|I'll get the bastards!|
Fuck, fuck, FUCK Vanity fucking Fair. The bastards! How dare they try and take me down. How dare they try and ruin my reputation as one of the most lady-like, elegant, pure and radiant stars of my generation. Don't they remember I won a fucking Oscar? And now they want to destroy me because I was once seen innocently holding hands with a man who isn't my husband. Since when has holding hands with a friendly billionaire been a crime? We were simply having a very passionate, intense and thrilling discussion about macrobiotic vegetables. If his penis made any moves on me, I was totally unaware of it and I can assure you that I felt nothing. It was a long time ago and I am a chaste married woman - it even says so on my CV, right under "ruthless, cold, controlling bitch". I mean have you seen my husband? No really, have you? Because I can never find the miserable fucker when I need him by my side for "happy family" photo ops. For a so-called musician his sense of timing is pathetic. If Vanity Fair think I'm taking this lying down (which by the way is one of the many things they're accusing me of) they can think again. They need to remember who they're dealing with. Don't forget I'm the demure, virtuous paragon who didn't hesitate to call her own grandmother a 'cunt' on national television! I will do anything to prove my innocence and if that includes lying, cheating and dirty tricks, well, I like to think I have more experience in that arena than Vanity Fair.
|My brooding intellectual look|
It's been a while since Stacy the Wrestler got her marching orders and I'm fed up with everybody trying to pair me off with Sandra Bullock. No offence to Sandy, but I'm a man in my prime so I don't want to be saddled with a woman who's gonna be putting like a hundred candles on her next birthday cake! Give me a break. No, a young, handsome, sexy guy like me needs (another young, sexy, handsome guy? I'm KIDDING!!) somebody who will be happy to just stand there and look good while towering protectively over me on the red carpet, or help me on and off boats on lake Como, or just up and down all those stairs at home. My back is still giving me trouble so I need the human equivalent of a walking stick. Currently, I've got my eye on this lady in London. She's highly intelligent like me - even better she's a lawyer, who is doing some work for the very handsome Julian Assange, so she can probably even save me some money by drawing up her own contract! Hopefully, the conversation will be more stimulating than it was with my previous employees. I'll offer her the usual 2 year deal with the proviso that she can talk about Julian Assange all she wants. I just love Julian's hair and he has a very 'penetrating' gaze which gives me butterflies. I'd certainly like to penetrate him! And by that, I mean I'd like to delve beneath that haughty, icy demeanour and plumb the depths of the real Julian. A manly hug from a fellow intellectual refugee would probably make his day.
|To gel or not to gel?|