WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?

We all know aging is a bitch and gravity doesn’t owe anyone any favours but these famous peoples faces have fallen harder from grace than most. Is it genetics? Ill advised plastic surgery? Or just the result of having money to burn, too big an ego and your own weight in coke to snort off a mirror – thus blocking out your  reflection? Surely I’m going on a hayride straight to hell for writing this article but the question begs to be asked – What the fuck happened to your face????

The poster child for all things wtf happened to your face is the creepy/awesome lover of lap dogs, Mickey Rourke – but we know what happened there. Dude was pretty and quite talented. He became a famous actor and inspirer of lady juices due to creepy/hot movies like 9 and a Half Weeks and Angel Heart. All that being talented, hot and successful got to him. He didn’t like doing interviews or playing the Hollywood game so he put his money where his pretty mouth was and quit acting to become a pro boxer.  He was pretty good at it but he still got his face punched in. Growing tired of looking like a rotting bag of onions he got some cut price plastic surgery done by a one armed barman using nothing but a bottle of jack and a butter knife…or so it seems.  Mickey-boy smokes a carton or Malborough reds before getting out of bed every morning, that probably doesn’t help. Mickey got too old to box, went back into acting and used his Frankenstienien charm to wow audiences in The Wrestler. Dude’s face is still fucked but it’s hard not to love him anyway.

Tara Steven-Seagal. Copyright 2009

BEYONCE AND LADY GAGA: VAG OFF!

This is entirely Madonna’s fault

All the female pop stars have been copying Madonna like she’s a super- nerds dandruff covered exam paper for the past two decades. It was only a matter of time before the “angry vagina” thing got emulated. In the clip to Beyonce’s song Video Phone she and Gaga have a good old fashioned Vag off. I’ve been pondering both their secret gardens for several minutes now and I think we might have a tie on our hands. Neither is bringing the vag rage and as Tyra would say, none of them are smiling with their clits. I think we’re looking at the bottom two this week. Madonna’s vagasaurus could storm in there and annihilate them both without breaking a leotard sweat. Sorry girls, nobody brings the irate vag like Madge.

- Tara Steven-Seagal. Copyright 2009 ©

FAKE FUNBAGS FIX EVERYTHING!

Something to be proud of?

I’ve always seen Amy Winehouse as the antidote to Jessica Simpson and her kind – those homogenised little blondes out there doing the talk show circuit to spruik whatever multi-talentless shit they’re peddling in a rehearsed and giggly manner. Winehouse was different, she had talent, she had personality. She was real, she was wrong and she was interesting. To wit, I could handle the struggle with drugs and toxic relationships, it’s always been part of the whole tortured artist deal. But she’s crossed a line now.

Back to Black was an enormous success both critically and financially. Amy was lauded as the Etta James of her generation and now she’s gone all Jordan on our asses. What does that say about her and this famewhoring generation? If Etta James were around today would she want to get the Tara Reid special? Would she try to emulate Jenna Jamieson?

Talented people don’t need a gimmick.

The argument of the pro fake tata movement is that they increase a womans confidence. Many a scantily clad skank in the public eye mouths on and on about how she got them “for myself”. They buy into the capitalist theory that anything you can buy which increases your confidence is a good thing but this is clearly untrue. Not everything you do is worthy of pride and praise. Being confident about something you really shouldn’t be confident about is fucked in the head – just ask the guy at work who prides himself on telling the best racist jokes. Also we all know they’re fake. Her dad told us (all together now “Ewwwwww”). The internet is a buzz with people making fun of her for the “upgrade”. How does that increase a persons confidence? That’s a band aid for someone with bigger than DD sized issues.

The look on her face irks me the most. She looks like she feels proud, sexy and attractive. Can she really be that deluded? And if so how could she write intelligent, insightful songs anymore? I hope her silicone life rafts have done what they were supposed to and we get a chance to find out.

- Tara Steven-Seagal. Copyright 2009 ©

I’M SORRY, WHAT? YOU MEAN TO TELL ME TWILIGHT IS ABOUT VAMPIRISM?

“Twilight is the poignant account of one boy’s struggle with narcissistic personality disorder and debilitating mental illness. We are introduced to the main protagonist Edward Cullen as he twitches at his school desk after rubbing himself with baking soda and ground chalk.  The tearjerker scene where he  plays Clair De Lune on a piano, surrounded by dry ice is an art house homage to late 1980’s and early 90’s Guns N’ Roses rock videos and is arguably the greatest cinematic depiction of a “delusions of grandeur” spell ever caught on celluloid, up there with Cassavetes’ Mabel Longhetti from A Woman Under The Influence…”

-  Tristan Black – Chicago Sun Newspaper Film Review

LONELY HEARTS CLUB: Dating in the 21st Century

THE HILLS HAVE BOOBS: Talking sex doll poses for Porno Mag and We’re Supposed to Care

“If women aren’t jealous of you, talking about you and cutting you down, then you’re the nerd, and I would never want to be that.”

I don’t actually want to know about Heidi Montag posing for Playboy. I don’t want to know about how much she loves her faker than fake boobs, the diet she was on to get even more twig-like thighs, or that she claims she has 30 orgasms a day at the hands of her hideous manterpart Spencer Pratt. Ewww.

I don’t want to know about 22 year old bible bashers with multiple plastic surgeries who claim to have never watched porn and plan to get even bigger round mounds stuffed down their skinshirts to please their smarmy sperm crustation husbands.

I don’t want to know about it but I do because these cunts have carpet bombed the internet with this shit! There is no escaping it. They are the newest kind of plague, infecting our minds just by saying lame things and posing for lame photo’s. We shouldn’t be listening to these people! Nobody should be listening to these people!!!

Some choice cuts from the Playboy interview that accompanies the pictures of a mouth breathing, doe eyed Montag wearing more clothes than we usually see on her in her normal, everyday famewhoring life:

“As for other women, if they aren’t hating on you, then you’re not doing anything right.”

Heidi speaks the truth and if I ever see her in person she’s going to come away from the experience thinking she’s done EVERYTHING right.

“Having my wife in Playboy is the culmination of every dream I’ve ever had.”

The MENSA think-tank that is Spencer, revealing his innermost secrets and it’s as amazing as having a one on one fondue date with Jesus!

We need to rebuke these two all American fucktards fame liscenses, get these fuckers out of the limelight and send them hurtling through space trapped in a clear, flat, prison – like the trio of gothic, jumpsuit wearing villains from Superman 3.

- Tara Steven-Seagal. Copyright 2009 ©

LETTER TO THE PERVERTS…

Dearest Creep,

I know you’ve been reading this blog.  And I know it was an accident.  Still doesn’t excuse the fact that you sit in the dark and type weird phrases like “torch my cock”,  ”women nudi fukin sackin men”, “my tits through my eyes”  and “is there and island full of midgets?” into search engines.  Do you have a clingwrap fetish? Do you rub yourself with talcum powder to feel closer to God?  Do you “heart” Twilight and get a boner over  goblins? Yes, I’m talking to you.  I know who you are.  You have searched high and low and on Google for your sick pornography:

“my tits grew” / “midget spinning sex” / “vaginas that can suck in” / “big dicked grandad” / “fuck my face” / “lycra robin” / “steroid frau penis” / “vice grip vagina” / “semen on my clogs”

Hope you feel better…now that you’ve creamed into your brother’s ski mask and wept like a bitch. 

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

“I’m tired of people not treating me like the gift that I am!”

You and me both Paula Abdul. Given the chance I would scan the card, rip off the ribbon, then tear through the decorative paper to expose the goodness of you – and I would like it. Granted it would be the kind of awesomely creepy present I couldn’t sleep in the same room with for fear it would stab my slumbering body several hundred times in an alcoholic, pilled-up rage over my lack of appreciation for it.

- Tara Steven-Seagal. Copyright 2009 ©

DAVID CARUSO: CSI Drinking Game

David Caruso is like an alien species that crawled headlong out of the Florida swamps and infiltrated Miami in mirror shades. He’s the sunburned, insecure readhead you see standing in convinience stores having D&M’s with Penthouse, the type who winds himself in clingwrap on weekends then jacks off over charcoal renderings of Elvis. He gives the impression that he’s the Sensitive New Age Guy who only eats ‘orange foods’ and has installed a light-up dancefloor in his bedroom just so he can solo tango to Manilo hits in the dark hours. I fucking hate those guys. They knit sweaters and wear your Grandmother’s perfume and learn archaic Tongan dialects just to sound cool in bars.

Anyone who’s ever watched the abortion that is CSI Miami will understand that Caruso is no longer an actor but a drinking game. One tortuous evening I knocked back a shot every time he touched his gun holster and, as the credits rolled, found myself up-chucking a Ken Done painting onto the walls, the empy bottle of Creme De Menthe rolling across the floorboards. Innocent housewives have been hospitalised after taking a nip of sherry each time Caruso slides off his sunglasses whilst muttering lines like “No more streetwalking for her, the only job she has now is a date with the afterlife.” I made that up, but game over. David Caruso: you are a beverage.

What’s more – Caruso plays a character called Horatio Caine. Sounds like some kind of Satanic inbreed from a Edgar Allen Poe novel. One who haunts a bell tower and eats women’s fingernails and calls his hair “Mamma”. In the CSI Miami backstory, it is claimed that Horatio has a history in explosives and was a former officer of the US bomb squad. How plausible is this, you ask? Well, let’s hypothesise an outcome. If Horatio was sent an anthrax parcel he’d probably taste the shit. If he was confronted with six green wires sprouting from a ticking box, he’d put it in a passing pram and hope the mother failed to notice. Horatio can’t even cut a sandwich in quarters, so is reduced to stroking toy store cap guns and gazing melancholicly at bodies of dead strippers who’ve mainlined glue (when you know all he’s fantasizing about is wearing their stilettos).

Bring back Sipowitz to commercial television. He was mean, he was fat and he sported an awesome moustache and the kind of sausagey hands that could render a grown man unconscious just my accepting a smoke from one them. I miss those days. I long for the era of crime TV when the Carusos of this world were weeping into handkerchiefs at poetry readings and the real cops were accepting bribes from Latino street gangs, smashing delinquents heads into windows and taking their contraband.

R.I.P

Punch © 2009

GOOD ON YOU BUT NO THANK YOU: The Forever Young Dancers

“I saw your show this past weekend and laughed so hard that I cried, and my cheeks actually hurt the next day.” – Satisfied Customer

The Forever Young Dancers from St Pete Beach, Florida “have been performing before condo groups, senior fests, social organizations, wives’ clubs, and veteran groups since 1997.”

Like most professional geriatric nudie dance groups they have a calendar one can purchase online. All the money they make goes to charity – even the tips, of which I’m sure there are many. Looking at an old ball sack in a pair of black jocks with bells sewn on them would make even the biggest prude want to open something – their wallets at least.

The group is run by Fred, who is the silver haired stallion up front in the picture above. Their website has his home phone number for bookings and maybe if you’re lucky he’ll let you organise a special private lap dance.

People may be surprised to learn that I’m not really super into strippers. The usual male ones are hairless, buff, fake tanned, oiled up and wearing tight uniforms of some impractical stripper variety, eventually casting them off to reveal tiny fluro yellow g-bangers used for sweaty t-bagging. Which is fine, it that’s what you’re into. Thing is I’m not a frumpy housewife or a lonely gay Naval Officer nicknamed named Captain Nutbush by my crew due to my neat beard and predilection for staring at the front of subordinates trousers several days into long sea voyages. Which is also fine.

These codgers getting their tackle out for charity is as appealing as any other brand of stripper, so far as I can tell. They probably play it for comedy but you just know it’s turning someone out there on – even if it’s just the Forever Young Dancers themselves.

So if you’re in the Florida region and feel like crying and having sore cheeks the next day, give Fred a call on 727 360 4406!

- Tara Steven-Seagal. Copyright 2009 ©