WHAT MAKES A MAN CRY? BIG TITS AND ALCOHOL? STUPIDITY? GROSS NEGLIGENCE? ALL OF THE ABOVE!
SKULLGAME NOTE: TODAY'S RANT WAS ACCIDENTALLY DELETED BY A DRUNKEN VINNIE ROSE. HE IS SOBBING IN THE CORNER NOW. SOMETHING ABOUT "MY JOKES. MY JOKES." THAT BEING AS IT MAY WE ARE GOING TO ATTEMPT AS NEAR AS POSSIBLE TO RECREATE HIS STUNNING, STAGGERING MAN WIT AS IT TURNS ITS TURRETS TO THE TOPICS OF JENNIFER LOVE HEWITT'S TITS, J. LO'S TITS AND HABIB'S DRUNKEN ESCAPADES. WAIT. WAIT. HE SAYS THAT HABIB'S DRUNKEN TRAVELOGUE IS LOST TOO. THE COFFEE IS BREWING. HE'S BEGGING FORGIVENESS. WE'RE PISSING IN HIS COFFEE. NOW THAT'S FUCKING ENTERTAINMENT.
HEWITT HURLS A HEADY MED-INDUCED MIX OF SPLIT PEA RAGU AT D.C. MIXER, YET STILL FAILS TO DISROBE
MY CLOTHED BREASTS MOCK YOU, DO THEY NOT? THEY MOCK AND MOCK AND MOCK. AH, LIFE IS GOOD.
WASHINGTON, D.C. (SkullGame) -- Slut star of stage and screen JENNIFER "BIG JOBS" LOVE HEWITT in a recent visit to the Tomb of the Unknowns, brought all of the pomp and circumstance of said event to a screeching and hollering halt when she, voting with her stomach, vomited on a high ranking military official. She was also subsequently stung by a bee and so in a swirling effluvia of vomit stink, shrieks, and hand waving, it was noted by attendees that she has yet to appear unclothed in even one of her horrible motion pictures.
Sure. She got tantalizingly close. Bikinis and what not but nothing that would get a high ranking military official off after scraping dried carpacchio vomitus from his fucking uniform.
More on this shit when VINNIE ROSE stops mourning his recent loss.
BEN "MR. PEPE" AFFLECK'S CAREER TOTALLY IGNORING THAT BIG CRASHING SOUND COMING FROM UNDER THE HOOD
IT'S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL THE CHUCHIFRITO MAN SHOWS UP
BEN "MR. PEPE" AFFLECK, in grand disregard of his presence at 14:38 seconds of fame, purportedly called off his bullshit fucking engagement to inescapable LOPEZ when she hacked into Ben Affleck’s email account and found raunchy emails from female admirers. The messages, running the gamut from the "when the fuck will you go away?" variety to the "if I have to see your snarky image even one more time I will core out my eyes with a melon-baller" category, weren't the only problem. The discovery of an email Ben had sent Daredevil co-star Jennifer Garner over her split with her husband Scott Foley, had inflamed things to the point where his offering of cock was blown all the fuck out of proportion.
THIS PHOTO CONSTITUTES THE ENTIRE CONTENTS OF WHAT WAS FOUND ON BEN AFFLECK'S HARD DRIVE
THE ARGENTINE CORDIALLY INVITES SKEETER KERKOVE TO COCKTAILS. ESPECIALLY THE COCK PART
"But, more importantly, WE WILL NOT KILL HER. Don't you understand? Why can't you see the bigger picture?
SKEETER KERKOVE declares war on me.
I taunt him mercilessly in print. I lay a Hannibal Lecter on his ass.
"HI. MY NAME IS SKEETER...."
The next morning I pack my bag. VINNIE ROSE picks me up in his modified cop car. We plan on the go. Better that way. You complicate things when you make a blueprint. You send out psychic warnings. But on the fly, that's like a sucker punch. No one sees it coming. It's RANDOM.
We hit L.A. early morning, jacked on several quality pharmaceuticals. She’s out there. WE KNOW WHERE. We hit the shitty glitz part of town where the stars go out to congratulate themselves on their utter failure to create anything worthwhile as they drink alcohol they will never truly appreciate. Where, in fact, they laud each other for destroying ART while they admire each other’s teeth.
Here she comes stumbling out the door of a bar with a burgundy awning, weary bodyguards in tow. Weary of this town. Weary of looking menacing. Weary of this stupid little bitch and her stupid little bitch friends. We make the curb fast. VINNIE ROSE lurches out to lay fucking waste to the tired apes. I walk up smiling to Ms. SPEARS, grab her by the throat and drag her to the car. Like time has just skipped three beats, we're already gone, baby. I drive while VINNIE ROSE DOES WHAT MUST BE DONE.
TAKE THE BITCH, LEAVE THE PIG. EVERYBODY GOES HOME HAPPY.
We hit the parking lot of a Norm's or maybe Canter's. Bitch goes into trunk. We eat breakfast. It's fucking delicious. It’s fucking I-want-to-cry tasty. We flirt with the waitress. ROSE orders seconds while I make the call. We leave. He drives. We hit KERKOVE'S house just as the sun is beginning to scowl at the Basin. I have a nickel plated .357. It’s HANDSOME. It looks like I was born with it sticking out of my hand.
"...AND I'M GAY!!!"
Kerkove comes out like the half-witted bulldog that he is. He’s got his hands up because he doesn’t yet believe the phone call. Because he wouldn’t know poetry if I blew it through his brain on the tip of a hollow point. I smile at him. I say "Good morning". ROSE does not smile at him. ROSE puts his fist through Kerkove's face so quickly I could kick myself for leaving the camera in the car.
The beating is methodical and lasting, made complete by your psychological reprogramming of the insect by way of unspeakable pain.
You go to the trunk. You get the pop slut. You slap her so quiet we can hear beauty return to the planet on ginger feet. You kiss her goodbye, mock sad, saying it could never work out, you live in two different worlds. I can’t even look at her she’s so ugly on the inside. I lean over Kerkove’s now misshapen head.
I say "You will never make another movie."
He looks at Spears. He looks at me. It finally clicks. He gets up and grabs her wrist like he's Quasimodo and she's Dulcinea. They go inside.
That night, we sleep the sleep of children.
