Turns out, violence is the answer.

I don't understand celebrities.

I just don't. That's probably why I blog about them, it's a feeble attempt to understand why THEY ARE SO GODDAMN FUCKED IN THE HEAD. Example:


(Socialite's Life)

Cameron Diaz has apparently decided to follow in the footsteps of Drew Barrymore and Bennifer 2.0 and jump on the "Let's take pictures of the stalkerazzi taking pictures of us to show how fed up we are because we're artists who make an amazing contribution to society and no one respects our privacy" bandwagon.

However, I don't understand. Quite frankly, seeing as the paparazzi are willing to chase celebrities around to the point of getting into car accidents, I don't think they give a shit if you take their picture. Whatever happened to the good old days of Björk and Michael Hutchence, when they just punched the paparozzo in the goddamn face? Made a lot more sense to me. Because y'see, if some weirdo was following me around with a camera, my automatic response would be to liquify them or feed them to my pet shark. But that's another matter.

I know this is some sort of ill-advised type of celebrity non-violent protest. I know a celebrity throwing a temper tantrum is worth more tabloid money than a woman finding an image of Jesus in her fried chicken, but they're still going to take your picture. And inevitably, the picture will be sold to Star, where some story along the lines of "Cameron dumps Justin for new camera shaped dildo!" will be attatched to it anyway.

When I see these pictures, I still see good ol' Justin-banging, poor-fashion-choice-making, abhorrent-movie-making, pretty much talentless Cameron Diaz. And I'm still going to make fun of her. And at the end of the day, that's all that matters.

The story of the Mean Queens

It was a sunny, July day. Rock Snob and Flesh were sitting at nearby tables in a local Los Angeles cafe, sipping frappuccinos, when the tranquill scene was ruined by Shannen Doherty's car smashing through the front window! Apparently, the employees had forgotten the cinnamon on Ms. Doherty's latte the other day. The federalies were looking for witnesses, and with Flesh's previous drug charges and Rock Snob's less than upstanding repuation with the CIA, the two cut a deal to help nail Ms. Doherty. From there, a deep, spiritual bond was created between the two, based on catty, cold-hearted, bitchiness and frappuccinos.


FLESH VON WINTOOR


Name: Fleshburt Thurston the 12th von Wintoor

Background: The von Wintoor’s are a very famous family, as we are 37th in line for the Denmarkian throne. But most people know me as son of the first woman ever to be kicked off a reality TV show for making too much of a spectacle of herself. Ever since birth I have been fighting to get the paparazzi to chase after me.

Status: Washed out starlet/coke addict; possibly royalty

Blogs About: Life in the fast-lane and my various famous BFFs.

Why Blog: Because US Weekly and People stopped returning my calls for the inside scoop into my life.

Pet Peeves: US Weekly and People.

Likes: Vicodin, Percocet, uppers, downers, blue ones, green ones, alcohol.

Duties: party-favor

How did you first know you were a homosexual? I guess it was around the time Ricky Martin started hitting on me. At first I was intrigued, as any young impressionable lad would be; we almost consummated our courtship, until I realized it was all an elaborate ruse to get me to join Menudo 2.0. After that, Ricky and I were through, but my love for the wang blazed on.

ROCK SNOB

Name: Rock Snob/Rachel

Status: Evil bitch

Background: Growing up in a strict, nun-run, all-girls Catholic school, Rachel grew a deep hatred for women, religion and society in general. She has married three times, all ending in tragedy, with her billionaire husbands all meeting an "unfortunate" death. Since inheriting her husbands' fortunes, she has shifted her interests away from marriage and towards blogging and Machiavellianism.

Blogs about: Anything I want, peons.

Why blog: In hopes of creating a giant on-line fan base who will aid me in my pending usurpation of world powers. That, and boredom.

Pet peeves: People who stand in the way of my usurpation of world powers; cats; authority; men in capes and/or tights; blondes.

Likes: Power; General destruction; bitch slaps; contraptions of slow and unneccessary death; men in suits/cages; puppies.

Duties: "Eliminating" the competition; fashion mavenry; critisizing blonde starlets; keeping Flesh off the coke and booze.

How did you first know you were a homosexual: I KNEW ONLY FAGGOTS CAME TO THIS BLOG.

These boots were made for KICKING YOUR FASHIONISTA ASS

What the hell is this:



It looks like it's a cross between the Ugg and the Mukluk, two boots that haunt my dreams every night. Honestly, are you peole who wear this crap on crack? You see a fashion statement? People, I see cankles.

And in other boot news, apparently, the Seychelle is the big fashion boot this season.

I hate you all.

This shit is B-A-N-A-N-A-S

rock snob says: I looked at Gwen Stefani's online website for her L.A.M.B. clothing line, her clothes are hideous. I want to know who wears this crap.
Flesh says: 13 year olds and trannies
Flesh says: Did you know that Gwen is the most common name chosen by trannsexuals because of Gwen Stefani?
Flesh says: I read it somewhere, I swear to all my gods
rock snob says: Seriously? I didn't know that they liked her so much.
Flesh says: Apparently they do
rock snob says: Is she a trannie?
rock snob says: Somehow I feel she could be
Flesh says: Oh she totally is

My Hollywood Dreams

Although I am cold and dead inside and my heart is a shrivelled clump of coal (we've had cardiologists prove this to both Flesh and myself; it's a requirement of being a Mean Queen), I must say, after reading the infamous Vanity Fair article, I like Jennifer Aniston. Like, I really like her. Like, I want to be her friend. I want her to call me up and we'll go shopping and do lunch like so many Lindsays and Nicoles do in Hollywood. We'll drink frappuccinos and talk about David Shwimmer's New Year's Eve parties, get followed by the stalkerazzi and egg Brad's Malibu mansion.

But at the same time, the article really needs to cut back on the whole portrayal of that woman that Brad Pitt is totally NOT having sex with as a "twice-divorced ...tattooed vixen with a taste for bisexuality, heroin, brotherly incest, mental institutions, and wearing her husbands' blood."

That was an actual quote from the article.

I get slightly miffed by the Angelina bashing because, even though I want to be Aniston's friend, I've wanted to be Jolie's friend for much longer. Angie could call me up and we'd go shopping for black clothes, adopt Cambodian orphans, get followed by the stakerazzi and then egg Billy Bob Thorton's dirt farm after throwing a Tomb Raider grenade through Jon Voight's window. I mean, she'd probably steal my husband and have him father her orphans while he claimed I wouldn't bear his child. Even though I'm not married, but super attractive women like her probably have some kind of time machine where they can go forward in time and steal your future husband, and then I'd get my own Vanity Fair article and then the book deals would come rolling in and then the money and then the power and then you'd all pay and... Wait, what was my point?

Ah yes, being both of their friends would just be SO super awkward, and with Courtney refusing movie rolls with Angelina, I'd be forced to follow suit and I don't want to choose. So please, let's all kiss and make up so my Hollywood dreams can one day come true. Thanks.

Paris Squared

So I'm going to save the obligatory comments on how stupid I still think it is that Paris Hilton is going to marry a guy named Paris. Although I do hope she takes his last name so they'll both be Paris Latsis.

However, that isn't the point of this post. The point of this post is to draw attention the HORRIBLE HORRIBLE SHORT SHORTS that Man Paris is sporting.

Man Paris, listen to me: NO. JUST NO.

Unless you're in a Wham! video, there's no excuse for shorts that short.