If you meet me in real life, I come across as pretty normal at first. I talk and move like a real person, I have a mouth and my eyes are mostly tracking movement well.
And then someone mentions one little thing that most people would let pass by. A little tidbit of factoids or a mention of how weird something is, and it becomes alarmingly apparent that I have some deeply harbored obsessions that I work very hard in hiding: my guilty pleasures.
Courtney Stodden is a taint wart on society. Her fucking header doesn’t link back to her motherfucking home page (HOW HARD IS THIS TO ACCOMPLISH). She’s 17 and full of rampant daddy issues and a need to be nude and she deserves all the bad press she’s getting. I can’t stop wondering how she exists.
She’s a parody of a real person. She can’t stop taking her clothes off in the most inappropriate of times and manners. She can’t keep her twat from pulling her magnetically to a camera. And delightfully, she can’t stop tweeting, and I can’t stop following her unbelievably awful banter.
What in the shit is this, Stodden? You’re a teenager. NOT OKAY.
Oh Jesus Christ. You’re the worst, Courtney.
Please keep it up. You make me feel better about being me.
Say what you will about Yoko and John–she may or may not have ruined The Beatles, she may or may not have used a strap-on with John. The one thing we absolutely do know is that Yoko Ono is blissfully insane, and she loves to tweet that evidence out.
She regularly tweets out advice for living the most creative and wonderful life possible, which is easy for someone who has a shitload of money and yesmen to tell you how brilliant you are. I can’t stop loving how unbearably batshit she is.
Yoko Ono is friends with murderers. I read somewhere today that you will shake the hands of 40 men this year who recently beat off and didn’t wash their hands. I wonder how many of those men were wearing sunglasses. You should be afraid, Yoko.
Now I can’t borrow anything from anyone without wondering if semen has somehow touched it. Answer: probably.
Physics, Yoko. Imagined balloons do not lift weight off of anything, but it is really delightful to imagine you crying outside the Chrysler Building while shouting, “OH MY GOODNESS IT’S JUST GOING TO FLOAT AWAY.”
Now that we know Thomas Kinkade died so young and painted so terribly, I find this incredibly insensitive. Also, it’s FUCKING INSANE.
Follow her now. It’s so worth it. You will waste days reading her bullshit.
Remember that scene in Ferris Beuller’s Day Off where he plays the coughs on the Casio? It’s so ridiculous and stupid, surely no one has ever released an album or nine of it, right?
I have a full iPod full of that shit.
I know it’s terrible. I know it may be the undoing of my sanity and my inevitable descent into YokoDementia, but I love it.
Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction
1) This show is hosted by William Goddamn Riker himself, Jonathan Frakes.
2) This show is fucking absurd
It’s B-Movie horror schlock at its finest, which you can expect by the dickload on Chiller. The premise of the show is to see 5 awful vignettes about paranormal occurrences, and then you decide if a story is true or not. FEAR NOT, because Number 1 is going to tell you what is true and what isn’t at the end of the show.
Surprise! You won’t give a shit because you will love every minute of it. It’s full of terrible acting, even worse story lines, and puns out your mother’s b-hole (“Will David fold this hand, or will he learn that in the worst of times, you have a hidden ace in the hole?”) I have seen every episode, and let me tell you–you will be fucking shocked to find out that haunted-ass milk can was a true story.
Plus, you get to see scenes like this one, presented without context for your enjoyment.
I am fucking weird.
What are your guilty pleasures?– Favorite Comment From The Last Post: From Dani: “I totally dodged a bullet in the Seaside Survival skills. I can’t tell you how many times I was stupid enough to go to the beach while ON MY PERIOD and didn’t even BOTHER to look for land sharks. Thank you Jesus. Tomorrow I become a nun out of gratitude… if I don’t become famous, that is, on my way to the convent.”