the out-of-left-field casting that engenders the initial snorts of disbelief

Man, I never knew there was so much stuff I have no interest in.

Poor bastard.

Dude’s begging to be made into some oreilles de cochon.

I’m more interested in landing a kick-ass nickname like Coky.

Sometimes I love being a Californian.

Get in the ring, motherfucker.

I wore J. Crew clothes for years.

I watch one of them (if watching Magnum P.I. as a little kid in 1983 counts).

I want that Road to Nowhere cover in a frame.

My thoughts exactly.

That is some sweet cover art.

Reality shows killed the video star.

That’s what you get for being a supervillain’s moll.

That “castrated” feeling is just your tiny balls.

“My Boy Lollipop” is a banging track. I don’t care what the cool kids say.

Thirsty-ass celebrities are like cats. If you stop feeding them, they’ll eventually go away.

It’s a poor artist who blames the animals copulating all over her.

I sent you a WUPHF, so I know you got it.

Patreon. I guess the important thing is that there are at least 147 different ways for thirsty-ass people to broadcast shit to the world.