D oes le Hollywood dandy Robert Pattinson just keep on morphing into his nouveau emo beaux Kristen Stewart? (She's bringing emo back. Them other boys don't know how to act.)
Damn straight, Fantz. I concur.
Stewart told MTV News that she went on an "awesome" night out with Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Watson.
Aw. Franchise femme friends. Apparently, the Twilight, Hunger Games and Harry Potter gals crunked it up hardcore, like a boss.
When Stewart talks, I feel like I'm watching "Clueless." She, like, sounds, like, a total val gal. (What would nouveau emo do? Hold us.)
Stewart said she just met the Hunger Games' Lawrence, and "she's so cool."
"I guess we sort of both went, 'Wow, this is so weird.' We were actually sat in a corner with Emma Watson as well, the three of us. We were like, 'Wow, this is strange. This is really cool.'"
Wow. That is strange. Although, I've had better.
The case of the missing pecs
Call the authorities, exclamation point.
I'm concerned for Matthew McConaughey.
His man tits went missing!
The "actor" has lost a hunk of weight to film "The Dallas Buyers Club."
He transformed himself into a gaunt and frail Ron Woodruff -- a man who contracted HIV through drug use in the '80s and became one of the first AIDS activists.
Ah, his shirtless bongo-playing, bong-sucking, pole-dancing days of yore are being replaced by *gasp* actual acting?
So now, while he's chasing Oscar's shiny tail like impotence chases an Olsen twin,* it would appear he may be vying for an Academy Award.
Matthew, are you aware that you're really hampering your tits' search for life's meaning atop a flip-flop?
*Mary-Kate Olsen, 26, is banging Olivier Sarkozy, 42, the half-brother of the former president of France.
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's kids have sent their holiday wish lists to Santa Claus in Kent, England, as the fam is shacking up in some kingdom while Pitt films "World War Z." (Zombie apocalypse. Of course he would.)
My sneak peak of the letter to Father Sparkly Pants from Maddox, 11:
Bearded fat man,
I don't really want much, because every afternoon it Superstorm Sandys (that's a verb) presents in whatever flavor-of-the-film-location-month mansion we're shacking up in.
What I want is to go back to 2002, when it was just me and my brother-Frenching mother. When Brad came, it was all right. But then my mom just started shooting a circus out of her legs like Times Square fireworks. By the time this spectacle gets unbuckled from the car, my foie gras and fish roe is cold. Shiloh can stay, though. She's got dope clothes I can borrow.
In Chubs I trust,
Postscript: If you could tell my mom not to do that weird red carpet leg thing again, that'd be cool too.