hot female celebs (Alba, Christina Aguilera, et al) getting hitched to schlebby dudes with crappy beards? Or more to the point, if that's their pattern, than where's my high-profile sugar mamma?
While the rest of you lazy schlubs were spending the holiday week glugging down eggnog and making sexy eyes at that random third cousin whose bloodline connection feels tenuous at best, NCDSUV was still soaking in the pop culture rays.
Humorously enough, however, there was a conspicuous paucity of tabloid-friendly stories breaking over the last several days. This could lean one to hypothetsize that much of the entertainment world's daily headlines harbor hazy significance at best and are generated so the blogosphere merely has an excuse to catalyze conversation and ramp up page views.
But, of course, we're not that cynical. We are, however, newly educated on everything from Michael Jackson's supposedly deteriorating lung to Amy Winehouse's most certainly replenished bosom. Here are the top five things we learned for this final full week of 2008, in a very much specific order. 5. Despite our very keen eye for newly portly former sex symbols, Kathleen Turner's massive tumble into terrifyingly negative sex appeal slipped through a canyon-sized crack. She might portray a dog trainer in Marley & Me, but it appears her personal workout coach really screwed the pooch.
4. Just when we thought we were out.... Actually, it's Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt who are out... (wait for it, wait for it) of their minds! And in and out of matrimony, as they teased us with yet another wedding-related ratings booster on The Hills, only to hold off on an official ceremony as a presumed cocktease for their inevitable spinoff show. Hey, it's not like marriage has been a particularly sanctified concept in recent decades anyway, so these two nutballs may as well shit all over it to advance their careers.
Actually, heroin-hottie Amy Winehouse doesn't look all that bad in these paparazzi pics (NSFW, in more ways than one) of her sunbathing topless in the Caribbean. Which has sparked more conversation than the actual nudity itself. Besides, we've all seen enough pictures of her in her underwear roaming helplessly around London streets by now.
However, just two throw my two cents in about her pair of public-peeking mammories, I do have to confess: They were a lot less, er, skeletal looking than I would have imagined. Although it's mostly a shock to see her wet hair matted down sans retro extension. Of course, given that she was still adorned in a bikini bottom, so no telling if the bush matches the beehive.
OK, that deserved as much of an ewww as the news of the leaked pics themselves, but it was sort of begging for it.
Today marks the launch of NCDSUV's splenetic, embittered new weekly feature, Overdressed & Underclassed, which with each installment will dissect a different aspect of celebrity fashion with the enthusiasm and exactitude of a taxidermist suffering from the second clinical phase of rabies (caution: We have reached the contagious stage).
In this inaugural piece, we will explore the prevalent problem of personality disorders among the glitterati and their affect on our ability to surf the Web and flip through glossies without causing our eyes, nay, our very souls, to bleed. One in five adults has a personality disorder that can interfere with their ability to separate fact from fiction, zebras from zinnias and prettiness from pulchritude. And logic dictates that personality disorders would affect celebrities more than the rest of the species. Today, we're focusing on female offenders.
9. Madonna Diagnosis: Schizoid Personality Disorder Madge bears all of the unfortunate hallmarks of SPD: odd dress, beliefs and behavior; palpable discomfort with close relationships; inappropriate emotional responses; and "magical thinking," i.e. the belief that you can influence people and events with your thoughts alone. Her Madgesty's sartorial sins are really just drops in her shiny, black-latex crazypants bucket, but they are significant nonetheless. Since the dawn of the new millennium and (coincidentally?) middle age, the Material Girl lost her fashion touch. The heady days of drooling over a brash, grinning bleach-blond in cone bras, tacky-chic lace gloves, insanely poofy but totally cute taffeta skirts, (ironic) religious jewelry and an armful of black rubber bracelets are gone. Now we've got snaps of a snarling Ms. Ciccone flexing her pale, ropy limbs for the stalkerazzi in her skuzziest skull-emblazoned workout gear or sporting questionable couture. Worst of all, Marc Jacobs, generally brilliant but a total ditz when it comes to selecting his "muses," is perpetuating, under-writing and encouraging the fashion train wreck by signing Madonna as the new face of Louis Vuitton. The new, frozen, swollen, sullen, skin-tight skullface of Louis Vuitton.
8. Amy Winehouse Diagnosis: Borderline Personality Disorder There are a few things you can depend on with Wino: glittering eyes that perpetually burn with the spark of chaos and fashion choices that clearly reflect her BPD; impulsive and risky behavior (see: the shameless cultivation of her omnipresent beehive and frequent decisions to don bras as tops and sport see-through tank tops sans necessary supportive undergarments); lack of stability (see: repeated sidewalk spills due to a deadly cocktail and total inability to commit to either crackwhore chic or baglady chic); and volatile relationships (see: an apparent total disregard for her apparel, as expressed through repeated cutting, shredding and tearing of wife beaters and Daisy Dukes).
7. Winona Ryder Diagnosis: Antisocial Personality Disorder Ryder was the '90s rolled up into one gloomy, pale, listless (yet still strangely perky and idealistic) package, but since then her star has been eclipsed by the go-go Hollywood hussies of the aughts. During her Icarus-like flameout into B-status, the erstwhile drab packer threw off the oversized flannel but maintained her distinctly APD approach to clothing herself. Winona's condition is characterized by a disregard for others, a persistent streak of lying and stealing, recurring difficulties with the law and repeated violations of the rights of others. Like her career, her targets of thievery have spiraled downward; this year, she was accused of stealing make-up from CVS. Winona was never officially charged.
6. The Olsen Twins Diagnosis: Avoidant Personality Disorder The direful dyad has always worn APD (feelings of inadequacy, extreme shyness in social situations, timidity, social isolation, hypersensitivity to criticism or rejection) on its hyper-tailored sleeves. The reclusive, creepy-close genetic photocopies have never really been accepted by young Hollywood's reigning nightlife cabal (Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole RIchioe, et al), likely perpetuating the Olsens' already gossamer grip on sanity. Currently, their increasingly pinched, pixie-like faces can rarely be spied poking through their cascading blond tresses and under their titanic shades as they clutch each other and shuffle on their reedy little stems in Grey Gardens-esque "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale gear (giant fur coats atop leggings and high-rise platform heels, paired with giant designer bags in exotic skins and ludicrous scarves) from one awkward press event to the next. When Ashley and Mary-Kate muster enough courage to emerge from Cousin It mode and smile for the cameras, the results are invariable cringetastic, their pasty, angular faces resembling kabuki masks suddenly coming to life.
Yes, that's right folks, we're staying on the beat of all the breaking news regarding Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt's supposedly legit nuptials. Because here at NCDSUV, we know what really matters to the American public (or at least that's what our page views tell us).
And while they were conspicuously strolling through LAX, with Heidi dressed to the nines and a TMZ crew ready and waiting for their arrival (imagine the douche chills invoked from the constant phone calls between the stalkerazzi website and that couple's PR reps... e-gads), Spencer confirmed that having little Hollywood demon spawn is the next step in their plan to take over the universe (the one after that being a suspicious roofie in Barack Obama's "World's Greatest Audio-Book Orator" mug).
And given the celebrity rite of passage of naming your child something indulgently outrageous, as if to cast a self-fulfilling prohecy of creative good fortune upon them, one can only imagine what their little bundles of botox will be christened. Feel free to e-mail your suggestions to nudecelebritydeathsuv@gmail.com, and we'd be happy as a Hills marathon in heat to publish the most elite offerings.
Oh, and watch the above clip and try not to vomit up your late-day office snack.
Despite only being 16 and spending most of her life lacking in normal socialization or formal education, Miley Cyrus is apparently fluent in American culture's contradictory puritanical attitudes when it comes to sexuality. Must be from fellating that 20-year-old man kabob of hers (and yes, I'm entirely comfortable making a living writing about teenage girls and their "man kabobs").
Was I the only one who read the snippets from her UK interview (in which she suggested her notorious Vanity Fairphoto shoot with Annie Leibovitz was better received overseas because "the States are really conservative, and that she might even relocate to London) and thought, "Ya know, you're right pop padawan. The worldliness and perspective you've attained from travelling the globe in private jet planes and spending seven-hour stints in different cities' hotel penthouses not only imbues you with the authority to comment on societal uptightness and hypocrisy, but has helped me lose weight without having to eat Subway for each of my day's three meals anymore"?
If drawing come on things were a skill, than Perez Hilton would be the grand champion, wandering through Washington Square Park going from table to table with a white MS Paint marker screaming “Checkmate” at his dimwitted opponents. A dash here and there on Miley Cyrus’ face nets him a rook and a knight, a splash over Angelina Jolie’s breasts and seven pawns are removed. How masterful! With a move known as “Jackson Pollock’s dick,” he passes straight to the endgame. And, ah, “The Postmodern Gambit”─how risky… and risqué! ─the screen entirely white and underneath the Desperate Housewives. Mate in two!
Of course, it’s not a skill. It’s barely an action. It’s something that happens when your hand slips in Photoshop. “Hey, that kind of looks like…” But to stick with the chess metaphor, whomever is Hilton’s boyfriend is sure a fool’s mate. BAM! Taking it down a notch!
Alright, alright. A little while ago, it was alluded to here that Hilton has notoriously bad musical taste. (And by “alluded to,” I mean, “Clearly stated with absolutely no ambiguity.”) However, it should also be noted that he also has notoriously bad taste in, well, everything.
If you followed this site during the Jennifer Hudson tragedy, then you'd know I have something of an issue with the CNN Headline News program Showbiz Tonight, which tends to cover mundane doings in the world of pop culture with the faux-seriousness of an actual news magazine befitting its parent network's moniker.
Most recently, my ire has been raised at two sources of continuing coverage: their relentless reporting on the Jennifer Aniston/Angelina Jolie public dust-up, otherwise known as "Uncoolgate," and their sympathetic segments about the Paula Abdul fan suicide, which occasionally remember to give cursory condolences to the actual family of the deceased.
But in the middle of this shitstorm of tabloid television masquerading as professional journalism is A.J. Hammer, a man who changed his given Semitic surname of Goldberg to adopt a Hollywood-approved moniker that makes him seem more like the protagonist of an '80s detective drama than a flesh-and-blood human being.
You may recall Mr. Hammer from his days as a VH1 VJ, counting down the best videos on the '90s modern-rock landscape, or as a host/correspondent on the E! channel and Court TV, where he hypnotized viewers with his chiseled jaw (presumably a source of inspiration for his ludicrous last name) into a state of concern about various famous-folk chicanery.
Score one for the celebrities! (Which is admittedly like saying, "Brother, can you spare a dime for Bill Gates?") After the likes of Kanye West, Lindsay Lohan and some dude who's friends with Jessica Simpson have had recent struggles and scuffles with the paparazzi, Keanu Reeves scored some legal validation today. A court ruled he doesn't owe shameless shutterbug Alison Silva a dime, despite the star-stalker's assertion that Reeves pulled a Randy Moss and bumped into him with his Porsche, resulting in various injuries.
In reality, Silva should have been suing his parents for the princely, tossed-out sum of $711,974 for emotional trauma related to being named Alison. But regardless, here's NCDSUV's suggestions of what The Matrix star can do with his nearly snatched-away, not-quite-three-quarter mil:
4. Start a thinktank with iconic rock stars to figure out how actors-turned-grunge-band members can express their alter-ego humility without looking like Joey Lawrence in Blossom.
Notice that headline is phrased as a statement and not a question. Why, you inquire? Because we are not merely going to curiously probe the possibilities of what Jessica Simpson may be hiding in her much-gossiped-over belly. We are going to tell you. Because we all know that if her sperm-on-a-stick boyfriend/Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo (and no, I have no idea what sperm-on-a-stick means) is too sensitive to play football with a broken pinky, he's certainly not potent enough to knock up the singer/sort-of actress. Not to mention it's highly unlikely she'd go all in utero while in the midst of promoting a new album.
So, if in fact Simpson's belly is suffering from a bit of the bulge, here's the five different objects, maladies and possessed demonic spirits that could be inhabiting it:
5. Innumerable bags of salty, delicious Dallas Cowboys Northampton Peanuts. Although she's still probably absorbed less sacks than her paramour.
Eva Longoria is fat! Or at least has been the absurd sentiment to once again signal that being subject to the gaze of millions is like having one’s body torn asunder from one’s mind. And the body then becomes the plaything for the populus to shred at will, to crush within the vise-like gravity well of vicious comments, as if the cultural mass were kindred spirits to the girls at the beginning of the “Baby Got Back” video. Or to inflate with self-hatred transformed into potato chips and bacon-wrapped pork chop soufflés.
So while the world keeps condemning women for not looking like Giacometti sculptures and non-condemning men regardless of their girth, we here at NCDSUV decided to cherry pick eight celebs, past and present, who epitomize what it means to actually, truly be dangerously skinny or perilously overweight (Elvis get exempt here for being, well, the fucking King). Get ready to start your schadenfreude…
8. Marlon Brando
Ah, Brando, heartthrob to my grandparents’ generation. What the fuck happened to you between A Streetcar Named Desire and The Godfather, nevermind The Island of Dr. Moreau? Too many chicken fingers to dull the pain of aging? Piles of cookies to arrest your descent into madness? Funnel cake upon funnel cake funneled into your arteries? I know it was you, fried dough. You broke my heart. You broke my heart!
7. Amy Winehouse
There’s this film from the late '80s named Millenium starring Kris Kristofferson, in which people from the 30th century come back to our time to kidnap people about to die and have them repopulate an apocalyptic world, where they evolve in such a way that pollution has become sweet succor, and without its jagged caress, they can kiss their fuckin’ future fannies adios. Amy Winehouse is kind of like that, except replace “pollution” with “crystallized methamphetamines.” This, along with a whole host of assorted narcotics, have so devastated her body that the EPA may as well have designated her as a Superfund site.
6. Keira Knightley
At first I thought Knightley was just slimming down for a role in the sequel to Shoah or for the cartoon version of The Machinist, but then it became clear that there’s probably just something really wrong with her, and it made me sad, even though she’s famous and gorgeous and rich and there are probably millions of other people more deserving of my sympathy. So like wise Solomon, I split my sympathy in half, and she gets 50 percent and the rest of the world get the remaining chunk.
5. Ralphie May
Remember this guy from the first season of America’s Funniest Last Standing Comedian Race? No? Me neither. And perhaps that right there fuels his appetite. For who can ignore the corpulent? The overly rotund? Those with eating problems that destroy their lives? To dine, to eat—to eat—perchance to feed: ay, there’s the grub. Comedians are needy folk. Why else get up onstage in front of a crowd of sub-human losers? And if that need is not met in the limelight, perhaps it will be met in the lemon-limelight with a case of Coke followed by a refreshing couple dozen Carvel ice cream cakes. And then maybe a pizza or four. Feed me, Seymour!
Wow, talk about a whirlwind five days. You know it's a nutty week when David Duchovny and Tea Leoni's inevitable split finally makes the front pages, but not NCDSUV's Top 5 Things We Learned This Week.
But not to worry. All that means is we had plenty of revelations from the likes of other megastar couples, multi-billion-dollar fast-food chains and, of course, our neverendingly illuminating presidential candidates. So enjoy, and hopefully you've learned as much as we have this week. And ideally lessons of greater societal import.
I know we, the celeb-scouring media, generally have a quick turnaround between respectful mourning and resumption of gossip pursuance. But I am the only one who's a bit creeped out by the giddy conjecture swirling around rumors of Michelle Williams and Spike Jonze making bedfellows?
Wasn't it a mere several months ago that Williams was quietly, respectfully, tapdanced around as the mother of Heath Ledger's children? Shouldn't the statute of limitations on tabloid reinfiltration of such a person's life be at least comparable to consumer-product warranties?
Sure, the Brokeback Mountain star may be visibly cuddly with the Being John Malkovich auteur, but she wasn't together with Heath at the time of his passing to begin with, and moreover, Williams and Jonze just strike me as a particularly unsexy pairing for mainstream paparazzi sleaze to focus their lenses on.
Well, it will likewise only be a matter of weeks before we start hearing stories about Travis Barker and DJ AM's canoodling, or who Bernie Mac's widow was spotted swapping saliva with on Rodeo Drive, so I shouldn't be so naive. And then again, I do love me some canoodling.
Looking on Yahoo! last night for the Phillies score, I glanced momentarily at the inane headlines that clog up their front page like the cholesterol choking off the arteries of our fellow Americans. And what chanced across my eye but an item about how Eva Longoria has now become fat. Pics inside! "Pics!" I screamed at my roommate, "Pics of a fat Eva, you stupid shit! What does this mean? Have I been drugged? Are these evil visions?"
Imagine my surprise when butt the images revealed not a fat and fleshy specimen for my scorn, but rather someone... normal looking. "This is what counts as fat?" I screamed again, my roommate now cowering in the kitchen holding a knife.
Detectiving further into the Internet, what did I find but news item after news item all explicitly buying into the lie that Eva had chubbed out. "Not pregnant, just fat," one said. "Not pregnant, just fat," I repeated. "How about not pregnant, not fat?" Ripping the monitor off my desk, I thrust it against the wall with all the power my meager muscles could muster.
So, one of the hot stories to emerge from the weekend was about Tobey Maguire possibly being involved in a fistfight that, grossly, left a paparazzi with a bloody eye. While at a pumpkin patch with his daughter. Lot of weird elements going on at once there. It's like a high school chemistry experiment gone awry.
Anyway, we're happy to report that other people are happy to report that yet other parties are supposedly reporting Maguire came into view of the fracas after the punches were thrown.
And we're even happier to suggest a way for Spider-Man's reps to spin a web out of damage control out of this little incident. Let me role-play this as if I were his manager, if you will: "Toby, listen, we got a great idea. Rather than disassociate yourself from the pumpkins, embrace the pumpkins. You may or may not be aware that they just released a special edition DVD of Pumpkinhead, the cult classic horror film. And you may or may not be aware that your most recent franchise ended on a note of critical ambivalence and disappointed fan response. So why not revive the Pumpkinhead series, play the titular role and tweak the concept so he's not a disfigured, bloodthirsty murderer but a benevolent, Edward Scissorhands-type character from a land of magical autumn vegetables who's come to bring Halloween joy to children whose parents won't let them visit strangers' houses to troll for candy?"
Or I guess he could just keep quiet about, refuse comment and move on with his life when we all forget the incident occurred by this time tomorrow.
What a week, what a week. I'm personally all verklempt. Between the election race warming up, the economy cooling and down, and celebrities still indulgently frolicking around, it's been tough for NCDSUV to keep its panties unbunched. Or maybe that's just the fabric softener we've been using.
Well, in any case, from fetishizing the Obamas to taking a piss on your favorite movies and DirecTV scaring us with their tasteless Poltergeist ad, here's the top five things we learned this week.
It's been quite a Sabbath-cycle in pop culture land, as the world of celebretards met in a head-on collision with some surreal political doings. We hope you've been as entertained as we have by the last seven days of shenanigans, but in case you're a Chicago Cubs fan and have spent the past 48 hours buried in a pile of your own tears (sorry, low blow, but I'm a bitter Mets loyalist), here are the top 5 things NCDSUV took out of the week in mass culture that was:
Not to be confused with the reigning (and forever) champion in this particular category, the Verne Troyer fornication opus, the rumored fuck vid from the coffers of Britney Spears and her chin-hair-impaired paparazzo penis-pumper Adnan Ghalib is apparently not so. So much not so that Ghalib is suing the tabloids (holy irony alert).
Too bad. I mean, who wouldn't want to watch his sub-lower-lip racing stripe straddle Britney's post-partum vagina while she grabbed his Depp-gel-covered mohawk with one hand and held onto her wig with the other? Apparently not even its chief participant.
As if I didn't have enough points of envy already─large, luscious lips; chiseled abs; secretly pock-marked skin; a mildly absentee father; a gaggle of racially diverse children soon to the scourge of young Hollywood. But now Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have one more notch in their belt of transcendent superiority: the "we're still together" public statement. Which, of course, is the movie-star relationship equivalent of a company meeting to reinforce shareholder confidence before the whole operation goes belly-up.
Even with that being said, it still feels like they're bragging a bit. Normally, the only people on edge about the status of my relationships are the waiter at my favorite restaurant and my therapist. And if any public refutations are made, they're generally done outside of a bar at 3 a.m., with a local chainsmoking drunk as my witness, regardless of whether he suggested any particular investment in the emotional content of my life.
So ya know what, Brangelina, you can take your announcement and stick it where the sun don't shine in a pocket full of facial craters. I don't even particularly care about the welfare of your romance, but chances are you don't put a great deal of stock in my opinions on it either (well, at least until this week, apparently). Either way, consider this my public statement about how I feel in response to your public statement, because I've had enough of these childish celebrity games of self-importance. So take that. Freeze tag, you're it!
It must be a strange job to represent Miley Cyrus and spend your days denying rumors that some teenage shithead is fucking a barely post-pubescent underwear model who may or may not possess capacity for actual speech.
But you know what? If it's ok for Britney Spears to allegedly have sex in the privacy of her own hypocrisy at 14 and for Linda Hogan to cougar-maul someone even younger than Cyrus' rumored beau Justin Gaston, I say p'shaw to the double standards. And to hell with the courts getting in the way of unrequited romances, be they of the May-December or June-August variety.
Besides, if anyone was paying attention, they'd have realized Cyrus' dad Billy Ray obviously hired Gaston to consult his daughter on the finer etiquette of displaying your undergarments to the rest of the world.
Celebrity entitlement breeds celebrity entitlement. Either that, or Sam Ronson has been teaching Lindsay Lohan how to bust out the hits on more than a couple of turntables (too bad she can't replicate that on her own records).
Last night, the one they call LiLo (and by they, I mean us) pulled a Kanye West-of-sorts and allegedly punched a paparazzo in the punim (that's Yiddish slang for face, for those who have yet to start studying their Kabbalah), and then confessed to it via cell phone as she walked into the doors of a J.Lo/Marc Anthony shindig in New York (from now on, this blog may only be referred to by other sites as NCDSUV.LO).
My favorite part, of course, was when one of the camera crew apparently says, "We got that on film, bitch." Which, I imagine, is what the director's assistant said after every take on the set of Georgia Rule.
Admittedly, yesterday's mention of the Kanye West camera smackdown was really just an excuse for a totally off-topic tangent about Matthew "Where The Shirts Have No Name" McConaughey.
But today the focus shifts back to the man who didn't really blow anyone's minds by asserting that "Jesus Walks." (What? Did we think God's son would take the bus with the rest of the peasants?) TMZ has reported that Kanye may get off with less than a felony for that airport demolition of paparazzi's equipment because he only damaged the lighting device, and his bodyguard did the rest.
Doesn't this go beyond the semantics of which camera component the guy broke? Shouldn't there be certain principles upheld about acceptable celebrity behavior? Mind you, as yesterday's article attested, I'm the first person to bemoan the antagonistic intrusiveness of the paps, but Kanye, for a guy who named his last album Graduation, isn't it time to stop acting like you're in high school?
P.S. While we're at it, what the hell is the deal with these NYC subway ads?
