Now that Tila Tequila is the fame whore of the day, you’re missing the flannel shirt and greasy hair analysis of Leggings (Lindsay), aren’t you? I’ll see what I can do to hook you up with some Linds pics (her dad seems to have run out of recorded phone calls for now), but in the meantime we have to talk about Tila Tequila’s sex tape.
A clip of Tila “in a very compromising adult position with a naked man” has surfaced on the Internet and the “television personality” — I never know what to call her because I can’t ascertain the source of her fame — isn’t too happy about it. I braved the journey and headed over to the website that has the video and can tell you that it’s a clip of Tila giving some dude a hand/blow job. Do you see the investigative risks I take on your behalf?
Despite Tila’s intentional hours-long naked video stream that aired last week, she’s feeling much more modest today and may even sue the culprit(s). According to her very-busy as of late attorney, “A police report has been filed for Tila’s stolen laptop computer which contained that specific clip. I am currently in the process of sending a cease and desist letter and a notice of intent to sue if it’s not removed.”
Kendra Wilkinson posted a picture of her very pregnant self on her blog. Why do people insist on torturing their animals by putting them in Santa apparel? In human terms, I guess it’s similar to those folks who Scotch tape a bow on their bald-skulled babies.
Anyway, according to Kendra, her dogs Rascal and Martini are dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Claws. Groan. Wimper. Seriously.
I wonder if Kendra used to be a hooker. Some ex-Hollywood madam named Michelle Braun — she jokingly referred to herself as “like Jesus, only prettier” — recently decided to flirt with the completely obvious and announce that many of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends and Playmates were actually high-paid escorts. HH is one hot piece of ass and I find it hard to believe that he didn’t land these 20 year olds with his own salty charm.
If Wilkinson was once a call girl however, she should be nervous. Braun hasn’t officially named names yet, but said of one unattached television personality “If I dropped his name to Page Six, I certainly wouldn’t be his Idol.” Well, it sure as hell isn’t Ryan Seacrest racking up charges with Dial-A-(female)Whore, so she’s clearly talking about Simon. This pimpette isn’t exactly subtle.
Page Six printed this little gem this morning. It was the equivalent of getting an extra sugar cube in my tea. God, I hope it’s true:
Miley Cyrus is famous, but there are still some people out there who’ve never heard of “Hannah Montana.” When Cyrus and a friend came into the Pop Burger on East 58th Street and ordered, the counter manager asked for her name to mark the order. She snapped back, “Are you serious? You don’t recognize me? I’m Miley Cyrus.” The counterman still had no clue who she was, ran her credit card with her name on it and shrugged, “That’s nice for you. Here is your order. Have a good day.”
I know, I know … I like Miley now that I’ve learned that she hates the Twilight hype, but can you imagine being 17 — yesterday was Miley’s birthday which means 364 more days before I can unleash my full-strength venom – and being astounded that the burger clerk doesn’t recognize you? I must, must, must meet this cashier! He needs his own line of jeans or a television series or something. Get this man a book deal!
There’s no doubt in my mind that this actually happened, but isn’t Miley a little short in the tooth for all this “Don’t You Know Who I Am?”-ing? She really needs to save this behavior for a little bit later in life … like, post-rehab and pre-Playboy spread.
Poor Paula Deen! She was doing a good deed, helping out with Atlanta’s Hosea Feed the Hungry charity when — Bam! Deen got thwacked in the head with a ham.
Now that a pig has officially flown (albeit into the face of a Food Network personality), I am lamenting yet another hyperbole I can no longer use. See how I can make anything about me?
Okay, put down that stick of butter that you’ve anxiously been gnawing on; Paula is fine. ”I thought it busted my lip, but it didn’t. Ran head on to a hog.”
Her so-called acting career may be largely a thing of the past, but at least her body is bangin’. Claire Danes and some ass-kicking thighs showed up to the NYC screening of her new film Me and Orson Welles last night, and I have to admit this is the best I’ve seen her look in years. To be frank, I liked her best with bright orange hair and a be-flanneled, eyeliner-free Jordan Catalano, but I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that we will never again get Jared Leto out of makeup.
Also there: Lydia Hearst, who needs sunshine and a cookie, stat. Really she looks like she just stumbled off the set of New Moon, with Dakota Fanning possibly being trafficked inside her skirt.
I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you guys that I saw New Moon last night and hated it. Chris Weitz was absolutely the wrong director — they never should have let Catherine Hardwicke go — and, despite my undying love for Taylor Lautner, I understand now why they wanted to replace him. Watching him play “angry werewolf” was excruciating. My date — who had never heard of Twilight before I asked him to take me — emailed me this morning implying that I need to put out in the immediate future in exchange for making him go to the “naked boy wolf movie.” It was one of those firmly worded “you owe me” emails. And he’s right.
Lastly, Zac Efron, who really ought to talk to his optometrist about getting new contacts that won’t irritate his eyes. Poor thing can’t stop squinting.
Is it just me or has anyone else noticed this? Like, we never, ever get a really good look at Lady Gaga’s face. There is always something covering it. We can stare into her inner thighs day after day like Michelangelo painted cherubs over her stray pubic hairs, but we can’t ever just see her face. I know I sound like her doddering grandmother right now, but I really wish that, just once, she could show up and try to be pretty for once.
Here’s Gaga reppin’ at some random event involving Best Buy that clearly necessitated sunglasses.
You guys, I think the Gosselin limelight may be fading. Kate Gosselin was awarded primary custody of her children today, and it wasn’t immediately, like, announced in Times Square. No one seems to care, really. In fact, the final episode of Jon & Kate Plus Eight aired tonight, and it’s being replaced with Cake Boss, which is, incidentally, one of the worst reality TV shows I have ever had the displeasure of witnessing. Does that crapfest get ratings? Like, it’s a bunch of New Jersey Italians bickering about cake frosting. I care a lot about cake when I can eat it, but under any other circumstances I’m rather indifferent. I would be really sad if my show got replaced by Cake Boss. The least TLC could do is replace it with King of the Crown, which I love.
I’m not really sure exactly what the terms of the custody agreement are, and if it means Jon can’t four-wheel around their Pennsylvania estate and smoke cigarettes whenever he’s taking a break from eating compulsively, but this whole custody agreement got hammered out in a day. The rest of the divorce isn’t expected to be finalized until January, which I think kind of means that Jon rolled over on the whole custody-of-his-children thing, but he’s prepared to stand and fight over, ya know, his car. That’s sweet. My, how the tables have turned.
Here’s the takeaway point: For those of you who have spent the past two years begging the world to stop caring about Jon and Kate, I think your day may be approaching.
