Andy Kropa / Invision
Yet, it’s Jessica Biel who gets to fondle JT at night.

As Justin Timberlake wooed the American Music Awards with a win, a performance of “Drink You Away” and an ass that won’t quit, Jessica Biel was nowhere to be found.

Gasp with a capital exclamation point. And another for dramatic measure.

Twitter was awry with JT lovers hating on his wifey.

“I’m watching from home tonight. Calm down, Internet,” Biel tweeted.

She was probably sick of her hot ass being wedged in the backseat of his Hollywood parade, rife with groupies and hair gel.

Alas, her two options, as a rich and famous, don’t sound too dismal.

No. 1: Dress like a princess and mingle with the 1 percent while washing down foie gras* with Dom Perignon and watching a ballroom of people ogle the man’s balls you get to fondle later.

No. 2: Order Beluga caviar on diamond toast and watch your husband accept awards on your 13-foot wide flatscreen TV, while snuggling under live sheep.

Meanwhile, we’ll be over here in our winter coats, gluing our rabbit ears to a 67 degree angle on the wall to make the TV unfuzzy. Just send us a Beluga egg so we can sell it on Craigslist to pay rent. (Eric Decker will buy it.)

*I’ll force feed you cornmeal until your own liver falls out of your asshole.


Famous by family

Clint Eastwood’s daughter, Francesca, got smashed in Vegas and wed Jonah Hill’s brother, Jordan Feldstein, last weekend.

Currently, the marriage is in the process of being annulled. She sobered up, opened her eyes and realized she’s married to a chubby man who is only recognizable by his famous chubby brother. (She hasn’t yet realized that we only know her by her hot father.)

Feldstein is the music manager for Maroon 5 and Robin Thicke. Please accept our condolences. And Eastwood is a Miss Golden Globe. Whatever the fuck that is.

Lookin’ gross, Martha

Martha Stewart posted some photos of a meal on Twitter that were less-than-appetizing, says Twitter people.

NBC’s “Today” show correspondent Tamron Hall’s panties got in all sorts of an uproar.

“This is a…soup of some kind?” she asked while displaying the unflattering images on a big monitor.

Then Martha prison chokeholded the bitch, because she’s a chef, not a photographer.

The art of manliness, brought to you by M. Diddy. (She said that was her prison name. I jest you not.)

Legalizing Miley

Miley Cyrus is turning 21 on Saturday.

Daddy Billy Ray gone and done buyed her a $24,000 Can-Am Spyder motorcycle with her initials tattooed all over the bike. (You ride that thing with Grammy’s Hanes on, ya hear me, sugar tits? You don’t need no men eyein’ a whale tail when you ridin’ that thing ’round town, baby doll.)

For those not in the know, it’s a motorcycle with training wheels.

And for those in the know, the three-legged motored bike is for pansies. (Lookin’ at you, John Travolta, riding with your neon thong bein’ all, “heeeeeeeeeeey.”)

Happy birthday, Smiley. Maybe you’ll kick rocks for a while and make room for some other little shit to start wreaking havoc. Let’s get that Elle Fanning on the horn. Email her some drugs and a wrecking ball.

Earthquake J-Lo

I didn’t watch the American Music Awards because I had dog shit on my shoe (?) but apparently “Dancing With the Stars” dancer-guy Maksim Chmerkovskiy lifted Jennifer Lopez horizontally above his head while they performed together.

Chmerkovskiy called it “the most stressful four seconds of my life,” but pulled it off without a hitch.

Thank stars, otherwise, Thailand would’ve experienced a J-shake from hell will the way that big ol’ booty bounces.

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