10 Other Things I Would Like To See Justin Bieber Do

Amid this week of fuckwittery and tomfoolery, I stopped and thought: I wonder what my man the Biebs is up to?

Well, a lot, quite frankly. In addition to assaulting paparazzo and slamming his head into glass, the Bieb is a very busy man, being’s that he just turned 18 and has a new album coming out, and being featured in GQ magazine as a Man.

Well, Biebs, welcome to adulthood. Here are 10 more things I would like to see you do in the coming year:

1. Somehow infiltrate the couple that has become “Kimye” and break that shit up…sing “Boyfriend” to Kim K. whilst dumping some Cristal or something on Kanye—make a scene. Get married by hosting large wedding on E! and make Ryan Seacrest even richer with your ridiculous wedding reality show: “Kim and Bieber: Forever!”


Mmm...Kim K. Now with more flavor crystals.

2. Get incessantly bitch-slapped by Tyrion Lannister aka Peter Dinklage, the Pimp.

'Nuff said.

3. Set a $100K Birkin bag on fire.



4. Stop using Twitter. Just stop. Please.

5. Film new movie “Always Say Always…”

6. Now that John Edwards has some more free time since he got off, perhaps you can collaborate on another Ryan Seacrest venture: “Awesome Hair 101.”

All I can hear is him singing a song, "I'm sorry, so swarry..." in that lil' Kim Jong Il puppet voice from 'Team America.'

And for good measure, here’s that:

7. Show up at the MTV Movie Awards wearing a thong and baby-tee. Sit on Eminem’s face.

8. Call Justin Timberlake. Ask him how you do this.

9. Somehow, someway, get a “Toddlers & Tiaras” type YouTube talent show search on, looking for the next Mini-You. Have Mini-Bieber sit on your lap, like Mini-Me in Austin Powers, at all public events.

10. Film a rom-com with Zac Efron, fighting over who gets to bang Katherine Heigl, filled with all sorts of nursing bra and vaginal suppository jokes. Call it “Milf.”

"uh, yeah, so I haven't had a crap project in a while...call me!"

Got it, Biebs? Your next major project awaits! Love and kisses. Me.

Fuck the Kardashians (And Other Revelations I Had While I Had Mono)

Hey, you there! Yes, I’m back after a few months. There are many reasons I’ve been gone so long, but perhaps the most recent—and worst—is the fact that I had mono.

Yes, mononucleosis.

Now, there are two kinds of people in this world: Those who have had mono. And those who haven’t. The ones who have commiserate appropriately, for it is truly one of the most vile, hateful viruses on the planet. The ones who haven’t say stupid shit like, “Ooooo, who have you been kissing?” It is those people I would like to punch in the face.

Mono is the fucking worst. The. Worst. Well, the worst of the stuff that eventually goes away. I’m not saying it comes close to anything considered serious, but work with me, people. After weathering the worst physical breakdown I’ve ever had—chills, wild temperature swings, fevers and night sweats, vomiting, a sore throat that felt like swallowing razor blades, not sleeping more than an hour at a time, etc., for weeks on end—I had a few revelations while I was down and out.

Here they are:

  • I was in line at the Walgreen’s with my basket filled with Worthless Over the Counter Shit That Doesn’t Work when, in my misery, I looked up and saw every magazine cover plastered with Kim Kardashian’s face—the “just married” face, the “oversized sunglasses in the airport face” and, of course, just her standard dull-eyed, blow-up doll face, asking inane questions like “Fake or Real?” “Kim K. Files for Divorce from Kris…What went wrong?” and so forth and I found myself enraged. Not just annoyed, full-on rage. First off, WTF? Didn’t this bitch just spend $2 million and like 67 hours of E! programming getting fucking married? Is this all an orchestrated publicity stunt to further pull in the American public into the dumbed-down world of shopping for platform heels, slathering on Mac lip gloss and doing cheesy paid appearances in Las Vegas? (Uh, I’m firmly in the “yes” camp).

I'm at a loss as to who would don the "I'm with Stupid" T-shirt.

  • Like 3.2 million other viewers, I, too, succumbed and watched the “Kourtney & Kim Take New York” premiere last night. And like 3.2 million other people I saw such gems as “Oh, my God! You just fucked up my pedicure!” and Kris Humphries constantly whine about getting to the gym by 8 a.m. Has anyone been seen reading a book or newspaper on this show? Ever? I really would like to know.
  • After being housebound for a month, I would like to cancel my cable subscription.
  • If you are ever seriously ill and in need of going to a hospital, may I ballpark what an overnight stay and a few IVs will cost you? Seven grand. And if you still think universal health care is a bad idea, may I say, Fuck You.
  • I believe the newest intelligence test comes in the form of that slapped together celebrity shitshow called “New Year’s Eve.” Once upon a time, some Hollywood asshole figured out that if you smashed enough A-Listers into one incredibly trite, pull-at-the-old-heartstrings, Rom-Com-A-Roma, aka “Valentine’s Day,” you’d make millions of dollars off the poor, sad, pathetic lives of middle-aged cat women and sorority girls everywhere. They were correct. And now, they’ve packaged that into that most loathsome of holidays, New Year’s Eve. If you go to see this movie—hell, if this movie even appeals to you—you are a fucking moron. Plain and simple. You should not be allowed to vote, have children or work anyplace but the DMV. Oh, and get another cat, why don’t you.
  • Speaking of morons, even if he is the biggest male bimbo in the world, why is Ashton Kutcher just continually getting hotter?
  • Those fucking Muppets. I mean, when Miss Piggy is featured in a fashion spread in InStyle magazine, someone should really lose their fucking job.
  • I wanted to do this one while I was probably face down in my own Campbell’s chicken soup puke, but Penn State football fans who were protesting the ousting of Joe Paterno over the sex abuse scandal, you guys get a double-triple fuck you. It’s truly a sad day when a sports empire takes precedence over the abuse of children. Then again, you’re probably the same kind of folks who don’t think that everyone should have health care.

Hey, I’m better, bitter as ever and hungry for some more trash talk. It’s good to be back.

They Used To Do It

Are you ever just kicking it down the street, minding your own sweet bizness, drinking your coffee, bopping along to Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam then get a shot of a memory and go, “I used to fuck that guy?”

Yeah, me too.

The other night, I was re-watching Chasing Amy—ah, the ’90s, Jason Lee had hair, you could smoke in bars, haircuts, makeup and shoes were flat and clunky—and I saw Ben Affleck in all his pre-Oscar glory. And I thought, “Wow, that guy’s been through the ringer…he used to date J-Lo for fuck’s sake.”

And so, I present a list of celebs who Used To Do It. Ready for this walk down memory lane? Let’s go!

• Let’s start with Bennifer—quite possibly the worst celeb hook-up/mash-up name of all time. Amid a frenzy circa the early ’oughts, somehow the world’s flattest, most boring white man (other than Tiger Woods) found America’s Rom-Com Sweetheart Who Isn’t White and they became a Power Celebrity Couple. Despite J-Lo’s damaged-goods status coming off a Puff Daddy/P. Diddy/Sean Dildo relationship, it was all a go—until Affleck got busted for going to a Vancouver “all-nude” strip club. It was about this same time that I came across one Mr. Ex J-Lo, Cris Judd, stood across from him and literally thought, “What’d she see in him? I wouldn’t fuck him.” There’s a Gigli joke in here somewhere. I’m just too lazy to write it.

ben affleck and jennifer lopez

'My Love Don't Cost a Thing' except a big-ass engagement ring.

• Sean Penn and Madonna. Holy cow, where do I start? In the midst of the ’80s Hollywood and Pop Music scene it was only a matter of time until these two scorching hot, blonde egomaniacs found one another. I remember as a wee lass watching SNL when Madonna hosted as she explained the media frenzy surrounding their nuptials, which were held on some sort of cliff somewhere, and she kept making not-funny potato salad jokes. Directors everywhere should have heeded this message—the woman cannot act, and even I, as a sheltered child, realized that this episode of SNL would not be funny. Penn and Madonna made it a whole four years before splitsville because apparently Penn is a wife-beater? WTF, Sean! And now you’re banging someone half your age in Scar-Jo? And I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that Madonna once fucked Prince during the ’80s—that shit blows my mind.

sean penn madonna

No bad touch, Sean, no bad touch.

• Before she was Brangelina or Hot Milf Numero Uno, Angelina Jolie was having allegedly drugged-up, alcoholic sex with her fellow blood-locket-wearing beau, Billy Bob. Now, this was a relationship I actually got. Sure, Billy Bob’s creepy in that blue-collar mechanic you need to stop by the shop after-hours so I can touch your tailpipe way, but he was hot. Sorry. I know I gots my tastes, and they may not run similar to yours, but there you have it.

angelina jolie and billy bob thornton

'We did it in the limo on the way over.' Remember that one? Memories.

• As long as we’re on it, let’s go Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow—can you imagine two more perfect, statuesque, blindingly beautiful people doing it? Neither can I.

gwyneth paltrow and brad pitt

That whole brother-sister banging in 'Game of Thrones' is beginning to make more sense to me.

• Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears…Oh, baby. You know when you write an entire fucking hit album based off telling your Ex off—and definitely calling her out on her whole virginity scam—that is one scorned loverman. The thing that gets me about this coupling is that it was Britney who cheated on Justin. Yep, guess who won?

justine timberlake and britney spears

I'm surprised anyone fucked these two after these outfits.

• Kim Kardashian and Ray J. So, back when I still got free porn, I got the Vivid video of Ray J banging Ms. Kim K. It sat on my floor for weeks, until one particular Sunday evening, after a few six-packs, greasy Thai food and chronic, my two female roommates and I put it into the VCR (VCRs! Again, how ’90s!) to behold the Most Boring Porn of All Time After One Night in Paris. Mesmerized by watching K’s large bottom go up and down, up and down, up and down, jiggling, jiggling, jiggling, our male roommate walked in to us three, stoned out of our minds, sitting in a row on the couch. “Huh, what’s up, guys?” he stammered. After that video, Kim Kardashian’s career indeed.

kim kardashian and ray j

OMFG, totally did not remember that THIS happened.

• Hugh Hefner and Crystal Harris. Well, actually, I’m willing to bet money that they never actually did it, but what the fuck. I need the trending Google search hits.

hugh hefner and crystal

Oh, lord.

• Anthony Weiner and his super-smoking, whip-smart wife Huma Abedin. They used to do it…I’m guessing no more.

anthony weiner

Stroke me, stroke me!

Fucked-Up Shit: Orgies in Vegas (Part One, Definitely NSFW.)

Recently, a friend from Vegas visited NYC and regaled me with a tale the likes of which I haven’t heard for quite a while. See, he’s a musician and was hired to play this huge birthday party that ran well into the six figures that Caesar’s was throwing for some Japanese whale. No, not the fat, blubbery kind. The obscenely rich kind.

Anyway, the dude was like two hours late to this gallant affair that Usher and the Pussycat Dolls and other such celebs-for-hire were whored out to. Why? Because he spent the earlier hours of his birthday drinking. With Paris Hilton. By the pool. The two dingbats were taking bottles of Cristal and shaking them up and poring them all over themselves and the ground. Tens of thousands of dollars of champagne. Apparently some of that made it into the whale’s mouth, cause he was too drunk to make his own party on time. (FYI, who chooses to spend their birthday with Paris Hilton?)

See, that is fucked-up shit. As much as I hate hearing about rich people throwing the equivalent of a few dozen schools and healthcare for a few hundred people in Haiti or Somalia or similar on the ground, I love hearing about fucked-up shit. And man, have I missed being witness to some fucked-up shit.

So, here’s my most favorite fucked-up shit of all time.

A few years ago, when I was a reporter in Vegas, I was following this high-roller group of swingers. Now, these were not your ordinary, HBO After Dark, middle-aged, saggy, hippie, Burning Man, Free Love types of swingers.

Low Rent Orgy

Low rent orgy.

No, these swingers had money. And were attractive. And they only wanted to fuck other swingers who had money and were attractive. In short, it was like a very exclusive club for only beautiful, wealthy people. Like Posh and Becks invited you over for a pool party.

I spent about six months following the parties’ organizers. They would throw these really lavish affairs at different restaurants and casinos—with champagne and lovely food and fashion shows and the works. Then the rich people would meet other rich people at the parties and go fuck each other in their hotel suites.

High Rent Orgy

High rent orgy.

I knew that my little story on the swingers would not be complete until I witnessed one of these after-hours parties. It took some convincing and some time, but I finally got my shot.

In late July, there’s a main swingers convention in Vegas, and the high rollers were there to “recruit” or be on the lookout for other attractive, wealthy folks to fuck. After a few hours at the Tropicana’s swing-trash fest, the lady, let’s call her Jess, who I’d been following, turns to me and says, “You should come to the party tonight.”

Her husband looks at her like she’s crazy. Let a reporter into an after-party? “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Jess was pretty adamant I go. “Oh, no, it’ll be totally fine.”

And so, we left the Tropicana, which is a pretty sleazy hotel and headed to Caesars, where some so-called rich dude was throwing an after-party en suite. Imagine this: five people wedged into an Audi sportscar with an almost nonexistent back seat, two chicks crammed in the back, changing into their Swinger Wear—which was basically nonexistent lingerie—thongs, bras, garters and such.

Ladies' outfits not unlike these. Hugh was not at the Orgy.

Ladies' outfits not unlike these. Hugh was not at the Orgy.

We arrive at Caesars on a Saturday night and the place is packed with gamblers—as we stroll through the main casino floor, everyone is staring at us. No wonder. These chicks are practically naked. Some guy goes, “What’s up with those people?” The dealer deadpans, “There’s a swingers’ convention in town.”

Waiting at the VIP elevators—not the regular elevators, mind you, that take regular folks up to their regular hotel rooms—the host is introduced to us. Apparently, he’s got a thing for Jess. He also looks and talks like Andy Warhol. Let’s just call him Andy for that reason.

“How’re you doing at the tables tonight?” someone asks Andy.

“I was up $1.2 million last night,” he says. “I’m down $400,000 tonight.”

He’s massaging a handful of $5,000 chips in his hand, which I am pretty handily eyeballing. See, I’m pretty fucking broke. I figure, he’s drunk, he’s not paying attention, and he’s gonna drop one of those chips—which can pay my rent for six months.

Then Andy turns to Jess. “I want to fuck you.” She laughs.

So we get up to the suite. This is a suite. A couple thousand square feet. Top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the Strip. Four bedrooms, a study, a living area, a kitchen, two bathrooms—and an open bar staffed by Mexicans. And man, those Mexicans kept their eyes glued to the ceiling the entire time. And a bouncer at the door.

Right after we walk in, this tanned, muscled-up chick comes up to Jess. I think she’s a body builder? “Hey, doll, how’re you doing?” she says, then lifts up what little skirt Jess is wearing and plants a big kiss right on her pussy. Seriously, this is her standard greeting. “Nice wax job.”

Now, I hadn’t eaten anything all night. Neither had Jess. And we figured there’d be some kind of food at this party. Nada. Nothing. However, a friend of Jess’ brings in a tray of muffins for her. “Very special muffins.” Starving, I scarf down two of them. I think you know where we’re headed here.

Things get off to a fairly slow start, but then people start getting real friendly. One minute you’re unknowingly scarfing down a pot muffin, the next, there’s an oiled-up threeway, like three greased pigs rolling around, on the leather sofa right next to you.

Jess and her husband swing exclusively with this other couple, let’s just call him Dr. San Fran and his wife, some biochemist. Dr. San Fran is hotter than shit, and I know that he’s considered somewhat of a boyfriend to Jess. So Dr. San Fran comes up to me and starts hitting on me. Now, I hadn’t participated, nor planned on participating, in any of these shenanigans, but sometimes when a hot, shirtless doctor comes up to you in a Hotel Suite at Caesars Palace and wants to kiss you in front of his girlfriend, well, you just gotta let him.

The night quickly becomes blurry—thanks pot muffins! Open bar!—and folks are really splintering off to get down to business. I realize at one point that everyone is off fucking or something, and I am sitting all alone on the couch. So, I decided to take a walk. And see what I can lift in the process. As I wander around the suite, picking up cigarettes, lighters, and Aveda body products courtesy of Caesars hospitality, I peak into the bedrooms. And let me tell you, watching swarthy, tanned, bored rich people fuck is … boring.

When a friend asked me to recap the next day, I said, “It was like being in a porno with an open bar.” Everyone’s physical appearance was unnatural, everyone was waxed within an inch of their lives, and everyone looked bored as they pounded away. And all that groaning and moaning sounded so fake. Plus, let’s just say I didn’t see a lot of condoms being used. Yucky.

Anyway, at some point Dr. San Fran and Jess come out, and we’re hanging. “Let’s go get some champagne,” someone suggests, so we go into the kitchen and there are cases of the stuff. Drinking champagne at an orgy at 4 a.m.! Who knew? Then Dr. San Fran’s wife comes running into the kitchen, “Hey, guys, do you wanna watch me fuck this guy?”

We all look at each other, shrug, “Why not?” and follow her into the bedroom.

All told, you can only watch people fuck each other for so long. I wanted to go home. I was lying in the living room on some chaise lounge, drinking champagne, watching the sun come up–the best part of the night, really–when some trashy-looking chick climbs on top of me and starts licking me. While the guy she came to the party with is intently watching us from some chair.

Now, I’m lying there thinking, “Should I just go with it.” Then I’m like, uh, no.

“I’m sorry, you’re attractive and all, but I’m not into it.” I tell her.

“Of course you’re not, Reporter!” she spats at me.

“How’d you know that?” I ask her.

“Who else would come to this party dressed like this?” she says, indicating that, unlike every other woman there, I am still clothed.

She gets off me. I finally find Jess and am like, “Get me the fuck out of here.”

While waiting for my party to get rounded up, the chick’s husband comes up to me. “So, what are you going to write about this?”

“I don’t know, just what it is,” I say, crushing out a cigarette.

“Well,” he says, getting real menacing-like. “I hope you treat it right.”

“Are you threatening me?”

He doesn’t answer. My posse finally rolls up, and we pile into the Audi. Dr. San Fran is driving me home, I am crammed in the middle of the two front-seats—no seat-belt, of course—when some drunk driver, swear to God, swerves at us on Sunset Blvd. south of the Strip. I can imagine the Clark Co. coroner telling my parents how I died, “Well, she was in an Audi with a bunch of swingers at 7 a.m. with no bra on.”

All told, my swingers experience was quite fun—silly, ridiculous—fun. But also quite sad. I think every couple I met was divorcing a year later. It was really the last bastion of party-going for them—the “we’re rich, bored, have everything and nothing thrills us” anymore. Let’s just say, there was more dead-eyed fucking than a Kim Kardashian porn.

And that is some fucked-up shit.