L ady Gaga and Taylor Kinney are dating again.
I am not acquainted with said boy.
He's an "actor" slash "model" (like the lot of us).
Gaga, as much as we all desire to loathe loving to hate her (what?), I didn't know she fancied things of the sexual persuasion. I thought maybe she was asexual -- nay, B-sexual (a B-grade romp in the sack).
Gaga's googoo schedule was reportedly to blame for the pair's original split.
Moo goo gai pan.
But a "source" told some rag mag:
"They may still be trying to make it work. She feels like having him keeps her grounded. Obviously she thinks he's hot."
Grounded. The last time that broad saw ground was when Akon called her by her Christian name, Stefani.
Or when she face-planted in a pair of Noritaka Tatehana's heel-less platform shoes.
I hear the Train a-leaving
Goodnight universe. I love you universe. Thank you for such a nice day. I look forward to a refreshed 'morrow with a side of black lungs.
Please watch over Pat Monahan's sharp face, bedazzled jeans, taut man-blouses and elevator shoes.
Bless that Train singer's heart. (It sneezed.)
Confession: I once upon a time enjoyed Train. My buddy Steve and I met Mr. Monahan at a show in Orlando, back when you were knee-high to a swine's eye.
The rumors rang true:
-He was a sickeningly sweet bloke.
-He fits in my pocket.
-His jaw cuts steak.
Alas Steve -- all cockeyed on booze -- gave Pat some slurry entertainment that the singer was quite keen on.
Then, little Pat decided to freight-hop to the adult contemporary car: Le Harmonies de Horseshit.
Granted, he's always been corny, but he took a ragged left at wreck with "This'll Be My Year." I've never heard the tune, but audibly groaned when I read these lyrics:
"I stopped believin', though Journey told me, 'don't.'"
Sigh. At least the lyrics finally caught up with his clothes. Get it together, buddy. Journey's revival was so six years ago.
It's raining fetuses
While visiting a West Palm Beach strip club, patrons may need to don slickers and angler pants.
Octomom Nadya Suleman just announced she'll be flashing her floppy jugs at T's Lounge. Run, don't walk -- it's a limited five-night engagement to attempt to pull her out of her $1 million debt. (Did someone tell her they're just dolla, dolla bills y'all?)
Sorry kids, she won't be going full nude -- just topless -- and no lap dances. Whew. That afterbirth would be mighty difficult to remove.
(Why am I writing this while eating lunch?)
The mom of 14 should probably dance in adult diapers so the strip club need not worry about being responsible for a flux of fetuses flying out.
She's living on welfare now and is doing "what is best for my children and I need a fresh start."
Maybe if she stops blowing her wad on stretch-mark cream and fresh swimmers.