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People say that Asian chicks have flat asses???
I mean, so do white female rappers, yo. Like, YO.
Okay, a note to whoever cut the new NMA animasian detailing Paris Hilton’s arrest record in light of her recent guilty plea for coke possession: Please come work at DISGRASIAN. PLEASE. PLEASE. We can pay you in barbed compliments and brown liquor. And awkward hugs.
Here’s the piece I’m referring to:
What isn’t covered in the video is what happened the following day. Poor little Paris flew all the way to Tokyo to make promo appearances peddling her bag and fragrance lines, but was denied entry to Japan at Narita airport. According to HuffPo, “under Japanese law, immigration authorities are empowered to deny entry to those who have been convicted of drug-related offenses.”
Hilton’s rep, Dawn Miller, made a statement on the celebutard’s behalf:
“Paris was contractually bound to her business trip and didn’t want to let down her brands and many Asian fans. She intended on fulfilling her contract and is trying hard to do the responsible thing, but this is beyond her control. She is very disappointed by tonight’s events. Paris is shocked and apalled that a famous-for-nothing of her tenure might actually have to be accountable for her derelict actions, and face any sort of consequences for her incessant spittooeying in the face of the law.*”
Filed under: Accountability, Awesome Japanese Behavior, Celebutards, Drug Offenses, Famous-For-Nothings, Ha Ha, Japan, Paris Hilton, Paris Hilton Detained At Narita Airport, Paris Hilton Sent Back From Japan, Paris Hilton Should Expire, Talentless White Girls
Birthdays are nice, because sometimes they force us to say something pleasant to or about people we’re not usually all that nice to.
This week, that person is Jessica Simpson, who we’ve historically been, y’know, less-than-forgiving to (Note to Ms. Simpson below the pic):
HELLO Jessica Simpson, and happy birthday! You’re 29 and
it shows wow, you’ve never looked better it’s awesome to still be able to say you’re in your twenties and unmarried and loving it, right? We’d like to wish you a great year and, for your sake, the ability to find some kernel of real talent within yourself so that you might actually become somewhat relevant in the public eye again. Party hard, lady! Maybe you can keep the birthday cake in your own mouth this time (see above for memories)!
When I was growing up, three words were sacrosanct in my house: Hafo (Harvard), Yelu (Yale), and M.I.T. (granted, that’s an acronym, but the Massachusetts Institute of Technology is a cruel mouthful for immigrant parents whose second language is English). The first time I visited the East Coast, where my dad attended some physics conference, I toured the Harvard, M.I.T., and Brown campuses, and all I got was a lousy Harvard t-shirt. That seems significant in hindsight. I guess Harvard was, even in my world of Great Hardass Asian Expectations, the crème de la crème.
Four years later, when it came time to apply to colleges, I knew that applying early bettered your chances of getting accepted, and you could only do that for one school, so I chose Yale. It was completely random and I still don’t know why that became my first choice. I am convinced that being first-generasian from a bumfuck Texas town helped get me in, and once that happened, I was so shocked, bewildered, and stoked that I didn’t consider other colleges (even though it nearly cost my parents their house and I immediately went into heavy student debt).
I never perceived any real difference between the two universities, unlike my roommate Mimi’s Hardass Asian Mom, who thought Yale was a safety school and was disappointed for four years that her daughter hadn’t gotten into the big H. The Harvard-Yale game always sucked, because the football sucked, the cheerleaders sucked, the marching bands sucked (on purpose in Yale’s case), the crowd chants sucked, and I’ve always maintained that tailgating–the raison d’etre of that game–is for football pussies. But I could never quite muster up the energy to yell, “Harvard Sucks.”
Diana thinks that Harvard grads have limp handshakes (sorry RJ and Kathy), but I know plenty of “Yalies” (vomits in mouth) who do, too. Because of my early indoctrinasian, I’ve only held Harvard in high esteem–it was Yale in prettier environs–until this week, when I learned that the Harvard Lampoon named Paris Hilton “Woman of the Year.”
Now, for a little history of the award. Past Women of the Year include: Katharine Hepburn, Shirley Maclaine, Lauren Bacall, Julie Andrews, Carol Burnett, Liza Minnelli, Elizabeth Taylor, Lucille Ball, Jodie Foster, Diane Keaton, Goldie Hawn, and Meryl Streep, to name a few.
More recent Women of the Year, like Scarlett Johansson and Halle Berry, may lack the talent of a Kate, Liz or Meryl, but at the very least, they are easy on the eyes.
But Paris Fuckin’ Hilton?!? Whose talents include cocksmoking in grainy homemade videos, flashing her cooter in public, drunk driving, and introducing the phrase “That’s hot” into our cultural vernacular? Paris Hilton with the lazy eye? What?!?
Is this one of those meta-things, which Ivy League whippersnappers are so damned fond of, like a joke of a joke?
Ha ha! Ha ha!
I still don’t get it.
I guess Harvard Sucks.
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.
Perhaps in an effort to compete with her
nemesis replacement ex-husband’s girlfriend Vanessa Minnillo’s crazy face:
Jessica Simpson did her best to rock the crazy with an assortment of
retahded nerdbombalicious scary spastic happy poses at the recent launch of her swimline.
Filed under: Crazy Faces, Fading Into Obscurity, Irrelevance, Jessica Simpson, Low-rentitude, Nick Lachey, Regretting the Day You Laid Legs on Johnny Knoxville, Talentless White Girls, Vanessa Minnillo, Weaves
In an hour of desperation, it appears Britney Spears now seeks to reinvent herself just in time for her Three-Houses-of-Blues California lip syncing tour…
As we’ve mentioned before, this group isn’t at all particular…But honey, like Justin, we can’t have you within smelling distance. Next!
Gwen: Now, Gavin, let’s try to remember what we discussed. Are you smiling for the paparazzi?
Gavin: Of course I’m smiling, darling. Do you think this is the first time I’ve had a baby? Or gone to a–
Gwen: Don’t you EVER bring up that bastard again. Kingston is your only legitimate heir. Are we clear?
Gavin: Yes, of course, Gwenny-Penny. (beat) So, do you think this is going to work?
Gwen: What are you bitching about now?
Gavin: I mean, this whole swap Kingston’s soul in exchange for reviving my pathetic career.
Gwen: Hello? Ever heard of something called MY career? I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I’m all gums, I’ve ripped off every two-bit ska and reggae band that’s ever existed…and look at me now! I have Japanese slaves who are not allowed to talk in public! I have my very own cheapo clothing line that’s made in Chinese sweatshops that I mark up by 8000 percent! “Love. Angel. Music. Baby.” went triple-platinum and it’s a piece of key-rapola! And Jamaica? I own Jamaica. Jamaica is my bitch. Satan RULES, man!
Gavin: You’re right, you’re always right. I can do all things through Satan who strengthens me.
Gwen: Atta boy. (to baby Kingston in cuchicoo voice) Ready to sell your soul to the devil? Yesyouare! Yesyouare, my cutiepatootie!
“Of course Mikuko put this matchy-matchy outfit together for me. Don’t even ask me where my necktie went. I told her explicitly to put one out for me but that little bitch “forgot,” as per uze. If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a million times, ties make me look edgy and dope. She’s eating gruel for the next two weeks–I will not be made a fool–and forty lashes when I get home. Maybe it’s time to let little Kingston try his hand at the whip. Ah, they grow up so fast, don’t they? I’m going to need 500 Restylane shots in my ass and a coffee enema to get me out of this morning funk. Why why are slaves so ungrateful?”