…get the dog out of your lap and fucking DRIVE!

No I didn’t watch Oprah yesterday.

I saw enough of Tom bouncing around on the couch & Oprah’s lap to know that I couldn’t possibly sit through an hour of that shit. Tom was hopping around the Oprah show like a freaking caged babboon with his ass on fire. Is he grossing anyone else out?

Once again Spicy Pants is hot tailing it out of town.
So I apologize ahead of time for no SMACK talk this weekend. I’ll be back talking shit by Monday. Until then if I miss anything, email me and let me know. Love hearing from you crazy bastards! Birds of a feather…

Britney sends her regrets.

…or so she wished!
I’m a little late on this one, but little Ms. Leno-jaw partied it up during the Kentucky Derby parties at the track. She got completely fuckered up (true to form) and proceeded to do a lapdance for Usher while he sat at a table. Her husband in the meantime, had to sit & watch as he was completely disgraced by his juicer-tramp of a wife.

Tara Reid ain’t got shit on Tori.
And if that was not enough, Tori even simulated giving Usher a knob job…right SMACK in front of everyone. There was no shame here, folks. At least not on her behalf. Her poor husband had to have fucking freaked afterwards. Sometime during that same party Tori also lost a huge rock of a diamond earring. Serves the twat right!

Natalie Portman shocked everyone at the Cannes premiere of ‘Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith’ yesterday.

She showed up without any hair. Amazing how she looks just as beautiful without it. (and Lindsay thinks it’s a big deal that she dyed her hair blonde..ha!)

Pam Anderson says that Paris Hilton refuses to read her own menus and demands that they be read to her by restaurant staff.

Recently Pam & Paris went out for a bite and Paris threw a fit, yelling for someone to read her menu to her. Paris says it is because she doesn’t like to read.
Talk about a fucking lazy high-maintenence bitch! Fucking wah!

It looks as though Lindsay cannot dress herself as of late.

Her dress looks awful with her skin color and hair, and the shoes?! Lovely dyed blue satin pumps from your Junior Prom. Lindsay is so thin now she has absolutely no muscle tone on her arms, and her breasts (which were HUGE last year) have almost completely disappeared.

Lindsay in her new favorite ‘Mary Kate’ boots.

And I thought Tara was dating Tommy Lee.
That was sooo last week! Here is Tara hanging with some hairy dude in Los Angeles. The two went shopping for sunglasses.

Tara, honey PUHLEEZE get those implants taken out!
They look so horrible!

One night after too many Tater Tots, I slipped into a food coma and drifted off to sleep. Here was my nightmare… a blind date with Kevin Federline.
This one is a chafe of the tallest order.
Not unlike having Hot Shot weed killer poured on a sandpapered open wound. For some reason I have agreed to go on a blind date with the Prince of Fresno, Kevin Federline Spears. Skeezy new gangsta-talking husband of the heinous Britney Spears.
Ewwwwww.
He fits in with her cain’t wouldn’t Louisiana kin to be sure. But what is he doing here with me? At the Ivy? What is wrong with this person? He is so nasty. Does he bathe? Not likely considering his wife’s sporadic/non-existent ablutions. He’s oily. He wears hats that say “Rock Out With Your Cock Out.”
Ewwwwww again.
What the Hell am I doing out with him? Los Angeles, California, The Ivy on Robertson.
He’s too drunk to drive so he rolls up to the restaurant in a Hummer driven by one of the wife’s knuckle-dragging Cro-Magnon Man bodyguards. He is wearing a shiny white nylon prison-style do-rag with a stained t-shirt and his pants belted around his knees. He tosses his lit cigarette into the vibrant, beautiful periwinkle hydrangea bushes outside The Ivy.
He snorts, clears his throat, and spits an enormous greenish-yellow land oyster in the general direction of the bushes and misses. Oops, dude. Big loogey on the sidewalk. Star Magazine captures this on film from their photographic bivouac across Robertson Drive.
He stumbles up the five stairs to the patio and weaves his way to my table. He crashes into his chair and says, “Yo yo yo. What up, beyotch? Nice rack. We beat feet and git to Chili’s. Dat place da bomb. Be one in the Valley. Later I give ya a little sumpinsumpin.”
Eeek.
Before the hostess reaches our choice celeb-sectiontable to welcome the once and future king of the trailer park, I glance sideways and plot my escape. I make an intuitive decision, not unlike the woman who doesn’t get on the elevator with a strange man. It’s survival.
There will be no grilled, chopped vegetable and prawn salad today. No kalamata olive bread. No delicate fruit tart with fairy-dusting of powdered sugar. I shudder, reach into my purse, grab a twenty to pay for my diet Coke and toss it on the table. I sprint like Flo-Jo from the patio, hurdle the balcony and stairs, pause for a moment to bend over the hydrangea, and then head toward the parking garage.
I swallow repeatedly and wipe my eyes and nose because I have just thrown up.
I awake in a cold sweat with my heart racing and my ears ringing.
There, there, it’s over now. It was a nightmare, it wasn’t real.

***********************************************
Special thanks to La Cabrita! The Smack Contributor Contest Winner!

Please visit La Cabrita’s kickass blog at:

LA CABRITA SUSANITA

Thanks to everyone who contributed! All entries were great!