According to the internet, Lady Gaga has a John Holmes cock tucked back between her legs, a feat that (if it were true) should earn her some respect because it would some serious core strength to drag that slab of dick around all day. But, Lady Gaga proved that she was in fact a woman by squatting onstage at the Brit awards and letting her bacon pita sing a verse or two. The first fell into a pit of never ending despair as though they had looked into the face of Cthulhu. Ironically Cthulhu, who was also in the front row, vomited a small Romanian village into his top hat after seeing Gaga’s battered ham wallet. And now that we have photographic proof that she isn’t tucking back a butcher shop in her leotard, Gaga wants to make fun of the rumors. She was doing a photoshoot and wanted to take a few with her wearing a strap-on. She said, "I want to wear a dick strapped to my vagina. We all know that one of the biggest talking points of the year was that I have a dick, so why not give them what they want?” Unfortunately the editors at Q Magazine shot down the idea opting instead for a boring, clichéd topless, arms crossed over the breasts with leather pants approach. I have to give the chick credit. I think her music is shit and her fashion sense is ridiculous but I kinda respect the attempt to fuck with people. The internet says you have a dick, show them you have the biggest, blackest horse cock the world has ever seen.
The supergroup bar is about to be reset. The supergroup with the biggest pedigree right now is Them Crooked Vultures with members of Foo Fighters, Queens of the Stone Age and Led Zeppelin. Well, a new group in the works will combine Zeppelin and the Who. Roger Daltry says he wants to make a blues record with Jimmy Page. Daltry says, "He needs a singer to drive him. I'm a great blues singer. I don't sing the blues with The Who, but that's what I used to be before Townshend started writing. I used to be a great blues singer."
And Muse continues to prove why they are cooler than your favorite band. Not only do they shred ass, not only are their songs better, not only are they able to channel Queen in a way that makes Paul Rogers want to eat the barrel of a shotgun in shame, but they also have more respect for their fans and a better understanding of how to remain a viable and profitable band in the digital age. Unfortunately their record label still has no clue. Executives at Warner Music announced earlier this month they were withdrawing permission for their artists' songs to be used by streaming sites like Last.fm instead throwing their support by any site that makes you pay for it. And bassist Chris Wolstenholme is pissed. He says, "It's like taking your song off the radio, isn't it? You're instantly taking your song away from a group of potential listeners. The corporations are setting the rules on these things because they're clutching at straws. They've lost so much money on record sales because of the internet.” He says that a lot of the opposition to downloading isn’t coming from the bands, it’s from the labels. He says, “As far as bands are concerned you just want people to hear your music whichever way they can."
What has been the long held opinion of Courtney Love? Sure, she’s thought to be a talentless, junkie, succubus who would lose the Mother of the Year award to Diane Downs. But that is indisputable fact. I’m talking about opinion. And the one prevailing opinion about Courtney is that the cavernous bear den she calls a vagina reeks like an open mass grave of competitive eaters whose last meal was cauliflower, haggis and dog shit. That’s just an opinion because no man has been able to get close enough to smell it and live to tell the tale. It’s theorized that her twat stank is like the smoke monster in Lost, a sentient pillar of gut churning stink that can sense fear. Any attempt to confront the creature results in immediate death. If only there was a way to defeat this creature. If only Courtney’s vagina could be cleansed of its evil so that a little midget woman could walk out of it and exclaim, “This cooch is clear.” But where could we possibly find that much douche? We’d need a never ending torrent of vinegar and water driven at fire hose pressure into the mouth of the beast just to stand a chance. We’d need… JOHN MAYER!!!! And given the right conditions, that meeting of the great powers, vaginal rot and unrelenting douche geysers, could possibly happen. That condition? An epic grudge fuck. Apparently John Mayer is too much even for Courtney, and that’s saying something because she dangled from Billy Corgan’s balls for a while. Courtney read the Playboy interview with John and immediately called her publicist so that she could make a statement, which is what she calls it when she totters into the computer room and starts tooting rails off the keyboard. The resulting random keystrokes have created the following Twitter posts. "Do you ever feel like spite hate fucking John Mayer. Just to put him in his place, he's a better guitarist than me but not better in bed! Say your fucking John Mayer totally throwing him around the room in bits and then you just BAM punch him in the face? good times... Mayer's a little bland for me and youngish. I'll do young, but he's neither Yale Harvard Oxford and he's not really rock, so not for me." John responded but no one could understand the Niagra Falls of Massengil pouring out of his mouth.
And so long as I’m cheap-shotting a woman I’ve never met before in my life, Kelly Osbourne. Aw, fatty, fat get sad when people say fat things to fat face? Why don’t you grab a jowl and dab the Crisco dribbling from your fat tear ducts, huh hefty? Yes, it appears that Kelly Osbourne couldn’t understand why people made fun of her weight when she was quite obviously a drug addict. She said: "I took more hell for being fat than I did for being an absolute raging drug addict. I will never understand that. One day some horrible obnoxious teenager screamed out a car window to me, 'You're fat!'. I went to my parents bawling, 'I would rather be called ugly than be called fat!'" OK. Aw, poor butt ugly pig face doesn’t like ugly shit said about her ugly face. Why don’t you do the world a favor and go make out with a wheat thresher and then take a dip in lava pool full of lava resistant sharks, uggo? Kelly is clean and sober and has shed over 42lbs but said it was difficult due to her love of shoving fistfuls of fattening shit into her fat, ugly face. She says, "I never wanted to do anything to fix it ... For a very long time, Mrs. Field's salted cookies were my favorite thing in the world ... It's hard to get out of a hole you've dug so deeply."
German culture is rich and complex. It is the birthplace of a great cultural heritage bringing the world everything from beer to Bach to the VW Beetle. But despite being the linchpin on which all human accomplishment hinges, its customs are often misunderstood. When people think about Germans they think of super beings that can crush atoms in between their thumb and forefinger. They think of a race of people with such superior intellect that Steven Hawking avoids them at all cost for fear of looking like an imbecile. They think of a people who should be worshiped as living gods walking among us and celebrated for their superiority in every way but, because Germans are a humble people, refuse to be deified by the primitives that make up the rest of the world’s population. But it is because of their vast superiority that people fail to understand their customs. Like the well known custom of shitting on each other while wearing leather corsets and stiletto boots made from shellacked aborted fetuses. People think that this is an example of the depraved sexual nature of the German people, but it’s not. See, Germans don’t excrete waste the way normal humans do. Since they are so advanced, they evolved away from needing a gastrointestinal track so they replaced it with a soft serve ice cream maker. Now what looks like a depraved act of fecalphilia is in fact a healthy snack served conveniently on your chest. And lederhosen. To the outside observer these ball-chrushingly tight leather shorts with accompanying suspenders look like a ridiculous costume for drunken, sausage chugging yokels. In fact, the lederhosen work much the same way as Captain Atom’s suit, containing the vast oceans of atomic energy stored in their balls. The contents of just one German’s lederhosen has the power to impregnate every woman on the planet ten times over. Even the customs of German rock bands are misunderstood. In Germany they don’t use pens. Since every German fist print is unique, they sign documents by punching them leaving a glowing red hot impression of their fist for all time. And when you request an autograph from a musician it is customary for them to punch it into whatever you offer. That’s what a woman found out when she requested an autograph from Tokio Hotel’s Tom Kaulitz. Tom was sitting in his car at a gas station in Hamburg when a woman walked up to his window and asked for a picture and an autograph. Since Germans can’t be photographed by any of Earth’s primitive technology, he had to politely decline in the customary German way of rolling down the window and flicking a lit cigarette at her. The woman, pointing out that Tom dropped his cigarette but wanting to extinguish the burning tip before it ignited the gasoline fumes wafting through the air, stubbed out the cigarette on his window. The appreciative Kaulitz got out of the car and expressed his gratitude by punching his signature into her eye, an autograph that she will cherish forever.
And a book signing pro-tip. This is something that anyone who has attended signings by Maya Angelou or JK Rowling can tell you. Don’t stand around in the store smoking a joint with a backpack full of explosives, at least not unless you want to cap the evening with a cop’s knee on the back of your neck and the bomb squad detonating your math homework. Ozzy has apparently written a book (which I imagine is a tapestry of literary art woven entirely with vowels.) And, as you do when you are an author, Ozzy made an appearance at a Palm Beach Barnes and Noble to sign some copies. 19-year-old Nathan Mosier decided to pass the time in line by sparking up a joint. Perfectly normal and acceptable behavior in Florida. Unfortunately, those fascist pig cops saw him. Mosier bolted, but being a 19-year-old who smokes enough weed to think blazing in public would go unnoticed by the cops standing 15 feet away, his lung capacity was quickly reached and the dude folded like a sack of laundry. While the cops were searching him they discovered homemade fireworks in his back pack so they called in the bomb squad. Mosier was charged with possession of marijuana with intent to sell, possession of narcotic equipment and possession of explosives. At least one of those is a felony and possibly all three, depending on the laws in Florida.
