Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Confessions of a Teen Idol Domestic Abuser
CorporateCard e-mailed me today this blurb about a new Vh1 reality series entitled "Confessions of a Teen Idol" with the subject heading "super pathetic-watchability debatable." For CorporateCard, who is probably one of the few people who can appreciate the subtle genius of shows like "Real Chance of Love" and the upcoming "Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels," to suggest that this show might be "super pathetic" and to question its "watchability" bodes ill indeed. What could be this horrible show? I read her e-mail:
VH1 will premiere its new eight-episode reality series Confessions of a Teen Idol January 4 at 8p. The series takes a group of former teen idols from the 80s and 90s and under the tutelage of Scott Baio, former child star now producer Jason Hervey and celebrity psychologist Cooper Lawrence, each are given the tools and confidence to make a career comeback. The heartthrobs include Christopher Atkins, David Chokachi, Billy Hufsey, Jeremy Jackson, Eric Nies, Jamie Walters and Adrian Zmed. The series is co-produced by Bischoff Hervey Entertainment and 3 Ball Productions.
I would wager that this show's potentially pathetic unwatchability is inherent in the fact that I don't know who most of these alleged "teen idols" are. I mean, who the fuck is Billy Hufsey? Isn't Christopher Atkins that guy who hates God? Oh wait, that's Christopher HITCHENS...Christopher Atkins is that guy from The Blue Lagoon. Needless to say, Vh1 is scraping the bottom of the barrel even harder than they have for "Celebrity Rehab 2," and considering that show managed to drag Rodney King out of the woodwork, it was really stretching the definition of "celebrity" to begin with. This "Confessions of a Teen Idol" show looks grim indeed, with one notable exception. This name jumped out at me, not only because I recognized it immediately, but because I was unaware that a moody, abusive proto-John Mayer/construction worker qualified as a "teen idol," but Jamie Walters AKA RAY PRUIT from the greatest show in the history of television "Beverly Hills, 90210" is trying to prove otherwise.
In case you're a little rusty on your college-era Bev Niner, Ray Pruit was Donna Martin's boyfriend for entirely too long. Ray was this annoying singer/songwriter who was overall a terrible guy to date. He hated all of Donna's friends, he slept with (totally hot slut) Valerie Malone, he constantly stormed off, and when he got really pissed, he'd verbally abuse Donna with awesome lines like "so typical...you don't get what you want so you turn on the faucets.". During one episode where the gang went to Palm Springs for a KEG House convention, Ray even pushed Donna down a flight of stairs.
In addition to tormenting Donna, Ray also tormented the patrons of the Peach Pit After Dark with a string of atrocious musical performances involving an excessively brooding Ray strumming his acoustic guitar and wailing about his feelings. His onstage skills were entertaining only when they lured his mother LuAnn, a chain-smoking alcoholic who inexplicably speaks with a bad Texas accent despite hailing from Reseda, California, to the After Dark to get wasted on screwdrivers and dance inappropriately with David Silver before tripping over her own hideous rayon floral-print pantsuit.
Unfortunately, his portrayal of Ray Pruit was so defining a role that his next acting job, as the male lead in Aaron Spelling's short-lived show/band "The Heights," promptly tanked despite the show's theme song "How Do You Talk to an Angel?" hitting number one on the Billboard charts. Presumably nobody imagined that conversations with a so-called "angel" involves what Todd "Too $hort" Shaw once called a "five-finger hand plant straight across your face to make sure all you bitches understand it." I have to say, I probably wouldn't be having teen fantasies about a guy after this great moment in televised domestic violence was burned into my memory:
That all said, I'm glad Jamie Walters is still gainfully employed. I look forward to listening to him whine about being typecast as a wife-beater to Scott Baio and the older brother from "The Wonder Years."
Labels: Bev Niner, CorporateCard, TV, Vh1
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Liveblogging 90210 2.0 or whatevs
I was just going to post my thoughts about last night's premiere episode of "90210" v2.0, which I gathered with my bitches to view at my friend JerseyGirl's house. However, while there, CorporateCard wanted to know why I wasn't "liveblogging" the episode. She works in cable news so she probably wants me to be a citizen reporter or whatever, because my coverage of a bunch of drunk girls watching a trashtastic CW TV show is definitely going to meet a serious need in the world of cable gonzo journalism. After the first scene, in which Ethan, AKA New Dylan McKay, is receiving a BJ from either David Silver/Kelly Taylor's half-sister or a chick who later turns out to be a major druggie, I decided that this wasn't a bad idea, if only to straighten out all the new Niner canon we'd have to absorb. We thought at first the head doctor was the drug chick and were unimpressed with her skills. She doesn't have much endurance in the fellatio department because, according to CorporateCard, "Her name is Poppy Pills. She doesn't have enough strength for blowjobs. She's a pill popper!"
Anyway, with that sort of shit going on, I figured that even if I didn't "liveblog" in the sense of immediately publishing my reportage, I could at least open up my laptop and record some of my thoughts for this morning. I didn't quite love the show as much as JerseyGirl (who announced the close of every commercial break with "OKAY YOU GUYS, QUIEEET, IT'S BACK ON!"), but I have to confess that I was pleasantly surprised by it. It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been for a show that literally rips off the original Niner premise (Midwestern family–Rob "Kyle McBride from 'Melrose Place'" Estes and Lori "Aunt Becky from 'Full House'" Loughlin and their two similarly aged kids–move to Beverly Hills and try to fit in), and even though Rack pointed out that the New Brenda Walsh looks like a cheap Ali Lohan knockoff, the new Jim and Cindy Walsh are too hot for me to care much. JerseyGirl wouldn't stop raving about Rob Estes–or "Grant Show," as he was mistakenly called several times–being "like, the hottest dad EVER."
There were also enough appearances by former Niner characters to keep me watching. Apart from Brenda Walsh and Kelly Taylor returning to the show, Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez (almost-bastard daughter of Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman and her cuckolded baby daddy Jesse Vasquez) is the anchor for the West Beverly TV news station ("Good morning, West Beverly High...and buenos dias") and Erin Silver, daughter of hot pieces Jackie Taylor and Mel Silver, DDS, is a main character. Some of the new characters are also awesome. I love Naomi, the slutty New Kelly Taylor, who looks like Jessie Spano with a dash of slutty-ass Lucinda Williams thrown in, and whose name is so reminiscent of the Elizabeth Berkeley's greatest role, Nomi, from Showgirls that I plan to refer to her as Nomi henceforth. Apparently Nomi is on the outs with Silver after spreading gossip that ruined Mel and Jackie's second marriage (as usual, because Mel Silver couldn't keep it in his pants around his dental hygienist staff). I also love the fact that New Brandon Walsh is black (he's adopted, as the dialogue immediately reveals to prevent any confusion that he may be the fruit of Rob Estes and Lori Loughlin's loins), because it's high time Niner added a little splash of diversity to the main cast. Also, Lucille Bluth from "Arrested Development" plays the washed-up, drunk ex-Skinemax actress of a grandmother, Tabitha. From the moment Tabitha steps onto the scene brandishing "an iced tea before noon...with a little Long Island in it," I know I'm going to love her.
By the next scene, she's dishing out advice on how to get back at lacrosse bullies. "Just grab onto those jewels and twist them, like a garbage bag," says Tabitha about ball-squeezing revenge for the possibly racial targeting of the New Brandon Walsh. Later her computer "freezes up" because she spills scotch on the keyboard and suggests that the lacrosse team terrorize their rivals by unleashing a horde of pigs on their pitch or whatever. When Rob Estes suggests she cut back on the boozing, she responds with a dismissive "oh PISH!"
I certainly can relate to Silver when she's confronted about her bloggity scandals by her big sister and West Beverly guidance counselor Kelly Taylor, who says, "What are we gonna do about this blog of yours? It does nothing but cause problems." I've seriously had the same conversation with my parents about a dozen times, after I've said something like, "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but some chick tried to get me raped via Craigslist" or "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but I just got served with a $25,000 defamation suit." Silver responds with, "That's what blogs are supposed to do. Cause problems." Thus far, I can relate to Silver. She's also exactly as hot as the offspring of the incomparable ex-coke snorting hot piece Jackie Taylor and horny oral surgeon Mel Silver should be.
The other teenagers (with the exception of Navid, the New Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, who looks like some type of literary Criss Angel) are at least intriguing. The drug girl who may or may not be too Viked out to properly fellate the New Dylan is constantly "rollin' hard" (per JerseyGirl) and is constantly in debt to her dealer. She even bursts out in random snatches of druggie song in class and almost gets caught using in class by the New Gil Meyers ("Claim Benadryl," advised CorporateCard sagely). She also apparently is acting in Disney Channel shows to pay her mother's mortgage, but this isn't working out very well because she's usually too fucked up to follow through with her auditions. She's not too fucked up, however, to stand up for Silver's blog-skewering of Nomi (who was publicly humiliated by the New Dylan when he cheated on her) by screaming, "She wasn't rejected, BITCHLIPS!"
The show is not without its problems. As far as the New Brenda and New Brandon are concerned, there's entirely too much sexual tension between brother and sister. They're constantly having their Brenda-Brandon sibling counsels while laying in bed together.
"If you're gonna do it, at least have an Americana quilt underneath," said CorporateCard. "It takes the edge off the incest." There was always some tension between the Original Walshes, but these two new ones make Brenda and Brandon look perfectly tame. At least they're adopted, so if they do screw at some point, their potential offspring won't emerge with a flipper on its head. Then again, Grandma Tabitha just looked at the new Brenda and said, "Look at that ass...you could crack an egg on it." Maybe inappropriate sexual behavior runs in their family.
The new Brenda Walsh is also a whole lot of I don't care. Not only does she look like a misplaced Lohan sister, she shares the Original Brenda's predilection for ill-advised moral freakouts. In fact, at one point Nomi sees her at some party and says, "I didn't expect to see you here, what with all your morals and everything." However, she's no Brenda Walsh in terms of personal style or drama. As CorporateCard wisely noted, "She doesn't have the brains, she doesn't have the bodysuit...NO DEAL!"
In spite of the fact that she's a plain, boring pain in the ass aspiring to dethrone Drug Girl as the queen bee of the West Beverly theaterfag circuit, all the boys seem to like her. New Dylan is vying for her affection with some super-wealthy Bentley-driving douchebag who looks like a cross between Tom Cruise and that guy from "Smallville." Too bad the Original Dylan was a badass who won Brenda's heart by taking nips from airplane bottles of booze and smashing Bel Age Hotel flowerpots in rage. The New Dylan is a lacrosse stud (and since when was FUCKING LACROSSE a popular sport on the West Coast?), and he attempts to woo New Brenda by weaving tales of a mythical five-armed sea creature called a "pentapus." What in the "bitch, please" is that?
The new Gil Meyers also annoys me. He's ten times more interfering and morally self-righteous than the original Gil Meyers, English teacher and faculty advisor of the West Beverly Blaze. He also has already started dating Kelly Taylor after almost bungling it by referring to her four-year-old son as "baggage." Oh yeah, and did I mention Kelly Taylor has a son? I couldn't figure out if her baby daddy is Dylan or Brandon, because while we all thought it was Dylan's, a conversation with Brenda Walsh revealed that Brandon may be somewhat of a deadbeat dad, choosing to live in Belize rather than Beverly Hills with what remains of "the gang." In any event, Kelly Taylor has the little brat wearing CROCS, which is inexcusable, even on a toddler.
Anyway, overall, the new "90210" is hardly the original, but even if it doesn't measure up to the lofty standards set by the greatest show in the history of television, I can still roll with it on Tuesdays. I'd watch it just for Silver's blog-mediated revenge schemes. There was one hilarious number lampooning the public outing of New Dylan cheating on Nomi in which New Dylan says nothing but "I like lacrosse." Silver recognized her own genius.
"I think this may be my best blogisode ever," she notes. At that point JerseyGirl exhorted me to turn on my laptop's webcam and film our own "blogisode," which was a pale imitation of Silver's, to say the least. For one thing, I am no cinematographer, director, or any kind of editor while demonstrating proper blowjob technique on beer bottles via the computer webcam on my lap. For another, I have no idea how to make Flash animations. I could learn a few things from Silver, especially since her skills have netted her HALF A FUCKING MILLION UNIQUE HITS PER DAY!
Anyway, if you're really, really bored, here's our unbelievably shitty "blogisode." Haters can have a field day with my chin:
Labels: Bev Niner, CorporateCard, HillsYes, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, TV, Twathopper
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
LET THE KELLS TRIAL INNOCENCE-FEST BEGIN!
Thank you to CorporateCard and Morrissey'sHair for both being concerned enough with the legal fate of Robert Sylvester Kelly to advise me that his trial was off to a rollicking legal start yesterday. Also, thanks to Morrissey'sHair for pointing out how impeccably dressed Kells was (per usual) and for noting, "Can't fade a playa." True that.
Anyway, back to day 1 of the People vs. Robert Sylvester Kelly. The prosecutor came right out of the gate with opening arguments delivered in a self-righteous, "Law and Order: SVU" sort of way. Engaging in blowjobs and watersports with a 13-year-old is reprehensible when you're a R&B thug, or any adult for that matter, taping it is worse, and R. Kelly supposedly did all that.
The defense, however, is relying on what they can prove and, more importantly, what the prosecution cannot: the fact that there's a high probability of the guy on the tape not being R. Kelly. You never see the guy's face, and the girl in the video remains unidentified. The alleged victim denied that she was in the video under oath before a grand jury, the tape was sent to a newspaper from an anonymous tipster rather than recovered from the R-uh in R&B's suburban Chicago mansion, R. Kelly has a brother who looks an awful lot like him, the tape is a fifth or sixth generation copy, and even the FBI couldn't identify the man on the tape. It seems to me that if you can't prove that the girl in the video is underage, much less whether the man pissing on her is in fact Robert S. Kelly from the Chi, then there is no case.
I saw the sex tape on the internets (unless, of course, that sex tape is deemed "child porn", in which case I don't know what you're talking about, and I plead the Fifth or whatever). You really can't tell who the man is, unless of course you think all black people look the same. In that case, the guy in the video shares Kells' skin color, so R. Kelly is guilty before he even makes the case for his innocence. However, assuming that the jury is not unabashedly racist, they'll see quite clearly that you can't tell if R. Kelly is the man in the video. Frankly, "black" is the only attribute R. Kelly and the guy in the video share, being that the video guy pissing on the alleged minor never demonstrates whether or not he is "handsome, sings, plus is rich" and is "a flirt," also critical points for positively identifying Kells. I should add that the guy in the video never demonstrates his skills as a "R&B thug" at any time (such as by causing the alleged victim to leave up out the room walking bowlegged, keeping her body coming like the CTA, or making the room go black upon exposure of his "love jones"), and the alleged victim never once says "oooh, Kelly, you make me holler, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" at any point during the scene either.
The great thing about this trial is that the defense is pointing out facts I didn't even know, and I know a LOT about R. Kelly since I'm pathologically obsessed with him. For example, I had no idea that Kells's dermatologic traits could provide the key to his acquittal, per CNN coverage of the case:
I saw the sex tape on the internets (unless, of course, that sex tape is deemed "child porn", in which case I don't know what you're talking about, and I plead the Fifth or whatever). You really can't tell who the man is, unless of course you think all black people look the same. In that case, the guy in the video shares Kells' skin color, so R. Kelly is guilty before he even makes the case for his innocence. However, assuming that the jury is not unabashedly racist, they'll see quite clearly that you can't tell if R. Kelly is the man in the video. Frankly, "black" is the only attribute R. Kelly and the guy in the video share, being that the video guy pissing on the alleged minor never demonstrates whether or not he is "handsome, sings, plus is rich" and is "a flirt," also critical points for positively identifying Kells. I should add that the guy in the video never demonstrates his skills as a "R&B thug" at any time (such as by causing the alleged victim to leave up out the room walking bowlegged, keeping her body coming like the CTA, or making the room go black upon exposure of his "love jones"), and the alleged victim never once says "oooh, Kelly, you make me holler, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" at any point during the scene either.
The great thing about this trial is that the defense is pointing out facts I didn't even know, and I know a LOT about R. Kelly since I'm pathologically obsessed with him. For example, I had no idea that Kells's dermatologic traits could provide the key to his acquittal, per CNN coverage of the case:
The defense asserts that Kelly has a "significant" mole in the middle of his lower back that has been there since childhood. But he said the man on the tape did not have the mole.
"There is no mole on his back," Adam (defense attorney) said. "Robert isn't that man on the tape."
Sounds good to me. Not only does this sound like Kells's back mole is the blemish of innocence, but it also makes a great excuse for R. Kelly to get topless in the courtroom. In other words, it's a total win-win for Kells supporters. NOT GUILTY!
Labels: armchair barristry, CorporateCard, crime and punishment, legal drama, Morrissey'sHair, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Cinco de Mayo
DOB: May 5, 1862
Occupation: causing severe hangovers on school days
Hometown: Puebla, Mexico
Current residence: everywhere EXCEPT Mexico
Douchebaggery: I have previously gone off about St. Patrick's Day and why I think it's stupid, because it's amateur night for alcoholics. At the risk of incurring the wrath of the pseudo-Mexicans as I incurred the wrath of the pseudo-Irish for that post, I feel the same way about Cinco de Mayo. I was planning on celebrating with a pizza and an episode of "The Hills" in the comfort of my apartment, happy to be away from all the fucktards in sombreros who need to pretend to be Mexican in order to get blasted on a Monday night. However, I got an e-mail around 6-ish from CorporateCard asking if I wanted to go celebrate "Drinko de Mayo." Initially I demurred, thinking I'd stay at lab for a while longer. Then I realized that to finish up what I was doing, I'd be at lab three hours longer. At the same time, Twathopper Gchatted me to see if I wanted to have a drink and hear more of her sexless lesbian drama. I figured I shouldn't fight the inevitable. I told both ladies I was headed for the subway.
Following my buddy HotLawyer's old adage that you should go to a Mexican place on St. Patrick's Day and an Irish bar on Cinco de Mayo to avoid all the incompetent drunks that these holidays draw out, I suggested we meet at a place called McAleer's on the Upper West Side. Trying halfheartedly to get into the spirit, they both ordered awful Irish pub margaritas. I had a scotch. If I had been smart, I would have cut myself off after the singular drink I pledged to have. I am not smart, however, so we decided to order a bucket of Coronas. Then another bucket of Coronas. And then another. Then JerseyGirl showed up, and that called for another few buckets of cerveza. By the time we left, we were muy borracha. The other ladies decided to go to yet another Irish bar, P.D. O'Hurley's, a place that has been my utter ruin on several past Monday nights. I wisely elected to go home and spend time with my dogs.
Anyway, for these reasons, I'm not feeling like doing much of anything besides whining about how hung over I am from spending five hours last night quelling alcoholic Mexican piss and a few subpar nachos at an Irish bar. Chinga tu madre, Cinco de Mayo.
Labels: alcoholism, CorporateCard, Daily Douchebag, excuses, JerseyGirl, Twathopper
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Sorry, Dudes, I've Got Nothin'
Okay, people, I am HUNG OVER. I'm pushing thirty and can no longer handle my cheap red wine like I could when I was nineteen and I'd drink Concha y Toro until my teeth were a deep shade of purple and just hop out of bed with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye the next day, ready to go jovially terrorize some dumb Smith bitches. This is no longer the situation for me. I am now feeling like death itself has taken a shit inside my cranium. Red wine is awful, awful, AWFUL stuff, especially when combined with scotch and beer. I am not even sure what happened last night, except that at some point, I was hauling CorporateCard out of J-Sexy's apartment while she moaned, "I'm going to throw up! I'm going to throw up!" Other than that, I vaguely remember talking to my friend CorporateCard's boyfriend on the phone, and taking about fifty pictures with J-Sexy in which I was deep-throating this crappy wooden penis sculpture she purchased in Belize. Because if there's a random penis lying around and I've had a few cocktails, it's only natural that I'm going to pick it up and stuff it in my mouth like the big, skankity slut that I am. In fact, for some reason J-Sexy and CorporateCard were so interested in seeing my expert head-giving techniques that the memory card on CorporateCard's camera is now filled with pictures of me fellating everything in J-Sexy's apartment, from empty wine bottles to her Belizean wood to her remote controls. It's a good thing we didn't have a video camera, because if we did, there would be footage of me strolling around, doing disgusting sexual things with J-Sexy's household objects, and telling the girls that from now on, they should address me as "Sophisticated Q. Classmussen." Because I'm so classy! DUH!
Anyway, I can't think of a dude I want to hit. Except maybe LL Cool Jew, who just called to inform me that she's buying tickets for us to double up and go see Robert Sylvester Kelly in concert at the Nassau County coliseum the day after Thanksgiving. However, that awesome reality has not yet sunk in, and I'm about to go insane because of the jackhammering outside my window, so there's nobody I'm hitting today. Except myself, in the head, for being so stupid as to drink that much red wine on a school night.
Anyway, I can't think of a dude I want to hit. Except maybe LL Cool Jew, who just called to inform me that she's buying tickets for us to double up and go see Robert Sylvester Kelly in concert at the Nassau County coliseum the day after Thanksgiving. However, that awesome reality has not yet sunk in, and I'm about to go insane because of the jackhammering outside my window, so there's nobody I'm hitting today. Except myself, in the head, for being so stupid as to drink that much red wine on a school night.
Labels: alcoholism, CorporateCard, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, J-Sexy, LL Cool Jew, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: Jackhammerers
Occupation: Grinding on my sanity
Douchebaggery: Longtime readers and friends know that I have a major problem with dudes whose fucking techniques involves just getting up in you and pounding repetitively away in the style of a jackhammer. However, that is not the variety of jackhammerer I'm talking about today. I'm talking about a literal, honest-to-God, motherfucker operating the jackhammer outside my apartment. Last night I watched "America's Next Top Model" with J-Sexy and CorporateCard, and proceeded to drink entirely too much red wine. In fact, we polished off a bottle of vino each, some scotch, and two sixers of Beck's, and I am paying the price. There's nothing worse than a red wine hangover, except maybe having one and waking to the sound of someone breaking up concrete outside your window.
To make matters worse, I tried to drown out the ringing sound of the jackhammering by turning on some music, thus causing the stringy creep of a hippie who lives upstairs from me to start stomping on the floor aggressively per usual. Already also probably rattled by the jackhammering, he is not in the mood for ANY of my music, whether Big Kuntry King or an Artur Rubinstein rendition of a Brahms concerto.
You know it's a bad day when you wake up and your first thought is, "I've got to get to lab or I'm going to go insane."
Labels: alcoholism, CorporateCard, Daily Douchebag, J-Sexy
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Best e-mail I've gotten in awhile
CorporateCard, knowing my fondness for the sublime and incomparable masterpiece of reality television known as "America's Next Top Model," sent me this EXTREMELY awesome piece of correspondence to get me psyched for tonight's PREMIERE EPISODE:
From: CorporateCard (ccard@giantmultinationalmediaconglomerate.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Keep it Fierce!
When I clicked on the link, Tyra informed me over my computer speakers that I'm "not too busted" and that CorporateCard "told her" that I "might be the next undiscovered supermodel." I guess CorporateCard neglected to tell Tyra that I'm only 5'3". Given my short stature, I'll have to shelve my lifelong ambition of achieving supermodel status and go to plan B: microbiology, where all failed supermodels go to nurture their wounded dreams.
And while I'm glad to be "not too busted," I don't think anyone can say the same for Tyra's weave. Bitch, you are rich! Quit going to whatever cheap ass hairdresser is leaving that inch of stubble on your forehead and shell out for a decent stylist and some extensions that don't look like they come with a combustibility warning.
"ANTM" Cycle 7 starts tonight at 8! Holla indeed.
From: CorporateCard (ccard@giantmultinationalmediaconglomerate.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Keep it Fierce!
When I clicked on the link, Tyra informed me over my computer speakers that I'm "not too busted" and that CorporateCard "told her" that I "might be the next undiscovered supermodel." I guess CorporateCard neglected to tell Tyra that I'm only 5'3". Given my short stature, I'll have to shelve my lifelong ambition of achieving supermodel status and go to plan B: microbiology, where all failed supermodels go to nurture their wounded dreams.
And while I'm glad to be "not too busted," I don't think anyone can say the same for Tyra's weave. Bitch, you are rich! Quit going to whatever cheap ass hairdresser is leaving that inch of stubble on your forehead and shell out for a decent stylist and some extensions that don't look like they come with a combustibility warning.
"ANTM" Cycle 7 starts tonight at 8! Holla indeed.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, CorporateCard, correspondence, TV
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