If it weren’t for people, the world would be a fine place.
BROOKE HOGAN
Brooke Hogan is the ultimate
barf. VH1 claims that “Brooke Knows Best,” but I forcefully beg their pardon.
Brooke is a full-fledged man, and if Brooke doesn’t know that, then she’s
lacking major self awareness. There’s no bun about it, she’s packing a major
meat-stick for sure. With the chin of Sgt. Slaughter and the frame of a
lumbering linebacker, who does she think she’s trying to fool? Her resemblance
to a lumberjack shouldn’t come as surprise--consider her roots. You’ve got
“Losermania” spreading his bleached out, steroid-riddled seed to a woman that resembles
an early period Homo habilis,
spawning Hulk Jr. and a ghetto-bent idiot son that spends his life determined
to act as blatantly stupid as possible. Because Hulk jammed up juice for all
those years and threw Macho Man and Andre the Giant around a few times, Vince
McMahon paid him in spades, leaving his freak offspring feeling entitled to
privileges and opportunities they certainly don’t deserve, like TV shows,
souped up sports cars, celebrity status (riiiiight) and record deals.
Seriously, have you heard Brooke sing? Talk about forgettable. That man is
about as entertaining and talented as William Hung, drunk and strung out on
toxic glue. William Hung could put lit firecrackers in his mouth and still
out-sing Brooke any day. Just cut the crap already and stop trying to fool America into
thinking you’re not a man, and please, spare us the awkward nausea of another
TV show. Follow the likes of Chaz Bono and come on out, Brock Hogan.
EVERY IDIOT WALKING AROUND WITH TATTOOS ON HIS ARMS
There are so many awesome
things in life: wearing hats of teams I don’t even like with my ears tucked in,
listening to crunk music, watching the movie Scarface, getting drunk and talking to skanks with bad reputations
and vacuous personalities, crashing cars and most awesome of all... my sweet
arm tattoos. No shirt can contain my inked up gunz; sleeves fall right off,
disintegrating in fear, making way for my tribal and barbed excellence. I’ve
even got a kick ass Godsmack sun on one shoulder and the Chinese symbol for
“warrior” on the other, even though I’ve never been in a fight. As soon as I
walk out of the house in my wife-beater, I see people staring, envious,
seething, because they wish their ink was as hardcore and brutal as mine. So
what if the guy down the street and the guy a block over have the same
tattoos... they will never be as cool as me! My tattoos are from the heart,
inspired by personal issues and tribulations in my life, not lame and retarded
like some of my friends try to say. They’re just haters! I walk around with my
chest puffed out, feeling macho like that guy Max Cady in Cape Fear, because I’m crazy legit. That guy was dope, just like
me. I may have never been to prison, or totally psychotic like that guy, but
we’ve got something in common: berserk tattoos! People take one look at me and
cower, because they know I’m the business! I’ve got the arm tattoos to prove
it!
MICHAEL JACKSON
BEAT IT! I did, right to the
grave. King of Pop: dunzo. I can’t believe America rallied around my death and
made such a spectacle of it, seeing as no one really gave much care to me for
the last twenty years or so when I was shapeshifting into an alien form,
tucking myself away in carnival bliss and losing my sanity in Neverland Ranch,
pumping my body full of narcotics and prescription drugs and playing sleepover
and touch-touch with preteen children. Really though, the admiration and
reveling is really unbelievable!Funny,
I just can’t seem to recall your attentiveness and concern during the rough
patches, Brooke Shields, like when I was getting grilled by Martin Bashir. Hmm.
Or Magic, you said that my music made you a better basketball player... where
was the love? Maybe I’m just forgetting all of those times you came over to my
place to play some 21. Horse, perhaps? Oh right, that never happened. Usher,
your tears were perfectly placed; what a touching tribute. And when the camera
zoomed in on the awkward hugs with my family, WOW--I was weeping in my casket.
It almost made me forget about all of those times I tried to contact you about
collaborating with no response... it’s okay, you managed to strike gold with
Lil’ Jon (man, have you seen that guy’s eyes--and people thought I looked like
a freak!). Thanks for calling me a genius, Justin Timberlake, that’s really a
gracious honor. Although, if I was truly a genius, I doubt my life would have
careened off the rails as it did, leaving me shamed and ultimately dead. Sigh, it seems everyone with a mouth
threw their two cents in: Miley Cyrus, Heidi Montag, Ashley Tisdale, Shanna
Moakler, Kim Kardashian, Pete Wentz, Star Jones, Kelly Rowland, Samantha
Ronson... who in the hell are all you people? Really? I’ve never even heard of
any of you people before, and here you are commenting with tears and weepy
faces... really? Seriously, people, I’m just Michael Jackson, not Christ. I’m
not that big of a deal. I had some hits back in the day, did the Moonwalk,
caught my hair on fire, transformed, dodged years of accusations, developed a
raging drug habit and died at a reasonable age. Typical Hollywood
stuff here, NO BIG DEAL.
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