Ayyyy!

Because it would be really wrong for me to make fun of True Whitaker, the comparatively-normal-named child (siblings include Sonnet and Ocean) of Forest Whitaker if she’s just a kid.

So instead of making all sorts of comments like how it looks like Candy Spelling bought an entire wilderness preserve stocked with 80’s film extras, hired Dolce and Gabbana to hunt them down, make outfits out of their tanned hides and pose them in life-like positions in her much lauded gift-wrapping room, I will just point your attention to the fact that it looks that the cow and the chicken on the Farm Sanctuary logo are totally about to make out. Hott.

I would gladly eat one of their fatted livers seared on a bed of Swiss chard.  Guess which one? Not that one.

“When the mirror was restocked with gear, Peaches started over. It is an unwritten law that the band go first, but she was in before any of us.”

The News of The World –the finest publication in the history of the universe– has an exclusive interview with Towers of London drummer Snell (which is not his real name, making him a –groan– mock Snell) who reveals all the dirt on the pseudo-psqueaky 19 year-old including how she disregarded the sanctity of “firsties.”

Honestly, what do they teach these kids in schools these days? That’s just lack of breeding. I suspect Sir Bob must have secretly raised her in a barn. Also, don’t take drugs from  people with pixelated faces. Safety first.

Is Buzz Aldrin the guy who punched that journalist for saying the moon landing was a hoax? I kinda think it was. That’s a lot of anger for a dude whose name is an onomatopoeia, but I guess that’s what you get for going through life being Neil Armstrong’s superterrestrial wingman. I get it. I also like his Grandpa Munster suit.

Anyway, because I don’t want to be the first blogger to get smacked up by a guy with a moon crater named after him, I will merely post this picture of Buzz Aldrin and his lovely, totally appropriately dressed wife Lois who is not in ANY WAY terrifying me with the evil grin and the illusion netting and the shadow that PLEASE GOD is just the draping of fabric on her thigh.

I’ve never gotten the appeal of Nigella Lawson. I’ve caught her show a few times and it’s a-ight and when I worked in a bookstore in college I’d occasionally get a new box of cookbooks with Nigella on the cover with her in a tight shirt fellating or preparing to fellate some sort of moderately appetizing looking foodstuff. Once I caught her on a radio show where she declared Old Bay Seasoning to be the best thing about America, and although that is undeniably true and she shows excellent judgment in regional spice blends I just cannot give her a pass on this:

I get that this is a Lavender Trust party and that one tries to be thematic but honey, no.

You’re a chef and you are wearing a headwreath of ingredients and sure you’re pretty enough to just about carry it off, but this could be the beginning of an ugly trend and if you see Sandra Lee waltzing around in a bikini made of pre-cooked chicken tenders, you have no one but yourself to blame.

A) Did David Gest and Nicholas Cage really have a baby?
B) Why did they give him a harmonica?
C) Is he wearing individuals?

Ooooh SNAP. Those high-falutin’ docs in Switzerland with their fancy “degrees” and “beards” and “sterile operating equipment” are gonna be SO ticked off.
Lorielle New –beloved “celebrity” who has been applauded word-wide for her groundbreaking work in roles in cinematic masterworks like “Dirtyglitter 1: Damien” where she positively defined the role of Svetlana, and her fantastic turn as Bikini Assassin in the insta-classic “Armageddon Boulevard” has finally secured stardom by being the first genetically human being to be actually transformed into a Carassius auratus, a.k.a a common goldfish. No word on Ms New’s future plans, nor have we been able to confirm rumors that Jocelyn Wildenstein has offered one million dollars to anyone who could bring her Ms New’s liver in a tin of Fancy Feast.

God I love Graham Norton.

There is positively no reason for him to be in this post other than I love him, pure and simple. He is camp and cute and so, SO inappropriate (I died a thousand deaths when he set up his friend Dawn French –who is happily married to Lenny Henry– with a self-identified “chubby chaser” via some internet dating site and broadcast the entire thing on his television show) and if I were still the sort of girl who dated gay Irishmen, I would gladly be Teh Best Sexless Marriage Evar!!!1! with him.

Watch him here waxing eloquent about Dolly Parton and interviewing the unforgivably doable (seriously, call me) David Tennant.

In a continuing theme of fierce British bitches I give you Joanna Lumley who created my heroine, the legendary louche Patsy Stone of Ab Fab fame, making a bold choice in Hermes orange and Dame Judi Dench who will always have better hair than you. Always.

Always.

Oh Emma. My sweet, overacting, normal-seeming Emma. You hold a special place in my heart. Back in the day when I got dumped by the man I loved for a hirsute East-German amnesiac with a exceedingly tenuous understanding of the importance of wearing underwear, I pretty much stayed in my apartment for three months crying, drinking inexcusably bad pineapple-flavored rum straight from the bottle via a purple krayzee straw and watching Harry Potter on continuous loop until I fell asleep and my dog figured out how close my laptop.

You cannot, then, imagine my distress when I logged on to The Superficial and discovered (though I didn’t view the NSFW photos) that you have joined the cavalcade of pantsless party girls.

Ems, sugar, I get it. Daniel Radcliffe got his kit off in Equus, rode a few masked theater workers and it was a great career move. However, that was a play. This is real life, so unless you’re auditioning method-style for The Chronicles of Crotchia, you might want to let Hanes have her way with you from here on out. Besides, the part is TOTALLY going to La Lohan anyway.

So CNN personality Richard Quest got caught with his  pants full of drugs and his manjunk all macraméd up like my grandma’s begonias in some sort of kinky …something, and I for one say well done. It has been far, far too long since last we’ve had a good Central Park cruising scandal and while this one wasn’t quite what I’d hoped for (really I’m holding out for something involving Morley Safer, a ball gag and a stolen llama dyed the colors of the American Flag) I’ll take it anyway I can get it. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.

So it looks like Simpson the Lesser (I’m totally team Jessica by the way, I like my vapid blonde starlets genuinely vapid. Keep your creme-rinsed facade of kohl-based angst away from me, Ashlee!) and her fiance –that guy with the hair from that band I don’t know anything about– might have figured out how to make babies.

Oh great. You KNOW this is how Planet of the Product-Using Apes starts.

If they discover fire, we’re all going down.

Many congratulations to Stellacomans and Snarkypants who correctly identified this woman as Lady Randolph Churchill, Winston’s mum.

Let’s see Momma Cruise fit THIS into her Balenciaga tote.