the ghost of Anna Nicole Smith takes over the body of Sharon Stone

Well, how else would you explain the following? A familiarity with “Naughty Germans” is something one could easily associate with the erstwhile Trimspa Goddess, the Methadone Muse, as of course is loopily intoxicated showtime behaviour.

But Sharon Stone? Totally different story! Video over the jump…

Stolen from Defamer.

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Anna Nicole’s Fridge contents!

I can't believe it's not heroin!Check this out: looks like Howard K. forgot to sanitize the crime scene before the cops and/or the reporters from TMZ could get there. He was, reports say, much more thorough when Daniel ankled this planet.

Yogurt, sure. Weight loss shakes? Of course. Vitamins? Whatever, who cares?

So far, it looks like my fridge, except I would never buy an American brand of Worchestershire sauce.

But wait. What’s that I spy?

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Heroin!

Of course, the alternate theory to the ever-popular The Lawyer/Butler/Babydaddy Pretender Did It theory is that Trimspa got wise to her Slimfast-suckin’, cheatin’ gullet, and had her offed before the news could leak, potentially undoing millions of dollars’ and several years’ worth of marketing work.

As for me, well I have an alibi. I was blogging at the time.

Also, was she really fucking her bodyguard? Go her!

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equal-opportunity gold digging, a guide for men

Barbara Hutton and Baron von Cramm 

It occurs to us here at the ol’ raincoaster blog that the ancient art of gold digging is confined, in these sadly decadent modern times, almost exclusively to the fairer sex.

This is unfair.

Obviously smelly, hairy, balding guys with uncertain bowel control deserve cynical marriages of convenience as much as lithe, buxom teenage blondes do, but how to achieve gold digging parity in an uncaring world?

Never fear, gentlemen: we at the ol’ raincoaster blog have a solution. Simply implement the following steps in order and watch the millions roll your way.

  1. Barbara Hutton, setting the world on fire and vice versaGive women a lot of money. It doesn’t matter where you get it from, but get it and give it to them across the board. Until there are rich women there is no point in attempting to gold-dig them. We suggest starting by paying and promoting your employees using criteria other than gender. We also suggest personal donations, when appropriate (you have my banking details, don’t you? I gave them to that Nigerian guy…). Change property and inheritance laws so that the loot is divided on the basis of relation, not gonads. Vote for women, because everyone knows politicians never retire poor.
  2. Wait till the crop of solvent women produced by the above innovations reaches, and passes, maturity. Wait till they start to remind you of Bea Arthur in Maude; that is the earliest point at which most women will become ripe for gold-digging. They need to have outlived their estrogen, but don’t wait till they’ve outlived most of their contemporaries as well. No sense overdoing things.
  3. You want someone whose ancient passport picture looks something like this,Barbara Hutton in about 846BC ie Belle of New Orleans at the Time of the Louisiana Purchase. If nothing else, it means her granddaughters might be worth pursuing on a recreational level. People who don’t know your age will assume you fell in love with her when she looked like that; people who can tell your age should be told you met in an internet chat room, and that she tends to deny it if asked out of embarassment.
  4. The way to succeed at gold-digging is the same as the way to succeed at any endeavour: Practice, practice, practice. You’ll need to be able to whisper endearments at intimate moments without getting her name wrong, among other critical skills. This is the secret behind the eternal popularity of monogrammed pillowcases, btw. I bet you wondered. But anyway, you will need, at some point, to go to bed with the object of your … intentions. Yes, you will need to bonk the Bea, to gamahuche the granny, to roger the retiree, to sex up the sexagenarian. You’re going to have to put it in and keep it there. Don’t worry, we’ve thought of everything. Use this handy-dandy item to practice until you can complete the act without a Carmen Electra poster hanging over the bed; it is extremely unlikely that the woman you’re attempting to gold-dig will allow a Carmen Electra poster to be placed over the bed, unless she is very unconventional indeed, or, indeed, Joan Jett.
  5. Keep your figure till after the wedding, and yes, there must be a wedding: remember, living in sin cuts you out of all those silver, gold, and Wii anniversary gift-getting occasions.
  6. Don’t neglect those little touches that mean so much: encouraging her love of fast cars with enormous blind spots, lighting her cigarette, cigar, or crack pipe (see if you can get her to work her way up), putting the coke dealer on speed dial, thoughtfully buying her skydiving lessons for her 80th birthday, or teasing her that she is too chicken to stand on the cliff’s edge and close her eyes.

Just don’t let Howard Stern mix your drinks.

Unless I’m in your will.

And so they were married...over Zsa Zsa's dead body!

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Tribute: Banana Nicole Smith remembered

A touching tribute to a fallen fruit; bruised but unbowed. And, as always, everyone knows that the best thing about her is her bread, although she was no stranger to a good sandwich. Stolen from Defamer.

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cash for cadavers, the dead celebrity lottery!

Seal Number Seven...are you sure it wasn't a sea lion?

Cash for Cadavers (Oh, how I wish I’d known about them last week, I coulda made a fortune!) is a uniquely morbid, cynical, and celebrity-obssessed betting system.

So it’s got ME written all over it!

This is the way it works, and yes, it is real.

Each team chips in twenty dollars and picks twenty celebrities they believe will die in the upcoming year. Each celebrity is assigned a point value based solely on how many teams picked that specific person. For instance, everyone seems to feel that The Pope‘s number is up, so his point value is very low. People die, points are accumulated, and the lucky schmo with the most points at the end of the year wins the jackpot.

Points are only awarded to bona fide celebrities. For the sake of this game, celebrity status is determined by North American, non-categorically-specific media source. The Associated Press, for instance, runs a national obituary page every day. USA Today, New York Times, CNN, etc.
We emphasize that it must be a general news source; if your celebrity’s death appears in Field & Stream but nowhere else, he or she is not a celebrity.

Short, nasty and brutish. I love it! The team names are marvelous: My Death in a Box, Please Sir I Want Some Muerte, Tuesday is Rib Nite At Pete’s Crematorium, Croakin’ 2: Electric Deathaloo, Christopher’s Reeve’s Dancecard, and the delightfully obscure Waiting for Bengt Ekerot. Note that their definition of “Celebrity” is quite strict, and is, in fact, the most detailed part of the website. Well, it’s such a competitive field!

BART THE BEAR CLAWS: (Claws? Clause? Har har.) Animals can be played on Cash4Cadavers assuming that they meet the criteria for “celebrity.” Specific, named animals (like Morris the Cat or Bart the Bear) only; none of that “world’s oldest tortoise” crap. If you want to play the world’s oldest tortoise you’ll tell us its name, Poindexter. 

No word on whether stage names are enough to specify a celebustiff, nor any specifics about cases where the soul may have left the body but for whatever cruel and sadistic reason, the Devil hasn’t taken out the trash yet: I would call this the Kissinger Caveat.

Want to see how your picks are doing? Check the Deaths page: I only recognize Art Buschwald, Anna Nicole (the floater is hilarious! See also Paddy Mitchell, eh) and Barbaro. Hey, what’s Arianna Huffington doing in there twice?

I note with interest that it does not actually seem to be against the rules to kill the celebrities yourself.

What? WHAT? I’m just making note of the fine print is all…

Anna Nicole, our angel

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