The other day I was talking to a good girlfriend about her latest pop obsession. My friend Jessica, who is in her early 30s, mentioned that she was totally into Justin Bieber and acknowledged that her feelings about him were conflicted. “I mean, I don’t know whether I want to bend him over and spank him, or bend him over and spank him,” she said. She was joking (mostly) but it brought up a good point: at what age does your love for a teen idol go from perfectly acceptable to kind of creepy? Keep reading »
Angelina Jolie! Johnny Depp! The trailer for their movie “The Tourist” is out and, dudes, I dunno, you would think I would be all about this movie because, hello, Johnny Depp, but I am distracted. Distracted by Angelina’s weird accent. Where is she supposed to be from? Distracted by Johnny’s oddly bloated face. And that beard. Ick. Distracted by the fact that I am not distracted by an overwhelming sexual desire for Johnny Depp. Just distracted. Keep reading »
This week’s tabloids were all about being interactive, with quizzes to test your knowledge on important stuff like celebrity six-packs and “Oprah.” But we wouldn’t want to ruin your fun by giving you the answers, so we just stuck to breaking down the dirt. As usual, the gossip didn’t let us down—except for People—so take a look at what juicy, maybe true tid-bits you should be talking about this week. Keep reading »
Is anyone else miffed about how a baroque drag clown made it to the season finale of “America’s Got Talent”? By day, he’s a humble aspiring performer, John Quale, who works in a metal shop. By night, he transforms into his alter ego, Prince Poppycock, who sings opera-inspired songs in elaborate hair and makeup. I don’t get it. But America seems to. You can’t make this stuff up. Watch out Lady Gaga—Prince Poppycock may be prancing your way. Keep reading »
When a man gets into a relationship, he’s usually the last to know.
Women fall in love, men slip on it. Women gently twirl down the rabbit hole of love like whirligigs, landing on their feet in a land of wonder. But for men, love is a sudden minor concussion. One moment, we’re strolling down the street like a Pharoah in no hurry, snapping our fingers, whistling a jaunty tune. Maybe we’re leaving the apartment of a recent conquest early in the morning. Women call this the “Walk of Shame.” But to the male species, it’s called the “I Just Got Laid Parade.” Or maybe we’re just walking over to the beer store, smugly satisfied with ourselves for not immediately texting some chick back. Because no one owns the male spirit – it’s like a bacon-scented wind. We’re wild game you can’t tame, oh yeah. Then an ambush of unwanted emotions happens. Love is a banana peel. We wake up on our backs with a throbbing skull, swatting away clouds of mosquito-sized hearts buzzing around.
At least women look before they leap. Keep reading »