You just never know what glamorous star you'll run into at a MediaBistro party!
I'm not an American, but from time to time I can't help but feel bad for the poor buggers, like when their president tries to sell their ports to people like this. Mind you, I like people like this, but I wouldn't be selling my ports to them; there's the ones you date, and the ones you take home to momma and sell your ports to, and these are not the latter. Wisdom and good times from a Dubai taxi driver, via Gridskipper.
Cabbie: Where are you from?
Us: Washington, D.C. in the United States.
C: You know George Bush?
U: (polite laughter) No, we’ve never met him.
C: You know Osama Bin Laden?
U: (slight discomfort) No…. We’ve never met him either.
C: Do you want to meet him?
U: (wondering where he’s going with this) Um… no. (sincerely hoping that we’re not on our way to see him right now)
C: I want to meet him very much.
U: Uhhh… Really? Why?
C: So that I could turn him in to the United States and gets lots and lots of American dollars. (hysterical guffaws)
U: (relieved smiles) Oh, okay.
C: No, I couldn’t do that. They would kill all my family. (another explosion of hilarity)
U: (polite but uncomfortable laughter)
Viggo Mortensen tries not to laugh as he comforts raincoaster after her recent self-tanning disaster
If you read women's magazines at all, and we don't doubt for a moment that you, like all right-thinking people who want to know about Ashlee's new nose and whether wedgies are really more comfortable, do (yes it scans, go back and check), you've no doubt heard about how the new self-tanning lotions, creams, gels, mousses, dry oil sprays, etc etc are far superior to the old ones.
Gone are the days of blotchy orange tans; here are the welcome days of even, coppery, sunkissed bliss.
If I were to momentarily lapse into emo, I would almost say that was complete and utter fucking bullshit for which the editors will pay with a lifetime in Purgatory listening to Fiona Apple covers of Teletubbies songs, but of course I shall do no such thing, for lo I am way classy.
Fucking orange pinto hide and all.
Do you know, the splotch on my right shin actually shows drip marks? And it didn't even drip in the first place! It must be some kind of stencil the gremlins applied while I slept! My left leg, on the other hand, looks like a sepia-toned map of the Canadian Shield, dotted with many tiny "lakes" and "rivers" of white, no doubt frozen over by the icy force of my stare, with what appear to be features of continental glaciation such as tiny moraines, drumlins and eskers.
So now that it's spring and a young (don't go there!) woman's mind turns to thoughts of skirts and shorts and evenly coppery skintones, this young woman has to jump on the unfortunately fugly leggings bandwagon until I can fade this appaloosa nightmare into oblivion. Anyone know any cheap sandblasting contractors?
Yes, we've all seen it a billion times, but it's still funny.
Those have to be his own fat, crossbred dachsunds; if you were hiring dachsunds and you walked into a showbiz dog rental agency and you said, "I'm making a ridonkulous music video called 'Hooked on a Feeling' and I need a coupla weiner dogs schnell!" and they handed you these, wouldn't you hand them right back and tell them to get with the bulimia, this is Hollywood, baby!
Damn right you would.
Anyway, from the Backbencher column in the Politics section of the Guardian (where else, I ask you) comes news that The Hoff, in possibly the penultimate move of late-career-downward-out-of-control-spiralling, will appear later this year in a suburban Christmas Pantomime.
"He was keen to work in theatre over here to entertain his legions of Baywatch fans," gushes a press officer, who is sadly unable to confirm or deny speculation that Pamela Anderson will play Tinkerbell.
raincoaster 