Sweary’s Jaw

Surreptitiously hacking into Kelsey Grammer’s Facebook account, so you don’t have to.

Y’know when a girl says something bitchy about another girl and all the boys go, “Ah, them girls, they’re all so mightily jealous of one another. It is hate upon hate upon lipstick”? Well, generally, the boys are wrong. It’s not that girls are especially bitchy about other girls. It’s that girls are especially bitchy about everyone, but boys tend to be less deserving of that dark attention, because they haven’t been bitchy enough themselves to attract it. So please note that it is through No Fault Of My Own that this Jaw installment is so female-centric; I did not set out to usher in the return of the Jaw on a wave of hormonal hatred and boob envy. It just so happens that female celebrities have been making disproportionate nunkies out of themselves this week. In short, blame them. For what, you ask? Well, let’s take a look.

Recent reports suggest that England’s Meekheart, Leona Lewis, is not quite as serene as she appears. Not in this picture, obviously. Here she’s having a banger of some sort, probably Simon Cowell related. Or maybe she’s just seen her hair in the mirror and realises the 1990s are growing on her head. Anyway, like many people, Leona feels very strongly about vegetarianism, except she’s for it. So for it, in fact, that she’s banned her staff from eating non-approved foods whilst they tour with her. Could this even be true? What kind of raving lunatic demands that those surrounding her subsist on beans and eggs? Has she no sense of smell? I mean, we’ve all been affected by that Simpsons episode where Bart saves the cow from the feedlot, but there’s no need to get militant about it. I suppose when you’re a pop star puppet with your hands airbrushed right off the steering wheel, you take control where you can get it. Poor lamb (lambs have rights too).

Someone else coming across all radical about their victuals is Most Down With It Mother Of All Time, Dina Lohan. Dina, a delightful individual whose hobbies include yanking away her daughter Lindsay’s soul, one dollar at a time, recently called in reinforcements when she wasn’t given ice-cream. Yes, yes, I know that looks like a random assortment of words fecked onto your screen, but I swear I only mad lib in traffic jams; Dina Lohan called the cops when Carvel Ice Cream rescinded a card entitling Lindsay to free treats, because every member of the Lohan family was hitting it as if it were a thonged arse in a hip-hop video. The cops. Dina Lohan called the cops. “Sheriff, arrest these vendors! They are not honouring the sense of entitlement I have seeping out of every saggy orifice!” What I don’t understand is why Carvel Ice Cream bothered in the first place; it’s hardly as if Lindsay’s endorsement would coax forth the vanilla munchies in the doughy massive. Ha. Doughy massive.

“Massive” is a handy adjective when you’re describing that Megan Fox lady - not in terms of her arse, now, nor her career, thank Jaysus, but in terms of her porkies. Her great big porky pies. Remember when Megan was telling us all that Michael Bay was like Hitler? Well, apparently, she wasn’t. But she wasn’t about to put the media straight either, because having the majority of the movie-going public thinking she was a few spuds short of a stew was a useful deflection of interest in her real life, which she likes to keep private. “I have sort of aided the media in printing these misconceptions“, she explained in a recent interview, which I think is a translation of “What a tit I’ve been” from English to Wafflese. And like Bertie Ahern’s autobiography, I’m not buying it. Who believes “aiding the media” in printing insults of their boss is a graceful concealment of what they’re really up to? I mean, what could she possibly have been doing in real life? Selling weapons-grade plutonium in school yards?

Still, at least Megan is going some way towards acknowledging she’s been a bit of a plonker, whereas socialite Kim Kardashian is still ploughing on with mouthy stupidity with as much zeal as an inflatable can possibly have. Kim’s been suffering from Twitter diarrhoea again, y’see. “EWW. I’m at lunch, the woman at the table next 2 me is breast feeding her baby w no coverup then puts baby on the table and changes her diaper”, said the bouncy-arsed one, pictured here with her udders out. And I accept that changing a baby at a restaurant table is indeed rude and thoughtless. But so is complaining about breastfeeding mums when you’ve made your name with a sex tape, non? Exposed boobs are only ok when you’re making the moolah, mums! Giving it away for free in restaurants is just plain classless!

I suspect that one lady who can tell the difference between class and classless, but possibly not utilise the knowledge thereafter, is Vogue editor Anna Wintour. How can we determine whether or not this is the case? Well, we’d need an insider opinion, wouldn’t we? And who better to provide same than designer, Project Runway mentor, and fashion luvvie (in the sense that I love him) Tim Gunn! Tim has written a style guide (yawn) and has peppered it with dirt-dishing (yey!). Within, he recalls a time when he saw Anna Wintour’s bodyguards cross arms to make a seat, and carry her thusly down five flights of stairs and into a waiting car. I don’t know why it’s news in the world of fashion that some osteoporosis-endangered hag couldn’t manage stairs without snapping, but the mental image is a good one, don’t you think? Vogue aren’t too happy about Gunn’s blabbermouth, sniffing that he “has a very vivid imagination“. I don’t think so. I think Anna Wintour is definitely the kind of woman who’d value spike heels over actually being able to use anything below the knee (a woman after me own heart). Anyway, I coudn’t find a suitable picture of the frozen-featured ole lollipop, so I’ve procured for you one of Tim Gunn as a bobblehead instead. How could you be angry with that face?! Anna Wintour, you monster!