Not many people know this but Vince Vaughn used to be quite pretty circa Swingers. In a few short years his face went from that...to this. What the fuck happened? Many commentators accuse Jennifer Aniston of sucking the hot out of him but it was pretty much all gone by the time she got there. I researched the living hell outta this and finally found the truth. Double V is a huge fan of expensive iron train sets. He is also a huge fan of drinking. One night, whilst tripping the Gin fantastic, VV passed out on the rails of one of his train sets and his face got fucked up by the miniature 3:13am from Peshtigo, Wisconsin. When Vince came-to there was blood on the tracks, no gin left and his leading man good looks had vanished, leaving him as Owen Wilson’s less attractive friend.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Rock of Love Bus with everyone’s favourite lady boy Bret Michaels is the kind of show that calls for a Catholic church exorcism. Middle class families have been known to vomit green over TV dinners in sleepy suburbia in front of VH1’s most greasy, amoral franchise yet. And let’s face it: the pixelated images of the contestants alone could kill an entire ward of newborns.
It's rumoured the 'Love Bus' crew wore gold plated crucifixes and ropes of garlic around their necks like warped Hawaiian leis just so the San Fernando porn poltergeists would go with Michaels back to his fuck-bus and not leech onto them. A second assistant director who alledgedly foamed at the mouth and was found with the number of the beast carved into her forehead could only be cured of her affliction by a Priest with a set of sharp gynalogical tools a fortnight later after she was found wandering around a Mexican shanty town with a new set of silicone “fun bags” and a counterfiet YSL handbag.
These contestants are not ladies, folks. They’re transient men in cocktail frocks. They’re truckers with venereal diseases that headed west on some remote Texan highway with a glove compartment full of latex knickers after hearing Poison’s I Want Action on late night radio and, mistaking Michaels for a Penthouse Pet, decided to head straight into the bowels of Los Angeles to find their blonde haired, blue eyed sweetheart.
All the “girls” have warped jugs so distorted that it looks as though some Compton gangbanger, high from a dose of glue and Ouzo, rammed gentically modifed watermelons under their mamamory glands in some dimly lit garage, stitched them up with their mother’s sewing kit and sent them out into the world with a new sense of trick-confience. Any guy that tells you that one of these slut muppets is “hot” is either a transexual or: a transexual.
I know second rate drag queens that have shared circle vomits over contestant DJ Lady Tribe because the very concept that this “alien inbreed” is from planet Earth and is considered a “glamour” is enough to make them ditch the tiaras for life and grow a six metre handle-bar moustache.
The New England Journal of Medical Science is even considering revising it’s 2009 edition by redifining the definitions of the human anatomy to include a new subject – the Rock of Love Bus Contestant, which, if you read the proposed terminology is described as: “a strange crossbreed of Tijuanan prostitute and WWF wrestler that somehow fused to create a dual-gender species, thanks to Bret Michaels.”
I’m off now. But just remember. There are two rules to tuning in to Rock of Love Bus. If your head spins counter-clockwise and you stab your groin with an inanimate object, your Bret’s bitch and you better call the church. If you think any one lady from the “bevy of beauties” is a “stunner” then its time to ditch the wife, the dog and the station wagon and resign yourself to the fact that your'e having a major spiritual crisis and desperately need to seek therapy on a surgeons table or alternately, if you’re a scrooge, in your mother’s suspenders for next seasons sordid auditions. I hear it’s called Rock of Love: Midlife for Men.
John Wayne was a grade A, no questions asked, guns blazing cocksucker. Why, you ask? Because his real name was Marion and he hid it from the world. But that’s not the only reason. Satan’s favourite Encyclopedic reference Wikipedia likes to etch Wayne into history as an American icon who “epitomized a rugged masculinity”. Wrong. It should read: “John Wayne was a nigger hater and a woman hater. And he peed on kids.”
“Awwwww, don’t be cruel,” you say. ”John had four ribs removed due to lung cancer.” Cruel? John had four ribs removed just so he could blow himself without his hairpiece falling into his lap. His first wife Esperanza tried to shoot him when he came through the front door, so go figure. In May 1971 when he admitted to Playboy magazine: “I eat as much as I ever did, I drink more than I should, and my sex life is none of your goddamned business,” Wayne wasn’t being coy. He was defending his right to the privacy of his Friday nights, when he reportedly went down on midgets in San Antonio urinals. In the same interview Wayne also blurted “The academic community has developed certain tests that determine whether the blacks are sufficiently equipped scholastically…I don’t feel guilty about the fact that five or ten generations ago these people were slaves. Now, I’m not condoning slavery. It’s just a fact of life, like the kid who gets infantile paralysis and can’t play football like the rest of us.” Try telling that one to some kid in South Central with an AK-47, John.
John Wayne was not an American Hero. Or a man of a “rugged masculinity”. He was a pussy. And a coward. And hid his thimble sized penis and his monkier “Marion” behind his spaghetti western pistol and his rancid, jerk off posturing.
“I’m looking at a tin star with a…DRUNK pinned on it,” Wayne famously spat in El Dorado. No buddy. That ain’t so. You were right in thinking that your ugly mug was staring at a cop’s badge. But it was pinned to you. And it simply read: “Cocksucker.”
Herve Villachaize: A troubled dwarf with “a sweet tooth for strippers from Hong Kong.”
A wise man named Billy Joel once said “Only the good die young.” I don’t believe that for a second and he did say it in a song he wrote to try and make a Catholic girl have sex with him, so some poetic license was used. Those Catholic girls love their poetic license. Nothing makes them give up the goods like poetic license. But to rephrase: some of the most interesting and memorable entertainers have died young - either by their own hand or by things they did with their hands - driving too fast, drinking too much, shooting up speed balls and punching the wrong people.
Anyone who’s seen even a few seconds of Aaron Spelling's mystical tropical cheese platter Fantasy Island knows who Tattoo is. Those of you who don’t can go do your homework, or fake tan your face or go to a suburban shopping centre and buy really tight unflattering jeans.
Tattoo was a tiny little dwarfism ravaged French dude who worked for the suave island owner Mr Roarke (played by Ricardo Montlebarn) and was kind of like a creepy little waiter, party planner, PA and bell ringer. No plane ever landed on that island without him loudly proclaiming, in his French accented wheeze “Ze plane! Ze Plane!" Oh...and him and his boss always wore matching white suits with kicky black ties. I hope to one day reenact this trend by dressing in such matching fashion with my boss, but at this point in time that fantasy is not for anyone but my therapist.
Tattoo was played by Herve Villechaize (pronounced “Erv-ay”, in case you want to throw it into the ring for potential baby names). He was like the Verne Troyer of his generation – only without the sex tape and fetal alcohol syndrome. I’m not sure if it was him or the cast of the Terry Gilliam move the Time Bandits that first ignited my misunderstood lifelong fascination with midgets (it’s not sexual!) but he is definitely the one who had the most impact.
Herve was famous not only for playing Tattoo but also for portraying the villain henchman Nick Nack opposite Roger Moore in the Bond film The Man with the Golden Gun. It was during the filming of this movie that Roger Moore noted that Herve “had a sweet tooth for strippers from Hong Kong.” And why shouldn't he?
From 1978 to 1984, Villechaize played Tattoo on Fantasy Island, where guests would come to have their fantasies fulfilled - think Lost but nothing like it - except that there was an island. Due to the popularity of the show, Herve became a household name. He was even nominated for a Golden Globe for: Best Supporting Actor in a TV Series. He didn’t win. In this big person world the dwarves hardly ever do. However he was raking in the giant bucks and enjoying his new found popularity with the ladies. According to an online article (so fact checking is optional) when in a jovial mood Herve used to play a game called “Spin the midget”. The rules were pretty simple: Herve would lie on his back in the centre of a circle of women and have someone spin him around. Whoever he ended up pointing at got to take the little guy home for sexy time.
It was all fun and games 'til somebody lost his mind. Herve - after his second divorce and the pain caused by his dwarfism - developed a big time drinking problem. According to those on set, he was a furious and abusive drunk, often pointing loaded guns at people and yelling scathing abuse at them. If only footage of such a thing existed! One of the regular recipients of his outlandish behavior happened to be the shows producer Aaron Spelling. Not smart Herve. Threatening producers never ends well for anyone this side of the Godfather franchise.
Herve was eventually fired from Fantasy Island after multiple threats of pistol whippings, demanding a massive salary hike and sexually proposition one too many of his co-stars. Apparently not every woman is open minded enough to want to not only play “Spin the Midget” but actually collect on her prize.
After burning through his Fantasy Island millions, the last few years of his life saw Herve descend into alcoholism and depression. Even threatening his agent at gunpoint in a booth at an LA restaurant didn’t cheer him up enough to want to go on living. In 1993 Herve went into the yard of his Hollywood home, pointed a loaded pistol at his chest and pulled the trigger. There’s a suicide note - it’s pretty sad so I didn’t quote any of it. Despite working his apparent shortcomings to his advantage Herve never felt like there was really a place in the world for him. You don’t have to be a catch phrase spouting French Midget to feel that way.
A biopic called My Dinner with Herve is in the works. It's being directed by Sacha Gervasi who noted: "Herve wasn’t just a pop culture icon; he was one of the most charming, cultured and dangerous people I've ever met."
See you in the ticket queue.
Poison frontman and Rock of Love romeo Bret Michaels is the type of guy that makes me want to take a long shower under high pressure hoses in San Quentin prison. Even if there was a 9 in 10 chance of getting pack raped by a gang of horny Chicano inmates, I’d still risk it just so I could feel clean. Rock of Love 2 has tainted my life. My skin has a new sheen that soap cannot remove. I took one look at Michaels' washed up, glam rock mug on the television and I didn’t just think “Shit Pal, your star has really faded.” I thought “Shit, your star has herpes.” And possibly became a lesbian.
Bret Michaels looks like he’s banged enough rock sluts and Jumbo’s Clown Room strippers to have picked up STD’s science didn’t even know existed. You know how you hear those freak medical stories about groups of UCLA trained doctors emerging from a field trip in the Central American jungle only to discover they’ve got some kind of satanic Panamanian swamp wasp living under their skin? Well, if you think in rock & roll terms the metaphor is easy. Here, lets do the math: Bret Michaels fucks a pole artist, a 63 year old hair metal fanatic, a Lithuanian transsexual and an underage Taco Bell grill hand in the concrete jungle of West Hollywood and 24 hours later he’s emerging from a Sunset Strip motel with a brand new venereal nightmare that is as rampant and angry as Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall.
Luckily for the general population this kind of malevolent STD hybrid rarely finds time to mutate outside of the San Fernando Valley or Tommy Lee. But this is where it gets nasty. Say some harmless, inexperienced college geek puts a fistful of 20’s in a stripper’s panties on his 21st birthday and requests that she gyrate all over his virginity in some sordid backroom. Bang: kid walks away with Brett Michaels Fever. That’s how AIDS spread. You have a one night stand on a Jack and coke bender in your innocent youth and you’re doomed to screw porno midgets and Tex Mex pole bitches for all eternity. That don’t look so good when you’re 45 and begging for it at the ankles of a 4 foot 2 fat-o-gram in clear plastic heels. You contract Bret Michaels Fever & you can’t even score with a steak house waitress. They’ll blow truckers with Chlamydia. They eat that shit up with a spoon. But you get a dose of "The Fever" and they’ll saw your cock off with an emery board. As Dennis Hopper famously said as Frank Booth in Blue Velvet: “You get a love letter from me? You’re fucked forever.” Bret needs to stamp that quote on his Imelda Marcos style head scarf collection and wear it like a registered sex offender.
The bandana. What’s with that? I haven’t caught a glimpse of his forehead since 1986. Bret’s developed an unhealthy psychosis over that faded blue gang rag that goes beyond balding. I’m sensing an outbreak of herpes along the hairline of his bad Euro weave or plugs so grossly enlarged that it makes those Taiwanese manufactured baby dolls with the satanic faces retain a more natural coiffure. Or maybe Bret Michaels Fever takes a grim turn in late stage attack; the way lepers begin to loose limbs when its raging through their bloodstream and the antibodies can’t fight back anymore. Your plugs fall out, your scalp slides off and you end up looking like an Alex Grey painting or something from 28 Day Later.
But do we lay all the blame on Bret? Will he be stoned to death like an Iranian lady boy or burned like a Salem witch, when "The Fever" spreads to the American heartland and starts taking out Republican farmers in pandemic proportions? Or worse still - when it reaches continental Europe? Is there salvation for him in his final hours? Can we brand a scarlet letter on the silicone sluts that wallow and flounder and cling to the red velvet drapes of his house in their string bikinis? Perhaps.
I know a failed porn star when I see one. The operative word being FAILED. See, Los Angeles is the biggest manufacturer of pornography in the world, profiting an estimated $14 billion a year. That’s a massive cash cow for films that are shot in garages. You want to watch Barbie fuck a 3-legged poodle? You got it. Anyone can make it in the porn industry as long as you’re nasty enough to sink to lows even Satan is repulsed by. Give me a ball gag, a razor, a guy with a colostomy bag and an exotic Malaysian fruit and even I would profit. So when I say FAILED there must be a good reason. And that reason is: Sexually Transmitted Diseases.
The Rock of Love 2 cast makes me want to get my hymen sewn back in and reclaim virginity. Angelique looks like the horny, twisted football jock from some kid’s high school nightmare who became gripped with gender confusion in the locker room and instead of going out and fucking a guy at a frat party over the Budweiser keg to get it out of his system, maxed out his mother’s credit card and invested in a pair of warped jugs and a bad French accent. If that thing is from Paris as claimed, it’s probably been deported by Carla Brunei’s sugar daddy. Inna looks like the kind of hormonally dysfunctional German dominatrix that would spank her own mother if given the chance. And Daisy. Poor Daisy. A knocked up lady boy rock slut who is so dizzy from virus that she mistook Pamela Anderson as a glamour in her youth and then paid a backward Sri Lankan orthodontist a US Visa to perform the kind of surgery that even New Guinea tribes would ceremonially vomit over. She cries a lot. That’s because of the gin and the Prozac and the shit self esteem. Oh, and all the itchiness around her panty line that the hot tub and Brett’s insincerity didn’t cure. I’m sure at some point in her sordid youth, Daisy knew what it was like to shoot reams of piss out of her penis, but hell that’s one for the ages. I think I’m getting an STD just by talking about it.
The day draws near when HIV will be applauded and Bret Michaels Fever will transcend from being just another theory to a bona fide virus in the pages of the New England Journal of Medical Science. By that time I’ll be in my underground bunker with a stockpile of food, an arsenal of sniper rifles and the Platinum Collection of Different Strokes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Phil Spector fires guns. At walls. At John Lennon. I thought this was crazy hilarious until he blasted the face off that blonde in his Los Angele’s fuck pad. Anyone who brings a loaded pistol to a recording studio housing 'Nazi Fetishist' Johnny Ramone has some kind of twisted cat and mouse complex going. Word on the street is that Phil placed the barrel of his 9mm handgun against Dee Dee’s head in the hope that he would play a singular chord repeatedly until he felt the take was perfect. Turns out that the music still wasn’t hitting the mark six hours later so Phil aimed the glock at Dee Dee’s chest, ordered the band into the piano room, locked the door and forced them to listen to him sing pop ballads till dawn.
Now here’s the thing I ain’t buying. Phil’s gone to jail for 19 years in the California State prison system. First of all, you put a freaky millionaire like Spector in the Pelican Bay penal colony and the dude’s getting bailed up in the shower block in under 2.5 seconds by some Hells Angel murder monster that didn’t quite like the drum overdubs on The Ronettes Be My Baby. We’re talking serious first aid by nightfall. Secondly, I don’t think he did it. I don’t think he blasted that blonde until she dissolved in a pool of her own tepid blood, her frontal lobe splattered on the walls like an abstract Brett Whitley paiting. Now, I’m no conspiracy theorist but have you seen Spector’s hair? Anyone who scrapes Alabama roadkill off the highway with a set of car keys then places the prize on his head, is asking for an exorcism. I’m putting money on the vision that Phil pulled over on some desolate, hillbilly highway during one of his “spells”, John Lennon’s Imagine blaring from the stereo, and feeling insecure about his vast nylon wig collection and doomed forecast baldness, scratched a flattened swamp rat off the asphalt, rubbed it into his cranium, then drove off in a cloud of smoke and rubber into a liquid pink sunset. If that's the case then the swamp rat has been living on Phil’s head for a long while. Until that doomed and tortured evening when it woke in a Germanic rage and began plotting to take out Z-grade Holywood slut-muppets.
As Phil slept the good sleep with his pistol under his pillow, his wig was out on the town attacking prostitutes and vagrants on Hollywood Boulevard and eating french fries in Denny’s. Then, as dawn broke over the hills and the city woke to a smog filled sky, Phil’s beloved hair piece crept back into the bedroom and pretended to rest on his teakwood nightstand until his Master’s fat fingers slapped him back on top of his greasy dome.
Then came Lana Clarkson. The hot ‘has been’ blonde. Wig got jealous. Wig decided to love Lana from a distance. Until Wig could take it no more. He leapt from Phil’s head, snatched up the pistol from the nightstand and screamed “Kiss the gun sweetheart” before blowing her brains through the back of her skull.
But hey, that’s just my theory. Keep on believing that it’s only hair. One day, when you feel a rustle on your head and the click of the chamber, you’ll know I was right all along.
Gareth: I feel broken and alone. My wife played Jedi mind tricks on me and went off with a four ft Venezuelan immigrant named Rico. She now strips somewhere in Amarillo. I feel like killing myself. Most days I sit on the couch, eat ice-cream and jerk off into a ski mitten. I am obsessed with Joan Rivers. She reminds me of Mom. VMB 4151.
Errol Flynn was an Australian born, big-dicked movie star in the black and white olden days. He loved booze, morphine, fucking and brawling. He may have used his own sperm when making omelettes. He was charged with the statutory rape of two girls and it HELPED his career. He was rumoured to have been a Nazi spy. He had mirrored ceilings in his house to check himself out while getting his “Rock of Love” on. He hired a Cuban orchestra to follow him around wherever he went. He was fined 10 pounds for hitting a Chinama. He had a tendency to buy exotic animals when drunk. Australian Crawl wrote a song about him. His ghost haunted the boat he died on until they had it exorcised and he probably had more sex than you, me and Charlie Sheen put together.
Errol rose to fame as a swashbuckling hero of 1930’s and 1940’s period films like Captain Blood, The Adventures of Robin Hood and The Adventures of Don Juan. As the titles suggest, Errol spent most of his on-screen time adventuring, often clad in a puffy pirate shirt and tights with a suave pencil mo adorning his pretty face. He captained ships, rescued ladies and did a fair bit of that 'pressing his mouth hard on a woman’s without moving his lips' style kissing that was big at the time.
“I like my whisky old and my women young.” - Errol Flynn.
In October 1942 the Los Angeles District Attorney filed charges against Errol for the statutory rape of two teenage girls. Not surprisingly this made banner headlines across the world. His high powered lawyer character assassinated the girls, slandering their reputations by proving the DA had offered them immunity on criminal charges of oral sex and abortion in return for pressing charges against Errol. In 1942? And here was I thinking the dark ages were a tad earlier than that. Apart from Flynn’s public denial, apparently there was no question that he did indeed have sex with both of them. Errol was acquitted in February 1943. I wonder who had the more expensive lawyers?
Despite the fears of studio executives, not only did the trial not hurt his career but it actually helped it. His next film Gentleman Jim went on to be a big success. It also served to fuel his legend as a ladies man and led to the coining of the popular phrase “In like Flynn.” Nice one society!
Anyway, nobody put Errol in the naughty corner and he certainly didn’t learn his lesson. Obviously a firm believer in the age old adage “If there’s grass on the green it’s open for play”, his last girlfriend was 15 when they hooked up. He was 50. Someone had mommy issues. That’s an internal elephant-man level of emotional deformity to crave the sexual companionship of someone going through puberty. Seriously Errol, I don’t care how big your cock was, the hamster running your brain was obviously asthmatic and probably dying of syphilis. Sexy, sexy syphilis.
Errol had your Hollywood standard 3 marriages (to actual, fully grown women) and numerous affairs and flings with hundreds of others. What’s interesting is the pervasive talk of homosexuality springing from his associates and first wife. It’s rumored that during the 1949 filming of the Adventures of Don Juan, Errol and the screenwriter George Oppenheimer apparently had sex with the entire male fencing academy. Touché. There are also rumored affairs with Tyrone Powell, Howard Hughes and Truman Capote as well as other famous actors of the time.
It’s likely he was bisexual but probably didn’t consider himself so as it seemed he subscribed to the “any hole is goal” way of thinking. Either way he was into some kinky shit. Errol had his home built with a two way mirror on the bedroom ceiling with which he liked to not only watch himself get it on (with middle school marching bands) but he also had a trap door where he could spy Norman Bates-like on guests getting their freak on.
According to respected Hollywood gossips of the time, Errol was extremely well endowed. In fact the director of Robin Hood was a tad concerned about the extent to which he filled out his tights and was thinking of getting him to “strap himself…like the ballet dancers do.”
"You know [Errol] Flynn, he’s either got to be fighting or fucking.” - Jack L. Warner.
Errol loved to get his drink on and was one of those old school Hollywood types like Bogart who didn’t give a rat’s ass what the consequences of his addictions were. He used to tell an anecdote about how, when he was banned from drinking on set for his alcoholic antics, he used to inject oranges with vodka and eat them during his breaks.
On the rare occasions when he was drunk and had his hands free, Errol had a habit of buying exotic animals. He once bought an angry lion cub who he ended up abandoning with a desk clerk when he sobered up enough to realize it wasn’t as good an idea as he had previously thought.
Errol and his drinking buddies liked to play practical jokes on each other. One of note was soon after the death of his good friend (actor and Drews’ granddad) John Barrymore. Errol’s mates “borrowed” Barrymore’s corpse from a morgue, took it to Errol’s house and sat the body in a chair. When Errol came home drunk after being at a bar called the Cock and Bull for several hours, the first thing he saw when he opened the door was his friends cold dead body sitting there to greet him. Ah, there ain’t no party like an old school Hollywood booze party.
After Errol died of a heart attack in 1959 at the age of 50, his drinking buddies placed six bottles of whiskey in his casket. I’m surprised they didn’t throw a couple of pubescent girls in there for good measure but they were probably too drunk to make it happen – and most teenage girls can run faster than corpses.
“If it Moved, Flynn Fucked it.” - This is what Errol wanted inscribed on his tombstone.
The problem with writing an article on Errol Flynn is you’re never going to be able to get all the good bits in. There have been several biographies written about him but the best source would be his autobiography called My Wicked, Wicked Ways. Errol wanted to name the book In Like Me, but his publisher wouldn’t let him. Buzz kill publisher, that would’ve been a fitting title.
“I had by now made about forty-five pictures, but what had I become? I knew all too well: a phallic symbol. All over the world I was, as a name and personality, equated with sex. Playboy of the Western World. That was me…How far a field had I gone from my early ambitions? Does any man ever set out to become a phallic symbol universally, or does this not rather happen to a man in spite of himself?” - Errol Flynn.
This is entirely Madonna's fault.
All the female pop stars have been copying Madonna like she's a super-nerd's dandruff covered exam paper for the past two decades. It was only a matter of time before the "angry vagina" thing got emulated. In the clip to Beyonce's song Video Phone she and Gaga have a good old fashioned 'Vag Off'. I've been pondering their secret gardens for several minutes now and I think we might have a tie on our hands. Neither is bringing the 'vag rage' and as Tyra Banks would say, none of them are "smiling with their clits." I think we're looking at the bottom two this week. Madonna's vagasaurus could storm in there and annihilate them both without breaking a leotard sweat. Sorry girls, nobody brings the irate vag like Madge.
- WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?
- ROCK OF SLUT BUS: The Real Story
- “I’M LOOKING AT A TIN STAR WITH A…COCKSUCKER PINNE...
- SPIN the MIDGET: The life and death of Herve Villa...
- MY KIND OF GRAFFITI
- EVERY ROSE HAS AN STD: VH1's Rock of Love
- MOVIE OF THE WEEK
- WHEN WIGS KILL PEOPLE
- PERSONALS AD
- ERROL FLYNN: A SELF CONFESSED COCK FROM WAY BACK
- BEYONCE AND LADY GAGA: "VAG OFF".
- ANOTHER REASON WHY I DON'T HOLIDAY IN JAPAN
- ▼ July (12)