Dear Carrie,
I can't remember if it was during one of your bitching sessions with Miranda or Charlotte or one of your bitching sessions with Stanford or one of your bitching sessions in your column or one of your internal monologue bitching sessions that people could actually hear, but at some point on the boat ride in the stormy ocean of stupidly expensive shoes and bitching that is dating you, I came to one undeniable conclusion: Fuck this.
I like Aidan now. He and I are getting fat in Hawaii and playing with cool birds. And guess what: no bitching!
See you never,
Mr. Big (Do you even know my real name?)
Get ready to weep for the world as you watch this video—leaked to Entertainment Tonight—of David Hasselhoff scarfing some drippy slop whilst his daughter begs him to "not get alcohol tonight." I'm not an expert, little lady, but I do believe he's already gotten that alcohol, and something tells me he drank it.
Oddly enough, this video footage may have been at David's behest, as sources told ET, "David told his daughters that if he ever fell off the wagon, they should tape him so that he'll know what kind of condition he's in and learn something from it." Maybe he's rethinking that one right about now.
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Is it weird that were my ex-wife cozying up in the lap of her newer, younger husband two feet away from my weathered face—as Demi Moore is seen doing in front of her ex, Bruce Willis, in the new Vanity Fair—my first instinct would be to drop anchor through the deck and send us all to hell? I'm for maturity in the face of reality, but this seems saintly.
Well done, Bruce.
Pictures and videos of Rage Against the Machine at Coachella can't really begin to explain the bigness of their set. It's like taking a picture of a leaf blowing during a tornado: Sure, it conveys a sense of being windy, but it's a definite understatement.
Rage's reunion show—seven years in the making—was played to a sturdy mass of, at the very least, 60,000 to 70,0000 people; all moving up and down and off the ground, and singing along with every song. Watching that many bodies move in unison is slightly intimidating, but it's also kinda beautiful. Actually seeing tens of thousands of people agreeing on something is rare.
Sadly, after the show, it seems that many of the Rage fans also agreed that throwing their shit all over the place was acceptable. My problem here isn't that I'm wanting to save Mother Earth—because honestly, all the garbage from Coachella combined is like the nail on the small toe on the body of world pollution. My problem is that someone is gonna have to clean this crap up, and that person's probably gonna be Mexican. It's typical bullshit: All day a bunch of spoiled hippies will listen to music about peace and love and then they'll "rage" about how fucked up the government is and how it's an "evil empire" that's not supporting immigrants, and then, after they're off in their beds, immigrants are bending over to clean up their goddamn messes for them.
Women with large breasts should be able to show cleavage—and even downright flaunt their chest—without fear of being labeled a slut. However, when women with large breasts constantly put their boobs on a pedestal—almost literally—you begin to realize that they probably don't think they have much else to offer, at which point you'll also understand the reason their tits are so big is because they're filled with tears.
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Thursday night was Filter magazine's Coachella Kickoff party. There was free Heineken, good DJs, bad dancing and great times.
Pretend like you're there after the jump.
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OK, I'm willing to grant that he's a handsome guy and a talented footballer. But what the hell is the deal with these flight of fancy hair updates every other week? Is even he getting bored with himself.
And If he really feels the need to change it, he shouldn't make it so light it's difficult to tell where the forehead ends and the hairline begins. It's like dying it bald.
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Heavily patterned dresses that make one's boobs and crotch look like the eyes and mouth on a traditional African mask bring out the uncivilized juvenile in all of us, and they send me to MS Paint so excitedly that I can barely keep my hand steady enough to make the eyebrows.
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Relatively new couple Rachel Bilson and Hayden Christensen are seen here heading to a shopping spree in Christensen's $200,000 Ferrari.
Hayden Christensen plays the gentleman, picking up new girl Rachel Bilson in his $200K Ferrari just to give her a ride to Barneys New York in Beverly Hills for a little shopping trip on Tuesday.
Hey, Hayden, driving $200,000 cars that get 11 mpg during wartime is so paradoxical they should study you. Not only is your blind materialism exactly what the terrorists hate, your blind materialism funds the terrorists. Thanks, dude!
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"Piss on me, huh? Who do these people think they are? What gives them the right? Where do they even get such an idea? Honestly. Piss?"
If even you are so horrified by your face that you've taken to draping your wispy locks over most of it, you must realize that, essentially, you've grown yourself a mask. And that's a level of depression that makes the Phantom of the Opera seem like Kelly Ripa.
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Hey, PETA, if you really want this "I'd rather go naked…" campaign to have teeth at all, you have to stop hiring Playboy models to do the ads. It's pretty obvious that those ladies would rather go naked than do lots of stuff, including see a therapist or think introspectively, so having them strip down against fur is one of the least potent acts of protest being used today. Then again, PETA's never really been about effective acts of protest, huh?
Get Mandy Moore or Ruth Bader Ginsburg in front of your cameras and then you'll have something.
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Some anthropologists suggest that women wear lipstick to mimic engorged labia:
“…the lips remind us of the labia, because they flush red and swell when
aroused, which is the conscious and unconscious reason why women have always made them look even redder with lipstick.”
Knowing that, I'd like to find out in which sex ed course Beyonce learned that "flush red" and "swell" meant "appear violently hot" and "become radioactive."
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Hi, Evan Rachel Wood, is this your eccentric grandma who was at Woodstock? It's amazingly kind of you to find the time show her around London, but aren't you becoming interested in boys? As young and beautiful as you are, you really should be out dating and going a bit wild. That's not to say you shouldn't be friendly to your elders, but there comes a time when you need to leave them to their pancake makeup and juice regimens and go dance harder than their knees will allow.
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Day drinking is very fun, but it's also fucking tough. Here's the rundown:
Unless you're a bummer Irishing up your coffee on the drive to work, it always—always—begins with one of your best buds/worst influences calling you up with a fair reason to celebrate but also a dubious reason to start drinking at breakfast (ie "Finished the LSATs!" or "I'm in town!"). If this is a good friend, and you are a good friend, you gotta play along when he shows up at your house with a grocery bag full of loose tall boys.
After having a few at your place and waiting until a more reasonable hour to take your boozy breath public, you're off to your local bar/pub. You can wear shades if you'd like. They look cool and they're good for hiding dark circles and red eyes. Start off with Bloodys and then move to pitchers, and be sure to talk about how great the rest of the day's going to be.
But then reality hits. What felt like half a day's work in the bar only amounted to a few hours, and you're shocked to step outside and be drenched in sunlight. You're now wasted, your pants have become shorts and your friend's hat's gone. Then you're yelling for no reason. And then you're lost.
You don't feel like standing up anymore and it's still so bright that you have to find a shady spot to see your cell phone screen so that you can call a cab. Your friend's gone looking for pizza.
Look forward to a hangover at 8 PM, at which point it will be someone's birthday, and they'll call you to come to their party. Drag your ass off the couch and be a friend.
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It was raining Cats and Doggs at a Tuesday night concert in New York to benefit UNICEF, when both the Pussycat Dolls and Snoop Dogg performed in honor of the children's charity. While Snoop's artistic contributions have always been ideologically aligned with UNICEF's work, specifically their fight against AIDS ("I got a pocket full of rubbers and my homeboys do, too"), it's unclear how the Pussycat Dolls are tied to the organization. Nevertheless, both Snoop and the Dolls found ways to mar the evening.
Organizers of Tuesday night's Pussycat Dolls concert at Cipriani Wall Street to benefit UNICEF, which also featured the rapper, had to fly in more than 10 members of his posse, first-class. Then, at the last minute, Snoop almost didn't go on because, "he insisted on having an Xbox in his dressing room," an insider said. "We finally found someone who lent us their kids' Xbox, and had to put Snoop somewhere on the third floor because he was smoking so much dope." Snoop and his pals were having such a good time they were an hour late making it to the stage, forcing the Pussycat Dolls, who were paid $300,000 to perform, to actually talk - which wasn't a good thing.
And what happens when you're UNICEF and you rely on the Pussycat Dolls to "just wing it"? It turns out that one of them will step forward, introduce herself and thank "UNICEL" for having her.
Let's hope the event raised a lot of money and that UNICEF learned their lesson. That being, when you're one of the most gracious organizations in the world and a presenter you've hired demands first-class tickets for his crew, that's when you go, "Well, we don't usually say this, but fuck off."
Right now, on eBay, a clandestine organization known only as "Star Style" is offering you the chance to purchase Paris Hilton's laundry hamper. How Star Style came into possession of the hamper only God knows, but they boast of a certificate of authenticity, in case your friends demand proof that it really belonged to Paris. Of course, if you're thinking of buying this hamper, you shouldn't have any friends.
This is truly PARIS HILTON HAMPER, where she kept all her dirty laundry.
The item comes with a certificate of authenticity from Star Style,
who ran a Paris Hilton auction that included furniture and this piece. The Paris Hilton hamper is in excellent condition.
This is your chance to share in Paris' dirty laundry. No DNA found inside but maybe you have a better investigator.
I'll save you the trouble of hiring a "better investigator."
This hamper's easy to use, filled with impurities most of the time and it's basically a glorified garbage bag. It's definitely Paris Hilton's.
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