Ah. I’ve been looking forward to this… and I do believe it was worth the wait. We now have a trailer for Playing House, which is (near as I can tell) the first movie to give Mayra Leal top billing. After her turn in Machete, this is what penises worldwide consider Big News. And since her character this time has a name (Blair) and something more substantial to do than stab old men and use her crotch as an iPhone charger, I can even engage the parts of my brain not wholly fixated on sex. (Such as they are.)
The trailer suggests that Playing House is a variation on the Poison Ivy/Pacific Heights/Obsessed genre, except that in this film, we know from the get-go that Blair is completely batshit insane. How do we know?
Because she:
…voluntarily hooks up with him:
So either she’s a crazy person or this movie is actually Mask 2: Rocky Dennis Gets Him Some.1
Yeah, I had that same reaction, lady.
Of course, director Tom Vaughan (who is more successful than me, but has less hair, so I’ll call it even) seems to have gone the traditional route of casting a really attractive, likeable woman (Sarah Prikryl)2in the role of the Wife Who Totally Knows Something’s Fucked Up Here. Personally, I’d like to see one of these films mix it up by making the long-suffering wife someone so hideous and awful that we counter-intuitively enjoy her suffering, and are genuinely rooting for the conniving, evil-but-pretty usurper. I’m thinking Fatal Attraction-meets-Teaching Mrs. Tingle… get on that, indie filmmakers.
My weird longing for sadistic variety aside, Playing House looks like a fun little movie, and I’m definitely gonna check it out. The site doesn’t say if it’s getting a theatrical release or it’s going straight to DVD/digital, but once I figure that out, I’ll update this post with the relevant info.
For seven minutes, Mayra Leal is completely nude in Robert Rodriguez’s new movie, Machete. Not in a sexually explicit, love-crazy way. True to Rodriguez’s quirky shoot-’em-up dramas, Leal plays a nude, hired villain.
“I’m naked with a purpose,” said the 24-year-old Houston native who lives in Austin and works part time as a nightclub hostess.
Now, hold on a bloody second here, people! Since when is “sexually explicit, love-crazy” not a purpose? You name me any action, and “sexually explicit, love-crazy” is probably the most popular purpose for that action. Nudity? Yup. Marriage? Yup. Murder? Yup. Breeding goats? Down here in the south, sure.
For the record, though? It would be fantastic if that were a misprint, and she actually said “naked with a porpoise.” If nothing else, it would make for the greatest DVD deleted scenes ever.
FUN FACT: "Mayra" is Spanish for "Cialis". FUNNER FACT: I barely speak English, let alone Spanish. The only language in which I am fluent? Love. That's right, swoon, bitches! Swoon!
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Reading further into the Chronicle piece, I see that Mayra was Bellaire High School’s Cardinal mascot. Sweet Christmas… can you imagine a high school where the chicks are all so ridiculously hot that Mayra is stuck being the mascot? Who was on the cheerleading squad, the cast of Bring It On? Her yearbook must look like a Victoria’s Secret catalog… unlike my yearbook, which looked like the kinda photo lineup the cops would use to identify the perp in a series of trailer park weed-whacker murders.
If our heroine keeps this up, Eva Mendes will become "that chick who looks like Mayra Leal".
Even more amazing is the story of how her Machete scene came to be. Robert Rodriguez has her come in for an audition, gets her all full-frontal for him, and then sends her home with instructions to lose 10 pounds and try again. How the hell does that work? I’m pretty sure that telling women they’re too fat to be naked in front of you generally doesn’t end well. How did he not end up having to get his nuts surgically removed from his wind-pipe?
Answer: Mayra Leal is a saint. Or an angel. Possibly the Dalai Lama. Definitely awesome.
And the porn people haven’t made this yet… why, exactly? ↩
There are some things in life you just don’t expect. Ball cancer, for example, or those dreams you have where you’re part of an orgy with the cast of Harry Potter and next thing you know, Voldemort has turned into the Nazi from Schindler’s List and he’s firing his rifle at you, only the bullets aren’t bullets, they’re tiny penises, and you can’t breathe because you’re afraid you’ll open your mouth and Dad will have been right about you all along. Y’know, the usual surprises.
But the really unexpected stuff? It just hits ya –BAM!– and you’re as shocked by your own reaction as the event itself. Which is what happened to me this morning, when I found out Deborah Foreman is on Twitter.
Luv.
Are you kidding me, Twitter? You have finally justified your existence! The absolute, uncontested, cutest actress in Hollywood for all of the 1980s is posting stuff? The first movie star I fell madly, passionately in love with as a kid is right there, re-tweeting inspirational quotes and pondering her iTunes playlist like the rest of us lowly wretches?1 It’s almost impossible to believe.
Yeah, you punks today don’t get it. You with your Biebers and your GaGas and your Betty Whites… your celebrity-sex-obsessed blogs (ahem) and your 24-hour entertainment channels and your free porn! There was a time when you could fall in love with a famous person and never know a god damned thing about them ‘cept the movies they made or the songs they sang. I mean, sure, if you were a desperate spaz, you might join fan clubs and send letters, but most of us had enough dignity not to go that route. Maybe a poster went up on the back of your bedroom door, but that’s it. You longed in silent anonymity.
So to have that virtual wall –a wall that’s been there for so long that you forgot it existed– come crashing down is just a cognitive kick in the gut. I feel like I’m fourteen again. Deborah Foreman… the real Deborah Foreman… and I’m her 94th follower. Mind blowing.
Since I've never known a dude who wanted to taste cherry or strawberry while tongue-stabbing a chick's tonsils, I have to assume that this was Maybelline's attempt to pioneer the girl-on-girl-gone-wild market. ... I approve.
To put this in perspective, her movie career was at least as successful as Ashton Kutcher’s is today2, so if we had been able to access Twitter on our Commodore 64s, she would have had, say, a couple million followers at least. And here I am, number 94. (That’s. Fucked. Up.)
So why, precisely, did I love her so? Well, obviously, there was Valley Girl, which I caught on HBO when my parents weren’t paying attention. It was one of those films that was immediately strip-mined by Hollywood for its superficial themes, tone, and unfortunately, language; of the hundreds of ’80s films that were filled with characters squealing “ohmigaawd!” and “bitchin’!”, VG was the only one that expended the effort to make an inherently self-trivializing mode of speech sound like something real people would use. And of course, it bestowed upon the world one Nicolas Cage, whose then-abundant hair was already ridiculous.
As another lesson to the youth of today, please note that --in contrast to your reaction to, say, Kim Kardashian walking on the beach with Justin Bieber-- I never once considered hunting down Nicolas Cage and roasting him over an open flame just because he kissed Deborah in Valley Girl. Such thoughts never popped into my head until I sat through Con Air.
(As an aside, do yourself a favor and check out Nic’s chest topiary in the beach scene. It is awesomely tragic. Even then, he was dreaming of playing Superman.)
Watching VG now, you’re instantly drawn to how it looks. It snapshots and exaggerates a time when Douche Culture had taken over… every guy had a popped collar, an absurdly sleeveless/sideless shirt, or both. And girls were more confused about fashion than at any other point in the 20th century… slutty-yet-unflattering jumpsuits, weirdly frumpy, frilly blouses, and more unfortunate hairdos than you can possibly imagine. Never have so many pretty people looked so stupid.
Note that E.G. Daily (right) --whose primary job in Valley Girl was being The Bad Girl who shows her boobs in the first ten minutes-- is now the voice of half the cartoon kids and animals that have graced television in the last 20 years. I feel old.
But what’s really striking is how real and yet otherworldly the whole thing feels; it’s like a sun-drenched, pastel, hairspray’d Dazed & Confused that has lost its anchor in reality. The hippie parents have a likable sincerity, but in retrospect, you realize that by 1983, the average hippie was a hypocritical, upwardly mobile coke fiend. There’s a similar conflict in the movie’s ’50s-meets-’90s attitude toward sex; it accurately reflects what was pretty much a Lost Decade for teen libidos –we had AIDS and Jerry Falwell hanging over us on one side, while Madonna and the VHS porn hidden in dad’s closet were luring us forward– but covers that truth in an infantilizing sheen of fairy tale innocence.
Of course, with all that going on, it’s easy to overlook what VG was really about in its day: it was the first time that someone remade Romeo & Juliet and put the narrative focus squarely on Juliet and her choices. For such a small movie, it had an enormous impact on the cultural landscape. Make no mistake: you don’t get any sex in your city or travel in your pants without Valley Girl. It was arguably the first visible sign of the sexual revolution firing its second stage, pushing us out of the atmosphere we’d known and into the complicated realm of Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville.
Odd trivia about Valley Girl: director Martha Coolidge has an unusual number of movies in her filmography that feature the word "girl"... Valley Girl, City Girl, Material Girls, and An American Girl. Then again, I have an unusual number of posts on this blog that talk about my wang, so who am I to judge?
The next time I saw Deborah was in Real Genius, easily the most ludicrously underrated film of the ’80s. Starring Val Kilmer (the official Greatest Leading Man To Spend His Career Being Box Office Poison), RG was smart, funny, and aiming way higher than 99% of the other teen movies of the day. It also featured Deborah in a small role that nonetheless graced us with an exchange of dialogue so perfect that it still kills me and makes me slightly horny:
I never actually got to see her next flick, My Chauffeur, but that was purely a timing issue. I made it all the way up to the ticket window, where the dick behind the counter promptly turned me away for being sixteen; I think my friends and I ended up going to see Silver Bullet instead. Yeah, I went for Deborah Foreman, and got stuck with Corey Haim… that was my ’80s, in a nutshell. As opposed to this, which should have been my ’80s:
(Upon reflection, I would settle for that being my 2010.)
Next was April Fool’s Day, about which Vincent Camby said “… the dialogue is mostly composed of rude variations on eek,ugh, and I’d like to sleep with you this evening.” To which I can only offer an ever-so-polite “Fuck you, ghost of Vincent Camby.” Yeah, the ending was irritating, but it was really quite decent overall.
The problem with AFD was that fellow '80s cutie Deborah Goodrich was cast in the movie, too. To this day, I know people who get her confused with D. Foreman. Which to me is weird because, while they were both pretty, well, let's just put it out there... Deborah Foreman had boobs. Sorry D. Goodrich, not tryin' to hate.
And then came Waxwork. I’ll just say this up front: it’s not for everyone. But it featured a “holy shit, I know that guy!” cast of ’80s semi-All Stars… that dude from Fright Night, that naked chick from Blame It On Rio, that kid who ended up playing Bobby on Twin Peaks, and most significantly, Deborah. It was like Robert Altman made a horror flick.
Here’s the thing about Waxwork, though… it doesn’t make the list because the movie is –in and of itself– great. It’s not bad (it actually has a significantly higher TomatoMeter rating than AFD), but as a film, it’s nothing special. What is special? The sex. Or rather, the sexual implications.
Had anyone asked, I would have advocated Deborah spending the entire decade soaking wet.
I’m not aware of any other movie of the time that had such an impact on the flowering libidos of teen boys and (more significantly) girls. I could probably write a dissertation on Waxwork‘s psychosexual influence on the American adolescent, but basically, if you saw it, some part of it stuck with you. At least one of its vignettes tweaked a sexual hot button you didn’t know you had, and you filed that shit away for future contemplation.3 Vampires, werewolves, madonnas, whores, the Marquis De Sade… it had something for every nascent pervert. It was kinda like Twilight, minus the undercurrent of Mormon shame.
Sadly, I lost track of Deborah after that. A couple years later, I became enraptured with Sherilyn Fenn (who needs her own post, at some point), and after a while, adulthood4 kinda killed the part of my brain that was capable of full-on celebrity crushes, as well as the part that was convinced masturbating five times a day was a productive use of time and energy.5
But here we are in 2010, reunited, bound once more by the fading echoes of youthful adoration and her complete ignorance of my existence; it’s 1985 Redux. Only now I spend all my time thinking about the vaginas of famous women, and she runs a Pilates studio. (Okay, so one thing is different.) We live in interesting times.
Now, if only Phoebe Cates will join Twitter. Then I’ll follow her and Debby simultaneously, and it’ll be like the fantasy threesome I always wanted… just textier.
UPDATE: After I followed her, she sent me a DM that said “Thanks for following me! smiles, Debby”. I’m going to start a bucket list, just so I can mark that one off.
Well, you lonely wretches. I’m actually a fairly spectacular wretch. Kneel before Zod.↩
No telling how far she could have gone if she’d had the foresight to marry Demi Moore. ↩
Said contemplation usually involving a bottle of hand lotion or the family shower massager. ↩
“Adulthood”, in this context, being a euphemism for “getting laid on a regular basis.” ↩
Seriously, there’s gotta be a way to harness the overwhelming self-pleasuring power of teenaged boys for the greater good. For example, hook an electrical generator up to a kid’s jerk-arm and you’re gonna produce enough, uh, juice to run at least a light bulb or three. And I’ve got some blueprints that involve high-velocity body fluids and a waterwheel that Al Gore might wanna see. ↩
Let’s be very clear about something: I resent Seth Green. First, there’s the obvious: he made Without A Paddle, for which he will endure a well-deserved season in hell. I’m also bitter about his talent, since I firmly believe hairless Ewoks should stick to playing in trees and stop making the rest of us feel bad for under-achieving despite our robust height and relatively massive genitalia. But most significantly, I resent him for marrying Clare Grant; in a world that contains an available –and given his hair and her skin, color-coordinated– Snooki, why poach the good chicks? It’s just rude, is what I’m saying.
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I've got a Facebook friend with a nearly identical head shot. Ah, Hollywood... a land where women never have right ears.
And believe me, I would marry Clare Grant in his place. She’s distinctively gorgeous, has ridiculously hypnotic eyes, and is completely unashamed of her busy genre-sploitation acting career. Hell, from what I can see, she actively embraces it. That implies the sort of down-to-earthiness that would appreciate my sense of whimsy1 and tendency to cry after sex.2
My impotent rage and potent sexuality aside, this is where I point out that the delightful Clare has been in the dorknews of late because she rounded up some sexy friends and Chris Griffin’s less-suave alter-ego to make this video:
Now, in general, I’m not a geek-girl sycophant; these days, we’re supposed to fall all over ourselves the second a pretty lady confesses her love for Alan Moore, but I’m not havin’ it. Why the fuck would anyone act like this is a big deal? Alan Moore is a batshit-crazy genius, and there’s something wrong with you if you don’t appreciate his work. I’m not going to give you extra Life Points for simply resisting the urge to let your physical beauty overwhelm your good taste.
Life Objective #4,287: Somehow convince Clare to wear this outfit while making me a sandwich. Life Objective #4,288: Get Katy Perry to wear the same thing while feeding me the sandwich. Life Objective #4,289: Talk to a shrink about why my fantasies involve sandwiches rather than my penis playing "Destroy the Death Star" with Clare's cervix.
But I do award Life Points for brazenly being who you are, having fun with it, and not making excuses. That is hot, in oh-so-many ways. And by that standard, Clare’s score is about to roll over like the odometer in a 1972 Duster.
Someone has excellent posture. Also, boobs. And a skilled aesthetician, by the look of things.
Interesting side-note: despite the Geek Girls video’s popularity, I believe people are missing out on the real gem in her online filmography:
That’s just art, that is.
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Yeah, fuck you, Green; you're the Billy Joel of poultry-oriented android shows, and one day you'll get yours. Which, if history is any indication, will involve lots of money and hot babes. So... fuck you twice!
Oh, and Clare, seriously love… have you delved deeply into your beau’s oeuvre?3 I’m just puttin’ it out there; this is how your offspring will turn out:
So do us all a favor: if you’re determined to stay with him, at least keep Seth as far from your womb as possible. (I’ve got some really tiny crime scene tape if you’d like to borrow it.) And if you absolutely must turn to a young star of Can’t Buy Me Love to ruin this majestic perfection:
…at least give Patrick Dempsey a call. Worst case scenario, your kid will wait until he’s thirty, and then turn into a stud.
Let’s get going. I need to kill some brain cells, and the liquor stores are all closed.
Nicki Minaj is up, and it feels like I’m being shot in the face with a cannon full of monkey shit. Other than that, the show is off to a good start.
Will.I.Am apparently decided tonight’s performance would be dedicated to the gimp from Pulp Fiction.
Someone just mentioned a “lucky Nicki Minaj fan” winning something. FYI, a “lucky Nicki Minaj fan” is defined as “someone who dies young before the shame soaks in.”
Ah, a Victoria’s Secret commercial. I’m so glad Vickie’s models love their bodies. Makes me feel like I’m not so alone.
Ke$ha’s trash bag dress cuts to the chase. I respect that. You might even say it makes me Glad. (Don’t forget to tip your waiter, ladies and gents. Or trip him… I’m pretty sure that fucker’s been spitting in my food.)
There seems to be an unintended synergy in tonight’s commercials. For example, someone needs to feed a Taco Bell flatbread sandwich to that H&M model they keep showing me.
I’m not saying Chelsea Handler should spontaneously burst into flames on stage. But I do have some marshmallows and a hankering for s’mores…
Okay now I get it. GaGa is a faun from Pan’s Labyrinth. Clears a lotta shit up, really.
As a host, Handler makes me wax nostalgic for the comedy stylings of Jimmy Fallon. And for that matter, the time I went deaf from ear wax buildup.
Kim Kardashian is referred to as “a style icon”. Newsflash: an ass is not a fashion statement. And when it comes to getting fabric to stretch around that majestic butt, the discipline at work is less “fashion” than “super-elastic polymer science”.
Justin Bieber is taking the stage. Wow, I’ve never seen a castrato in sunglasses jog around my TV before.
Good god, this choreography makes it look like Bieber is gonna get gang banged by his dancers. He’s literally being groped by a bunch of sweaty dudes. They’d better watch out back in the dressing room; $10 says Chris Hansen is waiting.
Justin tries playing the drums, and inadvertently sends one of his drumsticks flying across the stage. I suspect this will not be the last time in his life that Bieber will mishandle a stick.
Watching him is kind of life affirming, though. This kid is living proof that an autonomous vagina CAN live without being connected to an actual woman.
Florence + The Machine take the stage and kick ass. Finally, something that doesn’t make my taint burn.
I’m pretty sure that if the CDC could get a sample of that Jersey Shore/Chelsea Handler hot tub water, we’d have a fair shot at developing a vaccine for every venereal disease that ever existed.
Linkin Park is performing, and in complete opposition to everything I know about time and space, I find that 2002 has barfed all over my television.
Cher is… well, uh… she’s got… um… she sure is good at reading from a TelePrompTer.
Kanye just suggested “let’s hear it for the douchebags”. I think this is a shout-out to the recently arrested Spencer Pratt.
Kanye’s ego is a magical thing, like an iPad, a unicorn, or the medication that keeps Paris Hilton’s vagina from falling off.
Check this crazy shit out. For those under the age of fifty, Helen Mirren has primarily been That Respectable Older British Actress you always recognize but seldom make a point of seeing. She’s usually a queen or something, gets nominated for a Golden Globe, and generally goes about doing her respectable, older actress thing.
Then came 2008, when people suddenly remembered that she had a vagina, and had possibly even been a sexual being at some point before Hollywood decided she was past her fuck- by date. Thus was born her World’s Hottest Grandma phase, exemplified by this photo:
Okay, sure, not exactly Bar Rafaeli, but impressive for someone in her 60s, right? Here’s the thing, though… how did I not know how smokin’ she was when she wasn’t 62? Have you seen some of this shit?
Huhwhatnow? I have no idea what that insane shit was, but it was awesome. And wait, it gets better.
So basically, Helen Mirren was the 1968 version of Kelly Brook? I’ve always fancied myself a bit of a horndog historian, but this is all news to me. It’s like the past has opened up and spewed beautiful, elegant titties at me.
She was still rockin’ the sexay into the ’80s, when –for reasons fathomable only to Antonio Banderas– people like Melanie Griffith started getting all the headlining chick roles. I don’t get it. Helen had more sensual class than Geena Davis had teeth.
Best of all, she made a movie called Age of Consent. Which, judging by the screen-caps I’ve seen, is clearly in the running for Best Movie Ever Made.
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Someone (and by someone, I mean me) needs to get on remaking this obvious cinematic classic. I’m thinking Selena Gomez in the spear-fishing/nude-modeling role; she looks even less age-of-consenty now than Helen did in the original, and how could she resist getting the same sand in her crack that once irritated the ass of the fabled Helen Mirren?
(In case you’re wondering, I’ve found that women tend to resist things a lot. Which is why I’ve learned to always tighten my knots.)
If you’re like me –and if you are, don’t forget to register when you move to a new neighborhood– you’ve always wondered how it is that Beth Ostrosky is able to handle marital relations with husband Howard Stern. Seriously, that must be like getting screwed by a thin, crooked dildo strapped to Nanny McPhee. My theories up to now have included:
Lots and lots and lots of money.
Undying love, with a side of lots and lots and lots of money.
Roofies.
But now we know the truth: sexting. A couple days ago, Howard posted a cam photo that Beth sent him, confirming at last that the key to surviving coitus with Stern is to convince him to masturbate before he gets home and thus never have coitus in the first place. Genius!
The amusing bit is that he claimed to have posted the photo only after she gave him permission. This tells me that Howard and Ice T should try a little wife-swapping, ’cause I’m willing to bet that Ms. CoCo isn’t so reserved, and, well, I suspect her sexts are waaaaaaaaay more interesting.
Although I will say that Zac Efron absolutely has to be gay. First, because he spells his name “Zac”. Second, because if he were even half-straight, he would be walking around with friction burns on his face from repeatedly burying it in there.
I would always tell somebody if they had shit on their face. Especially if it’s really feces.
So just remember, people… if you give your partner a covert Dirty Sanchez, don’t drop by Seyfried’s house afterward. She will totally ruin the surprise.
(And by “people”, yes, I’m referring specifically to Ray J and R Kelly. Don’t anyone try to convince me that at least one of them hasn’t smeared shit on somebody in the heat of videotaped passion… it’s just not plausible.)
Heidi 1.0: Looked natural and really rather cute. I guess if you wanted to pick her apart, you could have found superficial flaws. Of course, if you picked her apart these days, all you'd find is hopelessness and some doctor's lost surgical glove.
So after five years, a couple television shows, a record number of staged, “candid” paparazzi photos, and enough silicone to caulk half the windows in the Chrysler Building, Spencer Pratt is out as Heidi Montag’s manager. He gets to keep the “husband” job title for now, but what’s that get him? Outside of her (presumably) OEM vagina, Heidi is pretty much a stitched-together batch of “Quality Recertified” after-market parts that could fall off if you blink too quickly in her vicinity.
Heidi 2.0: Not quite as pretty as the original, but waaaaaaaay sluttier. Which is what we in the business call "a fair trade". (FYI: what I call "we in the business" amounts to me, my hand, and a microwaved bottle of Jurgens.)
But the ousting of America’s Favorite Douchetard isn’t the real story here. (Although that may change once someone scores photos of him in line at the unemployment office.) No, the intriguing bit is the identity of Spencer’s replacement: “third generation healer and intuitive”, Aiden Chase. Oh, hells yeah! Heidi is now being managed by a psychic! Let the fun begin!
Heidi 3.0: Now looking strikingly like a Madame Tussauds version of Shannon Tweed circa 1984, Montag is a Frankensteinian monument to obsessive self-loathing and the triumph of stupidity over technology. I just knew she was good for something!
But don’t worry, any random and rather sad fans of Heidi Montag who happen to be reading this for some masochistic reason… this Chase dude (whose name I am sure is totally not made up) is going to be a great influence on your girl! Why, just look at the entirely level-headed and insightful stuff he has to say about himself:
Aiden Chase: Starmaker
I am a channel for healing energy. Together we connect to the light healing force of love. Although this sounds mysterious or religious, it is neither. It is a very straightforward process that involves the cleansing, rebalancing, and recalibrating of your energy field.
…
Joining and participating with us on every healing are the angelic forces of light and love, healing and protection; ancient Native American spirit healers; your ancestors and passed-on family who choose to help guide us in your healing.
Hm. First of all, Aiden m’boy… no, this sounds neither mysterious nor religious. It sounds more like something you read in the How To Pillage The Checking Accounts of Wealthy Morons Handbook, Hollywood Revised Edition.
Second, which of my fucking ancestors won’t choose to help in healing?! I want names! Those corpsefied shitheels better pitch in PDQ, ’cause I’ve got a full bladder and a map to their graves! This includes you, Great Aunt Marie… that plate of cookies you gave me in 1974 don’t mean shit when it’s time for you to team up with a psychic to magically cure my untreatable cock cancer!
I also like this bit:
All religious beliefs are welcomed and acknowledged. All faiths are truly about love and love is healing.
…which proves what I’ve always known in my heart: Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing should be played during all church services. It’d certainly go a long way toward getting me to attend.
Oh, and check out the scary-eyed grin on this guy:
He looks like Judge Reinhold in Fast Times At Ridgemont High. I dunno about you, but that’s a face I can trust! And given that he charges upwards of $3,000/month for a couple visits and a handful of telephone consultations, giving him a percentage of total earnings probably means he’ll vajazzle Heidi with Loving Angel Crystals and transfer the power of his Inner Soul Star to them via the repeated daily application of his 1/64th Ancient Native American tongue. What a bargain!
Anyhoo… my money says it was this bright bulb who convinced her to go through with her latest batch of wholly pointless, hotness-defacing surgeries. Say what you will about Pratt, but he knows that all he really needed to keep his meal-ticket client relevant was the original boob job… anything more is just unnecessary downtime that could be better used earning daddy some dollas.
Heidi 4.0: C'mon... you know it's gonna happen.
In closing, if I haven’t mentioned it lately: thank you, LA, for providing me my daily recommended allowance of Absolute Fucking Insanity.
In other Mayra news, we have this from the Houston Chronicle:
