You just won the column lottery, homies. Hollywood Headaches is making a guest appearance today. (Oh, stop with the roar, sugars. It’s my pleasure.)
I just read two old Hollywood Headaches that were trending on ColoradoDaily.com and I kind of laughed out loud. Condolences for sounding full of it.
The column’s been on nearly a year hiatus. I got too busy to write it, but now that I have a chance, I’m going to hammer one out. Like Bruce Jenner’s genitalia.
Disclaimer: The following may cause eye redness, chest pain, tingling, discomfort, bleeding gums, bloody stool, burning sensation when you urinate and/or religious hate mail.
(The burning means it’s working.)
I actually offer my sincerest congrats to Miss B.
Unless you’re in a space in his head (or republican), quit judging. (I jest, sweet red elephants.) If you can even attempt to wrap your mind around the possibility of being in the wrong body, try it. Now imagine how confusing it would be. Slap on a mind penis ladies. Dudes, some boobs.
Abort mission, dudes. Now put your hands where we can see them.
Wrapping this rant: Find comfort in your skin, for the world is our kin.*
(Now ribbed for your pleasure: rapping the rant.)
*Unless you’re Bill Cosby or David Miscavige.
Jay-Z’s music service, Tidal, is blowing it.
Ha! Oh hush, he could rebuild Mel Gibson in a day with the money he put into advertising alone. Or a fucking Yankees hat that fits.
Word is, the CEO left, there have been layoffs and hardly anyone is using it. Just like his…
I was going to say plastic surgeon, fools. Nicki Minaj can park her Lovesac under that eye luggage. (Does her ass make that beanbag look fat?)
So now Jay-Z is at least $56 million short, if this thing tanks. Good think Bey can back that ass up a pole.
Just close your eyes, smell those singles and justify your husband’s thug.
That bitch got curves
Let’s all cut an Uncle Jessie mullet: “Full House” is coming back, but as “Fuller House.”
Don’t hate. The house is aging. Its metabolism isn’t as it once was. As your mom tells me, just one piece of pizza will go straight to its ass. (It’s curvy, not fat. I’m still talking.)
If the ’90s is going to reboot stuff, let’s do some “Mr. Belvedere,” “Dinosaurs,” “Felicity,” or “My So-Called Life.” (Hush little millenials, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a compact disc.)
Nobody needs to see Bob Saget’s junk cupped gently in dad jeans. Even if he wishes it was in Kimmy Gibbler’s.