You are currently browsing posts tagged with Salman Rushdie

Hot Carl

February 26th, 2009 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

Dearest Padma,

I guess we should be glad that a glorious, gorgeous, out-of-this-world, epicurean goddess like yourself would agree to do a commercial for a fast-food joint. Because even though you have a beating heart, two eyes… even though you drink, sleep, excrete, and screw, it’s hard for us to accept that you’re a real-live person, much less one of the people.

Okay, we can appreciate what’s going on here: the fact that you’ll soon be using that face to peddle sloppy burgers for Hardee’s/Carl’s Jr. (same beast) brings you down to Earth. It shows us your lowest common denominator. It proves that processed meats and sesame seed buns are not just for the ignorant, saddle-bagged, Tuna Helper masses of Middle America, but also for famous, particular, beautiful, elegant TV hosts from Manhattan. It’s meant to show us that this famous author’s ex-wife is real, and for that matter, so is Hardee’s. Now everybody, rich or poor, finicky or not, has the ability to get real along with you. Yeah. That’s really lovely.

But Padma. We feel that despite the motivation, you’re better than this. You do not want to take career cues from Paris Hilton. We’ve watched enough Top Chef to know that these quick burgers are not up to your standards, even after a bottle of wine (trust us, we’ve eaten enough of them for anybody). More importantly, we’ve never actually seen a commercial of this ilk that made us want to even eat food–in fact, they almost always inspire waves of nausea and a lasting aversion to the sound of chewing.

Maybe your “beautiful love song to food” will be enough to change our minds. But at the moment, we’re hard-pressed to truly believe that.


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Mo’ Better Meatty Meat

January 9th, 2009 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

When the dazzling, gorgeous Padma Lakshmi divorced her much-older husband Salman Rushdie, many were quick to gossip that the statuesque beauty was guilty of an affair. In my travels between LA and NYC, I’ve personally heard some first and secondhand accounts of her romantic dabbles, and while staying mum on all of those stories, I’ll just say, I believe that the odds that the whispers were true are… pretty good.

The one most people were interested way back when, however, was the rumor that Lakshmi was bouncing around with a married, well-known chef. Blind item after blind item nailed Lakshmi for this one, until Gawker finally supposed, for a while at least, that the culinary hero in question was–eek!–Anthony Bourdain.

I, on the other hand, had always held out the hope that the lovely Padma would only have surrendered her special parts to the boyish advances of Rocco DiSpirito–even though I’m not even sure he was married at the time of her detours. Though I could never exactly figure out why, I did.

Today, however, after reading that writer/relationship expert Whitney Casey recently spilled to Howard Stern that DiSpirito was the best lay she ever had and bearer of a “perfect penis”… I think “why” is now pretty clear.

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July 15th, 2008 | 0 comments | Posted by Jen

Name: Riya Sen

Hails from: India

Occupation: Actress

Why She’s a Babe: Well, for one thing, Riya seems to be Salman Rushdie’s latest conquest. We know–ewwww–but, like it or not, that bald, ancient, fatwa-incurring troll is a bona fide babe magnet. And, for another, the Bollywood actress is aggressively cheesy, mining all the tired sexpot cliches in her photos, and yet there’s no denying that even when she’s rocking a fug unitard and an almost-imperceptible camel toe or giving her awesomely corny fuck me-face, we still want to claw her wide-set eyes out because she’s so durn purty.


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Ann Coulter’s Head Inflasian

September 25th, 2007 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

Ann Coulter has reportedly told British Esquire that she “wants a fatwa.”

Her useless brain vomit:

“I WANT a fatwa. I used to see Salman Rushdie in the Sky Bar in L.A. He wasn’t in hiding; he became world-renowned for his fatwa. So why can’t I get a fatwa? Don’t they read my stuff?”

Jen and I, having avoided the ruffians at Sky Bar for a little over forever, can’t confirm as to whether or not Rushdie or Coulter have ever actually bid their respective ways past the doorman to drink 12-dollar mojitos in the mock-Moroccan poolside setting, so that will have to remain unconfirmed.

One thing, however, is for sure: Although Ann Coulter probably deserves a death edict, nobody actually reads her stuff.


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