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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in shrimpjaw's LiveJournal:

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    Tuesday, July 1st, 2008
    8:16 pm
    Megan Fox mates with Giant Wasp, Shrimpjaw Unsurprised
    Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Sir Shrimpjaw of Upper Hartfordsheepwickoxfamshire, Vice-Admiral of Byzantium, Slayer of the fearful, Pleasurer of women far and wide, has an official decree.

    Though nearly godlike in his appearance and abilities, Shrimpjaw is not unaware of the daily plight of the indigenous residents of his newly conquered land.  Yes, it is true, many were slain in the initial shrimpjawaforming of the island.  Even more perished during the pitiful raid on our Compound my Mascella and his acolytes.  Plus, Shrimpjaw shot a bunch of you from his balcony for no reason.  That's just how he rolls.  In order to turn the tide in his relations with the inhabitants (except for sexual relationships, which are going somewhat well, at least from their perspective) we have decided, in our infite delicious wisdom, to lighten the mood around here a bit.  In keeping with that plan, from this day forth, unto the end of days, all residents of Nendo, previously known as Nendoans, shall henceforth be known as Nintendoans.  Yeah, Nintendo!  Awesome!  But don't think it stops there.  God, why are you always assuming things?  Fucking chillax or something!  Shrimpjaw has also taken it upon his supple, elegant shoulders to rewrite that moldy old Nintendoan theme song.  And by rewrite, Shrimpjaw totally does not mean that he just replaced it with the opening theme for Ninja Gaiden.  Now, fly those flags high!

    This just in: Megan Fox is insecure!  Possibly because her career mainly depends on recognition as "That Hot Brown Haired Chick from that Robot Movie" Fox is raising quite a stink about her conditions for the upcoming sequel, Transformers II: Moneybucketz.  Acording to Star Magazine, Meg has forbidden the director and producers from hiring any other sexy brunettes to star in the film.  Ole' Mox is reportedly fine with having other attractive blonde actresses, but draws the line at brunettes.  First off, Shrimpjaw's not going to pretend that we didn't bang out Megan Fox the second she became famous enough to warrant doing so (sometime around Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen.  What?  She was 18.), but isn't this a little much?  I mean, does Agent Mulder here understand how men even work?  If there was another auburn headed actress in the film it wouldn't crowd her spotlight at all?  Why?  Jesus!  Do I really have to connect the dots for you?  God, Shrimpjaw reader, when are you going to get your fucking act together?  It's because guys wouldn't even be able to tell them apart.  Look:

    Billy Prescott:  Hey, Bobby.  Which girl in Tranformerz 2 did you like the best?
    Bobby Prescott: I don't know, the brown haired one.
    Billy Prescott (hotty bo bottie): Which one?  There were two.
    Bobby Prescott (so polio scarred): Um, I guess the one with the boobz.
    Billy Prescott: Oh, yeah.  Michael J. Fox's daughter.  She's hott.
    Bobby Prescott: Boobz!

    That right there was a pretty good litmus test for the rest of men that would attend such a movie.  So really, Megatron is going to have to find some ways to differentiate herself from all other women in order to keep getting noticed.  Fortunately, Dr. Camaron Quijada just so happens to dabble in a little genetic alteration here and there.  Hell, we grafted goat antlers on nearly half the Nintendoan children.  This shit is really easy.  Shrimpjaw tried to convince Dr. Crevette Machoire to get a number of...alterations, but she steadfastily refused.  We docked her pay accordingly. Just think of the possibilities.  Megan Fox is again on the cover of Maxim, only this time she's got a rhinocerous horn sticking out of her chest, crab legs, and the head of a giant killer bee.  It's really a powerful career move.  Think of the things J.J. Abrams or M. Night Shyamalan could do with an actor like that.  I smell a Golden Globe. 

    In news that has nothing to do with titties (we know, what's the point, right Egotastic?), the first trailer for the latest James Bond movie has hit the internet.  The film, titled the Quantum of Solace, features....wait, wait, wait.  Fucking hold up.  The What of What?  The motherfucking Quantum of Solace?  What does that even mean?  God, for a minute there after hearing that title, we felt a stab of confusion and thought that said confusion is what life must be like for our readers on a daily basis.  It must be difficult to go through life unable to process even the littlest things.  Ha, no, you stupid fucks.  We're just screwing with you.  Us, be like you?  Like you?  You must be even more stupid than Machoire's multiple anesthesia-free tests on Shrimpjaw readers would have led us to believe.   We could never be like you.  For one thing, we've seen a vagina before.  A REAL vagina too, not just the kind of vagina that you guys go around making by you and your fellow halfwits taking their hands, spreading their fingers, interlocking them with each other and then opening your palms to take a peek (God, you'll never get laid).  The closest that we'll ever get to you is the impression of you that we've recently been showing off at our Nintendoan socials.  Listen; "OMG, where're all the cookies?  I'm soooo hungry cuz my house is all out of ice cream!  I'll never have sex!  Cuz I'm sooooo Goreckified!  LOL!  I'm freakish.  OMG, did you head that McKittrick is going to be directing an episode of Hoffman and Huffman?  For realz, it's gonna come on right after My Name Is Earl!"  Like looking into a mirror, we bet. 

    Regardless, The Quantum of Solace?  Really?  Fucking whatever.  So, great, like we already said, the trailer for The Physics of Comforting recently hit the internet.  Shrimpjaw viewed it and let us tell you; whooptie-fucking-doo.  What's the big deal about this whole James Bond overhaul anyway?  "Oh really?  Bond would be slightly less ridiculous if he DIDN'T have a car that turned invisible and shot love-rockets from its engine?"  Christ, it took them forty years to figure it out, and they STILL botched it.  But then again, what can you expect when your film is about an English secret agent (Codename: Foppish Crag-Faced Dufflemaker) and has a title like The Vector of Consolation.  Oh, and also, isn't the Bourne trilogy essentially exactly what the filmmakers were going for when they rebooted Bond?  Oh, it was?  It was and it hit FOUR YEARS before Casino Royale?  Oh, okay, cool.  No, no, great original idea Casino Royale.  Super.   It's not like either of these really matter though, I mean, the first time we saw the Bourne movies we thought they were just a documentary about our life.  However, when three minutes went by and no one onscreen had yet to decimate the uterus of any of the many women that had been in the film by that point, we knew it had to be merely a work of fiction and not the Shrimpjaw biopic that we've been waiting to see grace the silver screen for years now.
    Monday, June 30th, 2008
    8:53 pm
    Heidi and the Honey Bears
    Ah, Nendoans, such simple little creatures.  So primitive, so fragile.  One of our most Earthly joys is to awake each morning, roll off whatever starlet from "Gossip Girl" we've spent the night rimslamming, go to our balcony loaded with diamond-powered lasers ("Congo" got one thing right), and simply cut down whatever lowly Nendoan happens to be in close proximity.  Don't pity them.  What can one expect when their body is able to be cut in half by a laser?  The mighty Lord Shrimpjaw doesn't even have to worry about that problem.  Once, we were in the east wing while Kaak was refining a newly built laser.  As we were walking down the hallway, a young, nubile shrimpworker caught our eye.  We, of course, immediately started to drill her there on the floor of the hall (while staring at our own reflection in the marble floor that Oscar had buffed to our standards), and the massive force of her multiple and quaking orgasms (you know, orgasms, those things that you've never seen, caused or had and have only read about in the smudge-stained pages of the Vogue you keep under your bed next to the Victoria's Secret catalogue) actually shook the entirety of the east wing, causing Kaak to drop the laser.  When the laser hit the floor it went off, sending a beam directly at us and young whateverthefuckhernamewaswhowasgettingballedbyustruly.  The laser of course instantly vaporized our sexual hor'dourve, but we proceeded to simply swallow the laser beam, thus ending the problem.  Nendoans though, they can't even dodge a laser beam, let alone swallow it.  Oh, also, it must be mentioned that we immediately hammered Saartje in the butt to show Kaak that butterfingers in the lab will not be tolerated.

    Nendoans, they have a lot to learn.  While the men are good workers (they certainly have had no trouble as of yet constructing our temple), the women can barely handle being plowed in a mile-long daisy chain.  That's not enough to stop them from coming back time after time, mind you, but they simply do not have the stamina or creativity to rise even close to the top of island women populations that we have sacked.  Those lady scientists of Christmas Island, well, they may have small vaginas but at least they have imagination.

    Speaking of constructing buildings, everyone continues to be all over The Fresh Prince of Hancock's ass for his $1,000,000 investment into the building of a private grade school which everyone says is just a front for Scientology to abduct kids and throw them into volcanoes.   The school, dubbed the New Village Academy, will feature classes on topics such as Yoga, Etiquette, How To Correctly View The Legend of Bagger Vance (answer - close eyes, sleep), and Robotics while using instructional methods developed by Scientology founder L. BugfuckInsane Hubbard.  

    Frankly, we don't see what the big deal is.  So what if Hitch wants to open a school for crazy children?  Who cares?  Shrimpjaw opened Shrimpjaw High School For Young Women With Overlarge Milkjugs in 1935 and single handedly pulled the United States out of the Depression (New Deal, our ass)  You see the good a school can do?  Bad question, we know, as the last time you went to a school was the day they cancelled the free-lunch program at Grubby-Faced Illiterate Mouth-Breather Elementary, but use your imagination.  What?  You just ate a pine cone?  Christ.  What the fuck are you even talking about?  Shut-up.  Captain James West's school though will probably fail once the enrolled students realize that they don't get to fight giant mechanical spiders or punch aliens in the face while screaming out snappy catchphrases. 

    Switching gears from boring old men to boring young women, Heidi Montag has recently announced her intention to record a Christian music album.   We have to admit, when this news first crossed our desk, we saw a picture of Montag, had an inkling of something, went out into the hallway, kicked over Oscar's mopbucket on the way past, and then immediately took a quick jaunt down to the Shrimpjaw Museum of Sexual Conquests.  Once there, we had a quick look around, and yes, there was the plaque and the oil portrait of us in between her legs; "Heidi Montag - Booned Forty-Thrice Times 'Twixt March 2004 and Yesterday".  She smelled of sage, believe it or not.  Well, sage and conquest.  Regardless, Montag went on to say that she reads the Bible and has "been the most religious person since I was 2 years old. I always felt this crazy connection to God."  She also commented on her upcoming trip to Africa saying that her goal once there was to "feed children and help build things".  We'd like to point out at this point in time that Miss Montag is just completely fucking ludicrous.  How religious exactly can a two year old be?  How many lambs can you kill for God in between eating crackers out of your Rainbow Bright lunchbox?  And how interesting is Jehovah to a two year old compared to all the exciting things that are up their own nose?  Also, could Montagulous be any more vague about her trip to Africa?  Feed children?  Ten bucks says when Montag deplanes at Libreville International Airport and is rushed by poor, hungry orphans looking for food and money she just hurls bags of Royal Air Maroc brand airline peanuts at them, screams, and rushes back onto the airplane.  And really, "help build things"?  What fucking things? A monument to boringness?  Perhaps she's going to help build a new orphanage to make it easier for Madonna to steal African children.  But, shit, they don't want it, Heidi.  How about you help them build an economy?  No, no good?  Sorry, I guess she's no Bono, after all.

    And finally, Birthdays! Is there anyone who doesn't love birthdays?  Having thousands of adoring fans shower you with gold and jewels, graciously accepting the sexual advances of the entire Sports Illustrated 2008 Swimsuit Issue models (AKA banging them all out on top of the cake while members of the Shrimpjaw Compound Waste Management Team battle to the death for our amusement).  Oh, sorry.  Shrimpjaw was describing his last birthday.  Actually, when we think about it, that's pretty much a typical day in the life of the most handsome/powerful man in the world.  Come to think of it, we were wearing a birthday hat.  So I guess it's a little different.  At any rate it's certainly lightyears removed from the typical birthday "celebration" of the average Shrimpjaw reader.  We put the term celebration in quotes because Shrimpjaw is unsure that the usage extends to describe a grown man or woman singing an extremely sob filled version of happy birthday to themself infront of a half eaten and becandled twinkie.  Eventually your tears will extinguish the candle and you'll escape to your lonely, lonely bed to contemplate your rapidly deteriorating looks and how you're another year closer to your ultimately pointless death.  God, what a killjoy.

    Why can't you be more like pseudo-celebrity Adrien Grenier?  He loves birthdays so much that he's generously extended an offer to clubs in the Hamptons to pay him $50,000 for the honor of hosting his 32nd birthday party.  Now there's a true humanitarian.  Lord Montague could really learn from this selfless display of generosity.  And what a no brainer for the night club owners.  Hopefully someones snatches this deal up quick, otherwise we might have a bidding war that escalates into a full blown armed conflict.  Just imagine the kind of crowds someone of Adrian Grenier's status could bring in.  Shrimpjaw can hear them now.  "Hey, isn't that the guy who plays a celebrity on tv?  A celebrity who is in fact much more famous than the actor portraying him will ever be?"  "Wow, is that Lenny Kravitz?  He sure looks a lot whiter in person."  "Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I doing in a bar willing to pay Adrian Grenier $50,000 to be here?  I'm going to go home and put a gun in my mouth."  Shrimpjaw can only hope that Grenier expands this trend to cover all personal appearances.  What's that, Granny and Grampa Grenier?  You want little Adrian to come celebrate your 75th wedding anniversary?  Better fork over 50 gs, then.  Oh, you want his band the Honey Bears to play at your reception?  That's going to run you another $30,000 (Shrimpjaw only wishes he was making this last part up).  Don't worry, Granny.  If you're having trouble coming up with the eighty large, Shrimpjaw has a few ideas for ways that you can earn a little extra cash.  Nothing too trying, just a few...chores around the compound.  Hit us on the cell.
    Friday, June 27th, 2008
    9:45 pm
    The Great Work Continues
    Glory to Shrimpjaw! The world wide web is simply too small a place to contain the brilliance of Shrimpjaw in one place for too long. Don't worry, loyal shrimpfans (your puffy, tear soaked faces disgust us even more than you usually do). We packed Kaak, Mascella, Quijada, Machoire, Oscar, and his wildly impoverished family into an industrial sized shipping crate and moved them all here to Shrimpjaw's new digs. Like certain American corporations seeking tax breaks (OOOOOHH! FUCKING BURN ON YOU HALLIBURTON!!!!) . The Shrimpjaw compound has decided to move its operations overseas. Specifically, we've relocated to the island of Nendo, which astute shrimpfans (the world's largest oxymoron) will recall Shrimpjaw purchased back in '98. Not satisfied to relocate to a faceless office building in the center of scenic downtown Lata, we instead chose to have the whole compound transported here piece by piece. True, we could have just swam across the ocean with the compound resting on our spry and amazingly defined shoulders, but there was some controversy with the Navy first needing to classify us as a Ford-class supercarrier. Besides, salt water is torture on our majestic Shrimplocks.

    You might be wondering how Shrimpjaw has chosen to deal with the native inhabitants of Nendo. You also might be wondering what that hideous, gargoyled visage is staring at from that magic seeing wall in your tiny efficiency apartment bathroom. First off, that's a mirror, the thing you wish you could look in every morning and see Shrimpjaw's beautiful face staring back at you. Secondly, that monstrosity, I'm afraid, is you. We chose to take a play out of the book of renowned President and NDN-killer Andrew Jackson in our dealings with our 5,000+ Nendian brothers. However, instead of a systematic destruction of their culture through disease, seizure of land, and assimilation, we instead simply dropped the entire Compound onto the island from a height of 1.7 miles, effectively laying waste to anything not Shrimpjaw. Our new address is as follows:

    Shrimpjaw the Magnificent
    1 Jawe-de-Shrimpe Drive
    Thewholemotherfuckingisland, Nendo 89045

    Now, I know what you're thinking, "Nendo's 195 square miles of land area isn't nearly enough to contain the entire Shrimpjaw Compound! What will become of the turtle altar?" No need to fear, shrimpfans. Kaak and Quijada teamed up to invent a series of spacious underground chambers stretching some 2.5 miles below the island into the depths of the Pacific Ocean. Not only does this mean that there will be plenty of room for the brand new Museum of Shrimpjaw's Sexual Conquests; documenting every one of the billions of sexual encounters Shrimpjaw has had with actresses, athletes, supermodels, robots, animals, and various inanimate objects, but it also means that Shrimpjaw will be able to get that sweet, sweet sharklove whenever he wants.

    Finally, for those of you who might be new to the Shrimpnomenon, what the fuck took you so long? Shrimpjaw has been pumping out insightful, highly informative celebrity news gold for years now (give or take a couple months and a few tiny sabbaticals). We're not going to take the time needed to catch you up on every little nuance of the Shrimpjaw world. Shrimpjaw is far too busy boning supermodels and snorting lines of diamond dust with Kat...Amy Winehouse (Man, that's going to take some getting used to) for that. The basic gist is this: We'll inform you of our greatness at length, mock every aspect of your collective being, talk about how well endowed we are, share a story of what's going on around the Shrimpjaw Compound, insult you again, and if there's time we just might comment on some celebrity news. Got it? Of course you don't.

    That's all for now, shrimpfans. We'll be back to not making any new posts in no time.
    2:19 pm
    Givin Us Thut Divorz
    So, Madonna and Lock Stock are most likely getting a divorce.  Did you hear about that?  

    Trick question, filth.  

    Of course you haven't heard about it.  You haven't heard about it because 1) we haven't told you about it yet and 2) because your deformed mongoloid ears are incapable of detecting sounds.  Why do we even bother sharing information with you anyway?  It's not like there's any room for it in your glazed-ham-soaked brain.  Where would new information even fit?  There's no space left in your head, what with you trying desperately to remember the names and numbers of all the Nascar drivers and what size spoon you use to eat straight gravy (answer: We know you just scoop it up with your fat, stubby fingers.  We should put all of you in camps).  ANYWAY, it seems that Guy Ritchie is no longer capable of dealing with Madonna's shit.  We can see it now; "Oi, Guy!  Oi!  Given moi summ chupz!"   EVERY DAY.  EVERY SINGLE DAY.  We'd like to say we understand where Ritchie is coming from, but not only are we totally incapable of understanding what it would be like to be a mere mortal but we al...

    Sorry (note - we're not really sorry), but we just caught a glimpse of our heroic and chiseled features in the Nendoan God-Mirror that sits directly in front of one of our NASA-built computer hubs here at the Shrimpjaw compound and couldn't refuse gazing upon our tremendously attractive visage.  Man, we're beautiful.  Our shrimpectorals are looking, dare we say, even more diamond-shattering than usual. 

    Back to Guy Ritchie.  So, not only are we totally incapable of understanding what it would be like to be a mere mortal but we also cannot muster any sympathy or compassion for a "man" (the English aren't real men, just look at Daniel Craig) that was with Madonna for over TEN YEARS.  Ten years...do you know how many women Shrimpjaw has plowed in that time?  Wait, first, do you understand the concept of time?  No, of course you don't.  Time is the system of those sequential relations that any event has to any other, as past, present, or future; indefinite and continuous duration regarded as that in which events succeed one another. We know that those words to you may as well have been written in Farsi (Farsi.  F-A-R...nevermind), so we'll go another tactic.  Time is the thing that separates you from watching the next rerun of 'Home Improvement' on TBS that comes on at 7:30.  Back to something worthwhile now; Shrimpjaw.  Let's just say that in ten years time Shrimpjaw has banged so much poon that we even got around to your mom.  She tired quickly and yet she managed to go right back to popping all those Pizzapills into her gob.  And yes, after looking at her, we can assure you that Pizzapills still do their job.  The only thing Guy Ritchie has plowed in the past ten years have been books on Kabbalah and his own tears.  If you ask the mighty Shrimpjaw, it's a fitting end for one that marries Madonna.

    And today in Boning-Makes-Babies news, it was revealed that thirteen years ago Lindsay Lohan's dad humped some lady, got her all fat-bellied, and had a girlkid that no one (excluding Lohan's dad, the lady he booned, the 13 year old love child, and R. Kelly) was aware even existed.  Great.  Is this really what the world needs?  Another Lohan girl running around, going fucking bananas and waking up with a face full of jcocaine?  Oh man, we bet Ali Lohan (Lindsay's OTHER younger sister) is going to be pissed.  The competition between the two young-un Lohans is going to be brutal and full of blood.  We can see it now, Ali tries to play it all sweet and innocent and just lures in NewLohanGirl, then completely loses her shit.  Oh hell, wait a minute.  Thirteen years old?  Thirteen?  You know who was ten in 2005, making her three years older now in the year 2008?  That's right, Hannah fucking Gorecki.  Lohan's new half sister is Gorecki, Christ, they don't even know what they are in for.  Oh man, just watch, Ali is going to invite her over for a slumber party never having met her and it's all going to descend right to hell.

    Ali: Lo-Lee-Liho-Linds, I invited our new sister over for a big slumber party!
    Lindsay: Are you sure it's not going to be weird?
    Ali: No, I invited a ton of people over, it'll be fine.  Roy McGillicuddy is coming.
    Lindsay: He's so funny.
    Ali: Billy Prescott is coming.
    Lindsay: He's so hawt.
    Ali: I knowz!
    (Doorbell rings)
    Ali: That must be her!  Our new sis!
    (Ali opens door, Gorecki's shotgun-blast-to-the-face appearance stuns all.  Chaos ensues)
    Lindsay: Oh God...OH GOD, WHAT IS IT?  WHAT IS IT???  RUN!  RUUUNNNN!
    Gorecki: GGGraaahhhraaaasssshhh!
    Ali: It's got me!  Oh God, it's got me!  IT WON'T LET GO!
    Lindsay: Look at it's teeth!  My God, get the guns!  We have to get the guns!
    Ali: IT BIT ME!  I CAN'T FEEL MY LEGS!  OOOOHHH GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!!
    Lindsay: What is that...?  What is it...is it laying eggs?
    Ali: Lindsay...Lindsay...I think...I'm not going to make it....
    Lindsay: Why did you let it in, Ali?  WHY   DID   YOU   LET   IT   IN   ???
    (Scene continues in an orgy of screaming and torn flesh)

    Now, what Shrimpjaw has to say next doesn't come very easy (unlike your aforementioned mothers).  Although the Jaw de Shrimp is incapable of feeling fear, there have been some recent world events that he finds troubling.  What's that you say, dear reader, as you spew Dorito crumbs all over your flabby wreck of a body?  You think Shrimpjaw is worried about the recent flooding in the midwestern US?  Jesus, would it kill you to ever make a prediction that's even remotely right?  Why would we worry about something like that?  As far as Shrimpjaw is concerned, the midwest is just that bland speck of vaguely brown land that sometimes catches our eye as we look down from the luxurious cabin of the Shrimpjet.  And even then we only see it when we tire of plowing all the nubile young stewardesses.  You may imagine that this does not happen often.  Well, you might, if you were ever right about anything.  But I digress, the intention of this statement was not to insult the many boring and painfully white inhabitants of the midwest, it was just an added bonus.

    What's really been on Shrimpjaw's staggeringly advanced mind lately is the lack of deliciously scandalous news on our number one favorite human being in the world (aside from ourself) Katherine "Coco Kate" Moss.  It seems like it was only yesterday that the scandal rags were chock of pictures of Kate shoving all kinds of things up her delicate nostrils.  Ever since she popped out that kid and dropped professional drug addict boyfriend Pete "I Sold My Nickname for Drugs" Doherty the news about Kate has been more boring than the dinner conversation at the Paltrow-Martin house.  Speaking of Lila Moss, she must have a fucking amazing doctor, because how that baby was born with fully functioning organs is beyond even our ability to comprehend.  Anyway, what kind of news do they have about Kate now?  Oh, she's been dating The Kills guitarist Jamie "Hotel" Hince (For the record, Shrimpjaw did not make that last nickname up, that was all the Hinceman).  Yeah he's a revoltingly ugly, shitty British musician, which is nice, but where's all the drugs?  I bet he's never even shot a bunch of heroin into his arm while in the middle of an interview.  What a pussy.

    Hey, remember that time Kate Moss did a bunch of cocaine, and then was caught on video camera doing said cocaine, and then she got off scot free because she's rich and famous and everyone just let that shit slide?  God, those were the days.  Come on Kate, baby.  What happened?  Was it something we did?  Is the gold plated picture of you hanging in our palacial compound not good enough?  Just say the word and we'll have it encrusted with diamonds.  Is the Kate Moss Memorial Shrimpnasium too small?  We'll add 20,000 seats.  No, 30,000!  Just jump back on that coke filled wagon, once, for us?  For old times sake?  If you don't, we'll have no choice but to start shopping around for another drug addled trainwreck to idolize.  Amy Winehouse looks pretty ripe for the picking.  Christ, she's going to need new robolungs in a matter of months because of all the crack she smokes.  Now that's a role model.  It'll be tough adjusting, but we can't keep holding a candle for you forever, Kate.  We've simply got too many women we need to introduce to our jackhammer-like sexual prowess.  I hope someday you'll understand.  And hey, maybe Lila will pick up where you left off, just as soon as she's old enough to start snorting coke herself.  So, what?  Summer 2010?

    You want more news?  No, no, we weren't actually looking for you to answer.  God, just stop.  Fine, more news.  You're going to die alone, Shrimpfan.  There's some news for you.  Well, it's not news to us, we've known you're going to die alone for a long time now, but maybe its news to you. 
    Saturday, February 17th, 2007
    7:43 pm
    Women of Earth Go Apeshit-Insane

    If there's one thing the universe has taught the mighty Shrimpjaw it is that things go in cycles; the seasons continue to change, clothing styles go out and come back in, Shrimpjaw readers go from stupid and ugly to idiotic and putrid and back again, and women seem to have all their marbles and then BOOM; they've lost it.

    Seriously, what's the fucking deal out there?  This shit is starting to get as ridiculous as Madonna's acting attempts.  Come on, Shrimpjaw spends a week in space on the Shrimpshuttle on vacation and suddenly all Hollywood women get their vaginas in a twist?  I mean, we thought it would be okay if we spent a little time relaxing and boning moonslutz and getting as far away from all the autograph-seekers and women-who-want-us-to-heal-their-deformed-children-with-our-shrimptouch-ers as we could. However, it's obvious as to what has happened here; the world would is losing its shit as a result of our being not in physical contact with it.  That's right, it seems that even Mother Earth gets a little antsy when the well-defined cut abs and golden-plated penis of Shrimpjaw aren't around.

    What the fuck has gotten us so agitated, you ask?  Fuck, shut your cavernous fast-food-filled mouth, we'll tell you if you give us a second.
    What we're referring to is returning back to Earth and seeing this...

                        

    That's right.  The Queen of the Damned herself, the ex-Mrs. Federline, has done gone and shaved her noggin' (see, her Louisiana backwoods speech patterns are fucking ridiculous).  We're not going to bullshit you here (that would be too much for your simple and slow brain to handle); Britney Spears is losing her fucking mind.  It's not even a question, it's a fact.  A fact as certain as "Shrimpjaw booned roughly 8,000+ women last night", or "Shrimpjaw is, on paper, officially the Sultan of Brunei" or "That one time Shrimpjaw did not win the Mr. Olympia contest was not because we were bested (You thought that for a second, didn't you, you assfaced herpes-passing machine.  You fuck.) but because of a numerical adding order in the Judge-O-Bot 1000".  For those of you who are not aware, all of the worlds Judge-O-Bot 1000's were then smashed by Shrimpjaw's Herculean fists after the contest.  If a machine can't decipher a simple equation such as 'Shrimpjaw>Everything', then what kind of product is it?

                                                     

    Oh Anna, Anna, Anna.  Why do you do it to us?  Profaning the dead is not something Shrimpjaw does lightly.  Unless a certain girl, let's call her H. Gorecki, were to get hit by a cement truck whilst on her way to her weekly "Coping with Preteen Ugliness" meeting.  Then we might do a little more than profane the dead.  We won't give any details, but it involves banging Hanna...er...H's hideous Irish washerwoman mother on top of her daughter's pauper grave.  Now that's what we call a wake!  But Anna, honestly, what part of your life wasn't a joke?  The stripping, marrying Skeletor's grandfather for "true love", getting ridiculously Orca huge, your "hit" reality show, dropping about half your weight at the expense of half of your brain.  Oh, and hey, what about that time you died in the Bahamas?  Yeah, that was pretty stupid, too.

    However, none of that could ever top this.  This video is so fucking beyond the scope of anything that should happen on the planet earth that Shrimpjaw is actually having a hard time of coming up with anything bad to say about it.  It's like trying to describe the beauty of being mounted by Shrimpjaw to one of our readers.  It's very possible that the words exist, but they could conceivably melt your whole head were we to utter them into your malformed, wax-filled ears.  We fed a copy of the video into the Shrimptron 2800 Deluxe Supercomputer and Sandwich Dispenser GT, but it just began flashing a red warning light and started shooting out ream after ream of paper covered with what Kaak tells us are Maya heiroglyphs.  He hasn't finished his translation yet, but he says there's some disturbing shit in there about an aberration in the Tzolk'in after the thirteenth b'ak'tun.  We'll have to make sure he keeps an eye on that.
    Wednesday, January 31st, 2007
    8:13 pm
    Google's #1 Shrimpjaw

    Pop quiz, Shrimpfans.  What's better than receiving the best celebrity news from the most virile, intelligent, sexually potent homo shrimpjawicus on the planet?

    Answer:  Nothing.  God, you guys are fucking idiots.  That had to be the simplest question in the history of time, and you still managed to botch it.  Sometimes Shrimpjaw doesn't even know why he bothers getting out of his huge, italian marble bed, inlaid with gold and emeralds.  Then he remembers that whatever beautiful woman he banged last night is going to wake up soon, and she's going to want to cuddle and talk about her feelings.  And when we explain to her (in the fewest words possible) that no woman alive can tame the wild Shrimpbeast, she's going to go batso-fucking-bonkers all over us and we're going to have to call in Dr. Machoire to haul her off to the "Woman Who Have Gone Crazy with Love for Shrimpjaw" wing of the compound's psych ward.  By that time our mood is so ruined that we can barely eat our American Eagle egg omelette.  That pretty much seals the deal right there.


    And now for some blobtastic baby news.  What the fuck is up with all this controversy surrounding the recent celebrity use of the term "blob" to describe their offspring?

    Wait, back up a shrimp second. 

    First off, what the fuck is up with all of these celebrities using the word "blob" to describe their offspring?  Don't tell me that this is the new celebri-fad, or something.  It's like all of the celebri-moms got together and decided it would be the cutest thing if they all started referring to their kids as "blobs".  Shrimpjaw can see it now.  Manjaw, Kate Hudson, Gwen Stefani, Courtney Cox, Jada Pinkett, Angelina Jolie, Denise Richards, and Britney Spears all crowded around a table at the Olive Garden on Westwood Boulevard in LA, sharing a basket of bread sticks and discussing how absolutely CUTE it would be if they all started calling their kids "blob", while Jennifer Aniston watches from the  parking lot and sheds a tear for her withered and useless ovaries.  The only two absentees are Katie Holmes, the real Katie Holmes, who is strapped to a table beneath Clearwater, Florida while a giant alien squid beast cleanses her of thetans; and Kate Moss, who was too busy teaching Lila Grace the proper way to roll a 100 pound note to get the best suction.

    This is just another example of the myriad of inexplicably crazy things that famous people do for no apparent reason.  These behaviors run the gamut from eccentric clothing:  "Gee, I think it's a great idea for me to go to [PRESTIGIOUS AWARDS CEREMONY] wearing a pink see-through garbage bag with glitter on it." to Sharon Stone...yep, pretty much anything she's ever done.  We had Kaak do some research on the phenomena, and as far as he can determine, the unique mixture of camera equipment, public adoration, and barrels full of dollaz combine to form a volatile chemical agent which is absorbed through the skin.  Electroencephalograph recordings of celebrities performing perception oriented tasks showed an absence of gamma band activity in the brain, indicating weak integration of critical neural networks in the brain.  The process can be explained through mathematical notation as such:



    Though that's really for our benefit, as we know that the average Shrimpfan's level of academic acuity is somewhere in the "watching Sesame Street in slow motion" range.  This leads to another question:  Is it possible to have an average fan base that consists of entirely below average people?  We better get Quijada to start working on that one.

    So, famous people do some crazy shit, but do people really need to get up in arms about this baby blob business?  The last time Shrimpjaw checked, babies could not decipher any form of written or spoken language.  A baby is not going to get offended if you call it "blob", or "bubble", or "useless sack of organs".  You can call a baby "Rumixlcotzl" and all it will do is drool a little and go back to its main task of finding things it can put in it's mouth.  We should know, because we call babies things all the time.  In fact, last night after we were through giving Oscar Portero's wife Criada a romp in the garden of shrimply delights, one of their many infant children crawled into the room.  We called it a disgusting parasite, and it just continued to play happily on the dirt floor of their hovel.  The moral of the story is simple: Shrimpjaw is plowing his janitor's wife.

    In further news, the New York Daily News has recently reported that sex scenes from the upcoming movie Factory Girl featuring Sienna Miller and Darth Life as a House look so damn real because, well, they are real.   Director George Hickenlooper has been playing it coy, commenting, "Sienna and Hayden grew close during the filming. It was an emotional experience for all of us...I can't comment, you'll have to ask Sienna about it."

    Okay, a couple of things here.

    First of all, what's up with you, Hickenlooper?  You trying to get all McKittrick on us?  Let's not play games here.  You know what went down.  Don't act like you don't know what was happening.  If terrible, pasty, gangly, skinny sex is going on right in front of you, you would know.  If you are pointing a camera directly at the chunnel that Jude Law has conquered, I'll be damned if you don't notice something like Hayden Christensen's Anakock sliding in and out of both the camera-frame and her vagina.  It's just not something you'd miss...unless Hayden's dizzick is too small to detect!  OOOOOO!  BURN!   SNAP!   FUCKING BURNCITY, POPULATION: HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN!   Yes, it simply blows our minds and rock-hard pecs how classy we are.  We're a regular Roy McGillicuddy over here.

    Second, this story is so obviously a ploy to try to get 13 year old boys to come see a film they would never see unless they accidently wandered in thinking it was the theater where Transformers was screening (that's next door, you fucking idiot.  I swear to God, 13 year old boys have the mental capacity of the average Shrimpjaw reader).   I can see it now...

    Billy P: "Oh my God Bobby, did you hear that Sienna Miller and Anakin Skywalker actually, you know, mash their dong and taco together in this new movie?"
    Bobby  (and rest of world): "Who's Sienna Miller?"

    This fucking story...Christ, it's like all those video game myths that were flying around when everyone was eight years old; "Hey, if you enter this code, you can see up Princess Toadstool's skirt when she jumps", "Did you know there are Nudalities in MK2!  I swear, man, I saw Kitana's boobz!"

    Third, we totally banged out Sienna Miller and she wasn't even that good.  We'd choose the nanny too.  Well, actually we did choose the nanny too, it just happens we chose her at the same time we were teaching Sienna a whole new meaning to the phrase "Boned by El Shrimpjaw".  We won't even mention if the Brazilian National Swimsuit Team was there or not (SHRIMPNOTE - THEY WERE).

    Also, this is just a friendly reminder; Brandy is a murderer.  That is all.

    Wednesday, August 2nd, 2006
    4:57 pm
    No Juwes.

    Hearts,
    Mel
    Tuesday, June 13th, 2006
    2:58 pm
    I swear to god, Shrimpfans, Shrimpjaw is still alive here in the belly of the beast.

    We realize we've been out of the game for a while now, but we've been in Namibia for months now. We came here to get the scoop on the Pitt/Jolie birth of Christ Mach II, but since then we've been stuck in this fucking pit of a country. Progressive, my ass. We've been forced to learn Oshiwambo...OSHIWAMBO for fuck's sake. It's not like it was hard, well, certainly nowhere near as hard as having to look at a snapshot of the average Shrimpjaw reader's obese, mealworm-like body, but it certainly took time away from pleasuring the locals.

    They don't even have any computers here, hence the lack of communication. We've been forced to sit outside of tiger dens, waiting for the striped beasts to make a bowel movement. When they do, we silently creep to it, marvel at its resemblence to a certain lady with a name similar to Blannah Bormecki, and then proceed to dig through the tyger-feces and find laptop parts that have been consumed by the maneater while he has ferociously swallowed men whole. After months of repeating this process (and classily making nocturnal love to millions of southwest African tigers) we have acquired the parts needed to build our own laptop (complete with internet access) from scratch.

    Now all we need is to find a stray elephant and ride that sucker to a civilized country.

    By the way, are we saying regular updates will resume soon? Oh, God, no, you simpleton.
    Wednesday, April 19th, 2006
    12:40 am
    Shrimpjaw Has Seen Death, and It's Name is Suri
    We're through the looking glass here, Shrimpfans.

    The Shrimpjaw compound is on a complete and total lockdown.  Shrimperton detectives have been posted at all key strategic locations with orders to shoot hostiles on sight.  The Shrimptron 2800 Deluxe Supercomputer and Sandwich Dispenser GT has been functioning at 136% capacity for the last twenty hours, running every possible contingency scenario.  Kaak and the other scientists have barricaded themselves in the Theoretical Physics Wing, something  about how the quantum harmonic oscillator won't elevate the bosons above zero-point energy until the atmosphere in the hyperbaric chamber reaches 600 kilopascals.  Shrimpjaw has been making himself useful by continually boning the large influx of bikini-clad, Swedish supermodel refugees.  We're not absolutely sure how this is helping the situation, but we do know that we are exceedingly good at it.

    By now even the slowest of Shrimpjaw readers, some of whom achieved SAT scores so low that they didn't even technically include numbers, have figured out what disastrous fate has befallen mankind.  The rapture is upon us.  The dragon has risen from the sea with the seven headed beast, the wolf, Sköll, has swallowed the sun.  Suri Cruise, child of none, has been spat forth like an abomination onto this world.  Nothing shall escape the clutches of the creature's muculent tentacles.  In it's wake shall be left a trail of horror and chaos, unequaled in the annals of history.

    In other words, we are seriously fucked.

    But before we go on describing the Day of Reckoning, let's talk about something far more important.  Namely, Shrimpjaw.  As many of you have noticed, Shrimpjaw has not crafted a masterful piece of literary gold in quite some time.  Many of you have written desperate and semi-literate appeals for Shrimpjaw to come back and once again add some form of meaning into your otherwise pointless lives.  Shrimpjaw thanks you a great deal for these messages, as they provided countless hours of side splitting entertainment.  We would have deleted them long ago if not for the fact that every time we look at them a smooth, sensuous baritone laugh erupts from our well-muscled throat, passes our pristine teeth, and continue through the air as shock waves powerful enough to shatter the lens on Quijada's monocle.  Still, Shrimpjaw believes that you fans deserve a reason for the large span of time between entries.  Unfortunately, we are far too busy counting our piles and piles of $hrimpdollaz to possibly be bothered with such a mediocre task.  Therefore, we turned to our former college rickshaw driver, Graham Yost, to provide you with a brief outline of what Shrimpjaw has been up to for the past month.


    "Shrimpjaw is a hot-shot bomb squad officer who is willing to do unconventional things to resolve hostage situations, like shooting the hostage (in this case, his partner, Gambero Mascella. A disgruntled individual, Madonna, likes to challenge Shrimpjaw and his unconventional techniques. After Shrimpjaw foils an attempt by the Material Girl to extort money by holding an elevator hostage (through remote control), Madonna ups the ante by declaring that a bus in the city has been rigged with explosives triggered by the bus speed. When the bus exceeds 50 mph (80 km/h) the explosive is armed, with the charge being triggered to explode if its speed drops below 50 mph thereafter. Additionally, no one is allowed on or off the bus.

    Shrimpjaw races to intercept the bus, but he is too late to stop the bus from exceeding the 50 miles per hour; the bomb is now armed and cannot be stopped. Now required to keep the bus moving at the minimum speed, Shrimpjaw boards the bus. However, a young hoodlum, mistakenly believing that the police office was doing all this to arrest him, produces a handgun and demands the bus be stopped. While Shrimpjaw tries to explain the situation and calm the man down, another rider tackles the hoodlum, which causes the handgun to accidentally go off and hit the bus driver. Shrimpjaw convinces Madonna to allow the injured bus driver off the bus. However, after the bus driver is safely off, a woman pushes her way through and attempts to get off. Madonna, who is watching the situation on live TV, pushes a button, detonating a minor charge below the floor of the bus near the door, killing the woman who then passes under the rear wheels of the bus.

    With the bus driver gone, a young woman, Kate Moss, is forced to take over the controls and struggle to keep the bus moving at an acceptable speed. Even though she lost her license for snorting eighty kilograms of cocaine, she must, speed through the congested city to keep the bus moving. Meanwhile, the Shrimpertons are alerted to the crisis and provide escort, clear traffic, plan the best route for the bus, and search for the bomber. It turns out that the singer was a former Kabbalah squad officer, and has multiple ways of keeping track of the occupants. The attempt to find her out is foiled; Madonna has moved out, and the house that the Shrimpertons raid blows up.

    Kate manages to drive the rigged bus into Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) where authorities are waiting to help evacuate the hostages. After many mishaps and near misses, Shrimpjaw figures out how the bomber is monitoring the activity in the bus and uses that knowledge to fool him while the occupants are safely evacuated. Shrimpjaw and Moss safely escape, and then watch as the bus crashes into a cargo plane and explodes. The Shrimpertons then arrange a sting operation to catch the suspect, only to be challenged again by Madonna in a last ditch attempt at getting her failed career back. Madonna pretends to be a British citizen and lures Kate as a hostage onto a Metro Red Line subway train. Vice-Admiral Shrimpjaw finds the train. In a dramatic sequence, the two rivals fight on the top of the subway, which ends when Madonna gets decapitated by Shrimpjaw's bulging bicep. However, the train can't stop now since Madonna killed the operator and destroyed the controls. In the end, Kate and Shrimpjaw crash at what is now the Hollywood/Highland Red Line station.  The train derails and is sent up an equipment access ramp outside Grauman's Chinese Theater,  where Kate and Shrimpjaw make savage, bone shattering love.  The end."


    Now, back to that iniquitous infant (bad baby).  So, yes, TomKat have gone ahead and dropped the S-bomb on the entire world, and now the rest of us have to deal with it.  It's unfortunate that Scientology has such vested interest in the child's well being, or else Shrimpjaw is pretty sure that Cruise would have swallowed it whole the second it emerged from Holme's now permanently tainted birth canal.  Maybe we can convince TomKat to enter their baby into some kind of no-holds-barred celebrity baby blood brawl.  Shrimpjaw would love to see that behemoth, "Violent" Violet Anne Affleck go up against an OT VII Suri in a pit full of rattlesnakes and razor wire.  It's hard to determine who would come out ahead in that matchup.  While Suri has all the powers of Xenu at her disposal, Violet, being the child of Affleck and Garner, possesses roughly 87 Y chromosomes, 54 of them in her jaw alone.  One child that definitely won't be making an appearance is Moses Bruce Anthony Martin.  This kid just has too many factors working against him.  I mean,  his father is Chris Martin, a man so effeminate that he makes Daniel Craig look like, well, pretty much any man besides Daniel Craig.  Really, Oscar the Ecuadorian janitor has that guy beat.  Most tellingly, he had to be delivered by caesarian section, which means that he wasn't strong enough to worm his way out of Paltrow's V-town.  How pathetic is that?  Shrimpjaw is pretty sure that vagina's are specifically designed to allow the easy entrance and exit of various materials.  So Moses' failure to part his mom's red sea is pretty much the equivalent of a pet owner having to come outside and carry their pet into the house because it was too weak to lift that plastic flap on the doggy door.  Yeah, this kid's future is bright.  Lucky for him, Gwen will never let him out of the hermetically sealed bubble he'll be sharing with his sister Apple.  Those are going to be some weird pubertal years.

    Oh, and, by the way.  If you readers think that this post means that Shrimpjaw will be going back to daily updates anytime soon, just let that belief serve as the April Fool's joke that we didn't care enough to give you.
    Wednesday, March 22nd, 2006
    11:07 pm
    Gina Gershon is a Pro, Jessica Alba has an Octogina.
    It's time for Shrimpjaw to level with you, loyal shrimpfans.  Sometimes he doesn't even know why he continues to write these articles.  Sure, they're read and admired by countless million of people the world over, but that's not much of a consolation.  After all, it's not like any of you actually get one millionth of one percent of the mind-breakingly brilliant things we write in each installment.  Plus, we have to deal with the tons and tons of unintelligible fan mail we receive every day.  I don't mean "deal with" in the sense that we read them.  Perish the thought.  If we actually had to go through and read every piece of crude, crayon scribbled, barbecue sauce covered praise, we would have to put a gun to our sultry temple and pull the trigger.  The bullet wouldn't kill us, of course, but the sight of it ricocheting off our of our head and bouncing around the gold and emerald encrusted walls might help to distract us from the pain brought on by your collective ineptitude.  No, we don't write this for you.  We write this because Shrimpjaw is the only being on this planet with the brains, brawn, charm, good looks, and unbelievably massive penis to adequately applaud or eviscerate those celebrities who please or displease us.  Long live Shrimpjaw the Impeccable!  May his reign be amaranthine!

    Who here remembers Gina Gershon?  No one?  She was that vaguely mannish chick that was in "Showgirls" and "Face/Off".  Still drawing a blank?  Come on, she dated Lenny Kravitz!  Shrimpjaw is guessing that she was the inspiration for his number one single "Untalented Pitbull Woman".  That song is fucking catchy.  At any rate, Gershon has held up production of her latest sitcom "Ugly Betty" over a pair of $650 shoes.  Apparently Gina went apeshit over the shoes, and now she refuses to sign her contract unless the producers let her keep her wardrobe.  It's good to know that the entertainment industry is just bursting at the seams with outstanding displays of professionalism such as this.  After all, why should Gershon, who has presumably made millions of dollars off of her film and television career, be forced to purchase a pair of shoes she could easily afford on her own?  Those big wigs obviously don't know who they're dealing with.  They might feel differently after they have to reckon with the awe-inspiring power of the woman behind the blockbuster hits "Bound" and "Kettle of Fish".  Yeah, we're sure that ABC will cave under the pressure any day now.  On the other hand, Shrimpjaw has a little bit of experience in these matters, as we've dealt with a similar situation.  See, one night Shrimpjaw was having a bit of insomnia.  So, we rolled over the six or seven models currently occupying our bed (April through October in Playboy's 2006 calendar) and decided to take a stroll around the compound.  We were just passing the Waste Treatment Plant when we heard some rustling coming from one of the larger dumpsters.  Thinking it might be Mascella, Shrimpjaw went in for a closer look.  To our surprise we found Oscar the janitor waist deep in refuse, pocketing half eaten hors douvres which we assume he was bringing back to his hovel in order to feed his equally impoverished family.  Seeing the plight he was in, Shrimpjaw struck upon a brilliant charitable idea.  Not only would we let Oscar keep the few measly crackers he was holding, we would let him keep all of our garbage.  That is why we had the Shrimpjaw Waste Management team unload 8,456 cubic feet of garbage directly on top of Oscar's aforementioned hovel.  Never again did he steal as much as a crumb.  So, ABC, the next time Gina causes unnecessary delays over the quality of the craft services table or whatever, just know that all you need in order to solve your problems is a bulldozer, a metric ton of trash, and the location of her trailer.  It's the only way she'll ever learn.

    Jessica Alba is a prude, plain and simple.  In a recent interview with the LA Daily News Alba claims, "They want you to take off your clothes all the time (for roles) when you're younger. I won't do that."  Way to go, Jessica.  It's only taken you about twelve years to figure out that it isn't your winning personality that's been landing you all of your roles.  We would have thought that, what with your whole bout with anorexia and all, that you already had a pretty good understanding of what Hollywood was looking for.  Hell, you should be down on your shapely knees thanking show biz for being so overtly superficial.  If it wasn't, Shrimpjaw is pretty sure that you would be flipping burgers in San Benito county.  Besides, exactly what is it you have to offer other than your looks?  Perhaps your Masters degree in, oh wait, you gave up schooling after high school to fully devote yourself to "acting", right?  How convenient.  Don't get me wrong, I'm sure your PADI certification in scuba diving helped you out immensely in "Into the Blue", that is, whenever you weren't too busy being eye fucked by fellow Rhodes scholar Paul Walker.  But wait, Jessica had more to say, "I'll leave the slutty girl to other people. And I'll play the sweet, moral girlfriend who believes in love - roles that are more interesting than playing a vixen."  Sorry, how could we forget about all of your sweet, moral roles?  What was your character in Sin City?  A nun?  A social worker?  Oh, she was a stripper?  Our bad.  The only logical conclusion that Shrimpjaw can reach is that Alba's private parts must be a virtual gallery of fucked up grotesqueries.  Yeah, we're guessing that her V-town must look like an inside-out octopus that's been run over by a semi and then stuck full of tiny pictures of Gorecki.  We attempted to get Machoire to verify our findings, but she was much too busy trying to extinguish the massive fire that she started while running some tests on the particle accelerator.  She's still learning the ropes of her new position.  However, she wasn't too busy for a quick romp in the Shrimp-hay (no woman ever is).

    Pete Doherty doesn't know how to do a great many things.  In fact, he's pretty much whittled down his available skills to doing drugs, playing in a shitty band, and being arrested (for doing drugs).  However, we here at Shrimpjaw could care less about Pete's limited abilities, as the few he does possess provide us with countless hours of entertainment.  For example, celebrity interviews are usually a mundane experience.  Sure, every once and a while they're going to say something stupid (or, if they're Chris Kline, every time they say anything), but typically all you're going to get is a painfully dull description of said celebrity's latest pet project/peeve.  Not so with good old Pete Doherty, as evidenced by his latest interview with Rolling Stone reporter Mark Binelli.  First off, this interview didn't take place in a tastefully decorated loft overlooking Time Square, nor did it occur at a secluded booth in some posh restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard.  No, this interview took place in, as the New York Post describes it, a "ramshackle drug den in Hackney, England."  For those of you not up on your British geography (you know who you are), Hackney is one of the poorest and most crime-filled boroughs in London, so it's good to know that the interview took place in surroundings that Pete finds familiar and comforting.  Shrimpjaw would tell you what Doherty said during the interview, except for two things: 

    1).  We don't know because we didn't actually read it.

    2).  Who the fuck cares?  It's Pete Doherty, let's get to the drugs already.  Fuck!

    Very well then.  According to the article, over the course of the three hour interview, Doherty would both snort and inject heroin (he apparently didn't have enough to use his preferred method, filling the closet full of heroin and then locking himself inside until every last, delicious bit had been pulled into his body via osmosis.)  He would also take ecstasy, and (Shrimpjaw's personal favorite) smoke crack.  These three drugs are known collectively by Doherty as "breakfast, lunch, and dinner."  Or perhaps Pete was doing drugs for a higher purpose.  In his state he probably thought that he was going for the gold medal in the drug triathalon, a lesser known event in the Commonwealth Games.  Christ, is it even possible for Pete Doherty to become any more amazing?  The guy has body destroying, illegal chemicals flowing through his frail body every second of every day, and not only is he not dead, he's not even in jail.  Quite the contrary, he's the front man of a mildly successful rock and roll band and is being interviewed for Rolling Stone magazine.  You heard it here, kids.  If you want to truly become successful stop going to those D.A.R.E. classes and start snorting lines behind the monkey bars.  You'll thank us when you're older (if you're not dead, that is).
    Tuesday, March 21st, 2006
    10:00 pm
    Shrimpjaw took the night off to have sex with your mom.


    She was terrible.
    Friday, March 17th, 2006
    9:15 pm
    Snakes, Scientology, Syphilis. The Three 'S's of Hollywood.
    For the love of god go here you pathetic bastard!

    Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.  Absolutely fucking spectacular.  Snakes on a Motherfucking Plane!  Did you see that shit?  Watch it again.  NOW!  Yeah, now that is a movie.  Shrimpjaw is trying to think of words to adequately describe the clusterfuck of awesomeness which is this video, but he simply can't find the words.  Simply put, no matter how you feel about snakes, this is the movie for you.  If you love snakes, then you are in luck, because they are everywhere.  Luggage racks, pet carriers, emergency oxygen mask storage units, a fat woman's dress; There is no place these snakes will not go.  Don't worry, if you hate snakes, this is also the movie for you.  Snakes are shocked with stun guns, strangled, hit with dining trays, decapitated by fire axes, it's all out snake massacre.  Shrimpjaw is pretty sure by the time the credits roll, there won't be a single snake alive, and not just in the movie, in the world. You know how Guam has that massive brown tree snake infestation?  Well, come August 18th, all of those good for nothing cold blooded serpents will be a thing of the past (just don't tell those filthy snake lovers, they sicken me.)

    Shrimpjaw hasn't been this excited since Kate Moss did line after line of delicious cocaine off of our diamond hard abs during the Shrimpjaw 100th post party.  What, how can you not remember that?  Oh, that's right, because you were at home picking stale Dorito crumbs off that hideous couch you found on the curb outside of the Salvation Army.  It was spectacular, at least, up until the point that Mascella burst in, covered with vomit and tears, and knocked over twenty-seven of our Nobel Peace Prizes.  Fuck, where is that guy, anyway?  Well, Shrimpjaw has a business to run, and we can't just wait for Gambero's bloated corpse to be discovered floating in some swamp in southern Florida.  That's why we've selected Dr. Crevette Machoire, Chief Surgical Neurophysiologist at the Shrimpjaw Center for Advanced Medical Studies to take on Mascella's duties as head of R&D at the Quantum Mechanics Laboratory in addition to her surgical duties.  Now, Machoire attempted to shirk these duties, saying something about how she's never even heard of "wave-particle duality", but Shrimpjaw was too busy breaking surgical grade titanium scalpels with our devastating pecs to pay her much mind.  Oh, and before we left, we made sure that the good doctor gave us a complete physical, if you know what we mean (doubtful).  Shrimpjaw has faith in Crevette.  After all, she was able to successfully reattach Kaak's arm after Operation Schrödinger went horribly, horribly wrong.

    Just what everyone wanted, more South Park/Scientology news.  It seems that Comedy Central recently scrapped plans to re-air the South Park episode "Trapped in the Closet" after they received a message from Tom Cruise wherein he threatened to pull all advertising for "Mission: Impossible III" from the network if they aired the offending episode.  What Shrimpjaw wants to know is, how the hell does this threat make any sense?  I mean, we're not naive, we know that Paramount would be paying Viacom big bucks to advertise their movie on Comedy Central, but really, come on.  Isn't this a two way street?  Wouldn't the loss of advertising on a television station that pulls in large numbers of key demographic viewers hurt the movie's bottom line just as much?  Oh, sorry, Shrimpjaw forgot, that rationale only works if you're fucking sane.  We're sure that in Cruise's demented (although thetan free) brain, depriving millions of people from watching him strut around onscreen with all the intensity of a four year old who just had his juicebox stolen is punishment enough.  Oh, and let's not forget how they'll also miss out on the intense chemistry that's sure to develop between Cruise and co-star Keri Russell.  Not since the marriage of Rock Hudson and Phyllis Gates has Hollywood seen such a display of authentic heterosexual love.  Couple that with the menacing presence of an overweight Truman Capote as a villain and Shrimpjaw is sure that Comedy Central viewers will be offing themselves by the truckload for missing the first glimpses of this cinematic masterpiece.

    Eva Longoria is a whore.  We're sorry, we realize that doesn't really count as news, but now we seem to have some confirmation.  Longoria admitted in a recent Allure magazine interview that her current penis, er, boyfriend, San Antonio Spurs point guard Tony Parker, has only been with one woman, and that she is "the teacher" in their relationship.  First off, Shrimpjaw is going to have to call bullshit on Parker's one woman claim.  After all, he's an NBA player, and a well known one, at that.  Ergo, he's been banging cheerleaders and miscellaneous female fans ever since his first road game.  It's impossible to be a moderately famous professional athlete and not be constantly fucking.  Hell, even John Stockton was getting pussy on a regular basis.  Sure, it was usually just Karl Malone's leftovers, but it was about one hundred times the amount of action he would have gotten had he been the assistant manager at Kinko's.  However, this is the NBA we're talking about, so maybe when Parker claimed to have only ever been with one women, he meant consensually.  Also, in looking up information on Parker, Shrimpjaw has learned that he's been listed as the best French born NBA player.  Wow, what an accomplishment.  You mean he was the best ever out of all thirteen of them?  That's really something, because I've heard that Johan Petro's skyhook was fucking stellar.  Anyway, back to Longwhoria.  Eva contends that their relationship was "lust at first sight" showing the kind of depth that can carry a relationship for weeks, if not months.  She also stated that their children will speak French.  Although, since only Tony is actually fluent in the language, Shrimpjaw is guessing that the children will speak some pidgin form of French and whorish blathering idiotspeak.  They will also be born with congenital syphilis.  Thanks a lot, mom.  We were wondering what could have possibly attracted Parker to the likes of Longoria.  We then learned that he was born in Belgium.  Case closed.
    Thursday, March 16th, 2006
    3:12 pm
    Daniel Craig Sr. Would Also Make Terrible Bond
    Shrimpjaw is a great many things to a great many people.
    Shrimpjaw is more beautiful than you are.
    Shrimpjaw once killed a goat with a hammer. The goat deserved it.
    Shrimpjaw can do anything you can do in a much better, efficient, and timely fashion.

    What's the point of this, you ask? Jesus, always with the fucking yip yap questions, shut-up. Anyway, the point is, we, Shrimpjaw, are completely awesome and would make a far better (not to mention more physically fit and well-hung) James Bond than Daniel Craig.

    Craig has been continuously under fire as Pierce Brosnon's replacement in the 007 franchise ever since being named months ago. The reason for the attacks are simple; he sucks. Seriously, we here at Shrimpjaw haven't seen a worse Bond since the janitor who mans the Executive Men's Washroom dressed up as Bond for our last Christmas Party, got totally shitfaced, and walked around trying to put el sexo on one of the many many models Shrimpjaw has lining the hallways of our offices. Oh, those models, always at the ready. No, on second thought, Oscar was still a better James Bond then Craig, and Oscar was drunk. And crying. And Ecuadorian. Plus, we're pretty sure his eyebrows aren't hair, but rather are tattoos meant to fool everyone. We're not sure why he do that, but like we said, he's from Ecuador. Who knows what the fuck they do down there? But yeah, eyebrows, now that we think about it, we're TOTALLY sure they're bullshit. Just yesterday for example, he approached us and told us he just cleaned our bronze toilet (the one with racing stripes down the side, our favorite fucking toilet) and that we shouldn't use it for a couple of minutes. A COUPLE OF MINUTES? WHO THE FUCK DID HE THINK HE WAS TALKING TO? Plus, he knows better than to approach us, EVER. So, to remind him of where he was on the Shrimpjaw Status Ladder, we marched in there and emptied our bowels in a pyrotechnic display of shitfury that can nary be repeated. We didn't even aim for the toilet, although, luckily, some made it there by sheer force of shrimpwill. When our act of vengeance was completed we quickly found our janitor, smiled as broadly as we could (showing off our perfectly lined, overbite-free and bright white teeth), and told him what we had done. We also docked him 3/4's of his pay for the remainder of the year. Predictably, he broke down in tears, but get this...his eyebrows DID NOT MOVE. Not an inch, not a centimeter, nothing. See that shit, tattoos! Ha, the Shrimpertons, they think they have the detective market by the balls, do they? Sometimes, we don't even remember why we hired them...they still haven't even found Mascella yet.


    But yeah, Daniel PussyFace Craig...it now appears that Craig is such a massive loser that his dad has come to his defense (also, his wife left him, take THAT Double-O-Douchebag). That's right...quoted from the 'London's Sunday Mirror' we present to you, Tim Craig...

    "It's all cobblers. Daniel is a hard lad, you wouldn't want to meet him in a dark street. Is he a wimp? No, I wouldn't like to call him that to his face. As for the idea he doesn't like guns...when he was younger he would play with a toy gun just like any other boy."

    Awesome! See, Craig is cool, all that stuff about him being a pansy was just fucking cobblers! You see? It was a bunch of knish-knash! A bag full of dufflemakers! A trifle of merrymaking! Ho-hee, tally-ho! He's a snufflegaggleflimsyflop of berr...fuck. That shit is exhausting. No wonder Jude Law and Clive Owen look so tired all the time, using 'colorful' English phrases is a fucking workout. It's good though, having daddy come to your defense. Now the world realizes that Daniel Craig is no fop, no fop indeed. You wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley, he's no wimp, and he loves guns, LOVES 'EM! Basically, he's a really violent, gung-ho, rapist, correct? Sure, we can see it now, Jael (wife of Annoitius Suhrummph-Jawwe) is out walking along the brick-tiled roads, on her way home to prepare a lamb for din-ner when suddenly Craig bursts out from under a cardboard box completely nude and covered in grime, grabs her, drags her to the ground, and violenty shatters her wonderous vagina forever. Then he gets up, says, "Thanks, it was really good, moppet", and quickly starts to get dressed in his 007 tux. However, he then falls over, the tux rips in half and his gun goes off in its holster, putting a bullet through his not-at-all-defined leg and spilling his monster blood. Oh Jesus, even RapistCraig is still a terrible Bond. God, we hope he dies on set. Knowing what an absolute tribble-tropp he is, it's sure to be a ridiculous death too. The A.D. is going to call Craig to the set but there will be no answer so someone will go to Craig's trailer (stated on his contract to be kept at a pristine 78 degrees, not too hot, not too cool) only to find him dead in the bathroom, crushed under a pile of cookies and butterflies. Hell, if that happened, they could actually just roll a camera to the trailer, film THAT, release it, and watch it go on to be the best Bond movie ever.
    Tuesday, March 14th, 2006
    6:17 pm
    Kevin Federline Needs Those Sex Botz
    Somebody better tell Tom Cruise to start pulling some strings, because a friend of his is going to need a job, fast. Isaac Hayes has resigned from his long running stint as Chef on South Park, supposedly due to the show's "religious intolerance". We attempted to run this information through the Bullshit-O-Tron 3000 (TM), but it exploded the minute we came near it with this flaming pile. What's happened here is so simple that even you guys shouldn't have much of a problem following it (that, by the way, is the closest Shrimpjaw will ever come to complimenting his readers. Enjoy.). It's no secret that Hayes is a Scientologist, unless your idea of a secret stretches to include things people don't give a shit about. Shrimpjaw doesn't know about you, but Isaac Hayes doesn't come up a lot during normal courses of conversation around the compound. It's not like we're ever standing around the Theoretical Physics Wing, shooting the shit with Kaak, when we're suddenly struck with the desire to say, "You know, Garnaal, I was watching 'Truck Turner' the other night, and it reminded me that Isaac Hayes once described Scientology as the 'gateway to eternity'. It really makes you think, doesn't it?" If we did, he would probably just start babbling on uncomfortably about how Faraday's law of electrolysis doesn't account for proton transfer reactions in chemical systems. That guy really needs to work on his people skills.

    So yeah, Shrimpjaw is guessing that Travolta saw the South Park episode that dealt with Scientology. He got pissed and complained to one of the four anthropomorphic hive mind clusters that lie suspended in a protoplasmic jelly somewhere in the catacombs beneath Clearwater, Florida, who in turn called up Scientology's head PR guy, who sent a van of thugs over to Hayes' house for a little "Introspection Rundown". After viciously kicking the shit out of him for several hours (after all, that's what IR is all about) Hayes was persuaded to quit the show. Don't worry though, given his remarkable skill set he should be able to get another job in no time. I mean, he won an Oscar for composing the theme to Shaft, he was Chef on South Park, um...uh, hey, remember that theme from Shaft? Didn't it rock? Yeah, no problems for this guy. Plus, if he somehow has trouble getting on his feet, I'm sure some of his buddies won't mind giving him a helping hand. Shrimpjaw can see it now, "Top Gun II" starring Isaac Hayes, Summer 2007. We can't wait.

    Kevin Federline's life just couldn't possibly get anymore embarrassing, right? Wrong. Geez, leave it to you guys to not see that for the obviously loaded question it was. In fact, Shrimpjaw is taking back that semi-compliment you were given at the beginning of this article. In its place we're leaving the mental image of Gorecki getting to second base with Bobby Prescott, Billy's polio crippled younger brother. You brought this on yourselves. Britney Spears has apparently given her omni-challenged husband a strict allowance. K-Zao will be given an unspecified amount of money each month to cover basic expensives (pot, tank tops, hookers) but he will need to get special permission from Britney in order to acquire any high cost goofs (lots of pot, designer tank tops, secret abortions). Shrimpjaw has an idea that this whole plan is going to blow up in Britney's unpleasantly bloated face. Imagine it, now instead of scooping up a pile of bills from the KFC bucket next to the bed, K-Broke is going to have to personally ask Mrs. Moneybags for the money he needs to accomplish the plethora of idiotic/sleazy things he does on any given day. This means that Britney isn't going to be able to turn around without being confronted by the greasy mass of skin and hair that passes for Kevin's head. She'll be right in the middle of taping an Oprah interview, and there he'll be, just out of frame, whispering, "Come on baby, I need that sweet popodough to get one of them asian sexbotz I been seeing on TV." At which point Britney will get exasperated, fling a fistful of hundreds at him, and watch as he rapidly disappears, leaving behind only the twin odors of marijuana and failure. On the plus side, at least she had more sense than to ask him to do chores for his money. With the dangerously high levels of incompetence that surround that man even the most simple and mundane of tasks could prove to be fatal. All that Britney needs is to ask him to do the dishes, only to return home to find the kitchen in flames, every window broken, and pieces of her son strewn around the house like confetti. All the while, K-Babyspike is lounging on the couch in his underwear, a smile of blissful satisfaction on his uncomprehending face. A job well done.

    Not that it really counts as news, but Jack Black was recently wed to a semi-attractive nobody. I suppose he has the King Kong diet (as well as paycheck) to thank in helping him land the hand of Mary? Louda? Hold on, let me check. Tanya Haden. Shrimpjaw would have to say that Black came out on the positive side of that diet, because although he did not lose as much weight as Peter Jackson, he also does not look like a rough around the edges pirate. And not one of those good pirates either, like from Peter Pan. One of those real life, dysentary and scurvy filled pirates. Yes, rest assured that the ruthless Captain Peter "Hack" Jackson isn't going to be instilling any little kids with a childlike sense of wonder anytime soon. Fuck, we just realized that not only isn't Tanya Haden famous, she's not even remotely famous. She's not a model or an athlete or anything. Come on, Jack. An artist whose been in three bands, none of which anyone has heard of? This is probably going to be the only time you ever here this but, you can do better. Why don't you go back to Laura Kightlinger, at least she's been on TV.

    Finally, Will Ferrell is not dead. Apparently there were rumors swirling around on the internet that he had died in a paragliding accident or something. Not true, he is alive and well, so all of you fans can look forward to many more years of watching his career plunge further and further into the toilet. Ultimately it will reach a point where Ferrell will be talking to people at D-list celebrity parties, and he will constantly bring up about how, all those years ago, people thought that he died. He will then laugh half heartedly for an inappropriate amount of time before breaking into wild, frantic sobs. Such is the life cycle of the semi-talented celebrity.
    Wednesday, March 8th, 2006
    1:43 pm
    How to Survive an Adam Levine Text Message. Plus, Willis Flips Out, Surprises No One
    Before we even begin, Shrimpjaw wants to make one thing abundantly clear: We are better than you. Now, this thought in and of itself is not particularly new or startling. I mean, come on, we're so superior to you in every way that we're practically a different species. Actually, Dr. Quijada has just informed us that Shrimpjaw is in fact, another species. So, the next time one of you takes (and inevitably fails) the remedial science class necessary for obtaining your GED, make sure that you flip to the pages (74-327) detailing the almost innumerable superhuman features of God's favored creation: Homo shrimpjawicus. Don't feel too bad, readers, we're sure that one day scientists will discover that you too belong to a special species of human. We've already suggested the name Homo goreckius. Enjoy.

    Now, we realize that the updates aren't coming as frequently as they used to, but such is the way of the world. Shrimpjaw would like to see you attempt to hammer out an award caliber article when your Shrimptron 2800 Deluxe Supercomputer and Sandwich Dispenser GT is completely covered in a mass of hundred dollar bills, exotic fruits, designer drugs, and naked supermodels. We rest our case.


    Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Heathcliff and Catherine, what do all of these couples have in common (besides being literary allusions which our readers will not understand)? The answer is true loves that end tragically. Well, move over Shakespeare, because Hollywood has its own tragic tale of love and loss that makes all of these stories look like the "Anything Goes" section of the NAMBLA message board. Adam Levine has broken things off with his latest inconceivable conquest, Jessica Simpson. I know what you're picturing, a solemn walk on a secluded, starlit beach. Adam grasping for the gentlest possible words in order to soften the blow. Mutual tears followed by hours of hushed conversation. Finally, as the sun rises, an amicable hug followed by a slow parting of ways. Jesus, you guys were way off. Yeah, we mean "drunken blind kid playing darts" off. We're talking about Adam Levine here. Lead singer of Maroon 5. Maroon 5! Do you honestly think he has time to mollify every girl he dumps after he grows tired of boning them? Of course not. So old Adam did the next best thing. He summed up all of his feelings towards the relationship, typed them into his cellphone, selected Jessica's number from his address book, and hit send. There, the perfect mix of efficiency and thoughtfulness. Oh, also he downloaded "Grillz" by Nelly featuring Paul Wall, Ali and Gip, that's hott. What did the message say? Shrimpjaw will post it below, verbatim, preserving it in all of its delicious eloquence:

    "really busy. Need Space."

    Beautiful, simply beautiful. Cyrano de Bergerac (why do we even bother?) couldn't have done better himself. See, it perfectly captures Adam's state of mind. He's busy. No, not just busy, but really busy. People just don't understand the kind of stress a musician of his capacity is under. Fuck, works of art like "Harder to Breathe" aren't going to write themselves. Plus, I'm pretty sure that they're set to perform on TRL sometime soon. Talk about pressure. Besides, look at the messages intended recipient. Shrimpjaw is almost positive that Jessica Simpsons brain is run by one of those little Erector Set motors with an 16-bit CPU glued to the side. So, after the fifteen minutes or so it took her to read and process the information, she probably started to tear up a little, but then a bird landed on the windowsill, and everything was as right as rain. Judging from Levine's musical proclivities, the next Maroon 5 album will be rife with songs about their tryst. This explains the new title that's been floating around: "Songs About Titties".


    Let's move from the world of Hollywood love into the equally stupid and pathetic world of Hollywood politics. Today's main item? Bruce Willis continues to lose his fucking mind. At a press conference for his latest movie "16 Blocks" the perpetually angry star began leveling threats at the nation of Colombia, claiming that the cocaine business is terrorism, and that "It's killing this country." I suppose the obvious question here is, "What fucking planet is Bruce Willis from?" Does he not realize what business he's in? He must be completely oblivious to the fact that the movie industry fucking runs on that precious white powder. Willis also stated, "I’m talking also about going to Colombia and doing whatever it takes to end the cocaine trade." Great. Fucking fantastic. That's just what America needs, Bruce Willis getting decked out in his "Tears of the Sun" costume and going down to Bogota to wage a one man war on cocaine. As Shrimpjaw remembers it, Bruce doesn't have a very good track record when it comes to dealing with drug problems. About twenty years ago Willis' soon to be wife, Demi Moore, was sucking up yayo like it was going out of style. So, judging from how that worked out, Shrimpjaw's got a good idea of Willis' strategy. He's going to go down to Columbia, woo the entire country with his top-knotch harmonica playing, he will then procede to impregnate the country and label the ensuing offspring with comically retarded names, such as "Whistle" and "Kennebunkport". How is this going to solve the country's cocaine problem? You'll have to wait and see. Wait a second, wasn't Bruce Willis trying really hard to get into supermodel Petra Nemcova's pants a couple of years ago? Yeah, there's no way she was using cocaine.

    How can we mention that most sacred of white powders without an update on Shrimpjaw's surrogate daughter, Kate Moss. It seems that Moss made the news recently amidst allegations that she's been using a $100,000 Faberge egg to smuggle cocaine, ecstasy, and Rohypnol around the world. Genius. Honestly, what airport security guard is going to check an absurdly expensive piece of artwork for drugs that you can procure from your cousin's friend (he's got the hookup) in the back of the Walmart parking lot? The best part is, none of this is even necessary, because at any given time Kate has enough miscellaneous junk pumping through her bloodstream to get an entire room full of Babyshambles fans fucked up. One time Shrimpjaw did a line of Mossblood backstage at a Vanity Fair photo shoot. Everything after that is sort of hazy, but suffice it to say, we came to eighteen months later, completely naked at the summit of K2, our entire body painted in strange, mystical symbols.

    In a related story, Mariah Carey spent the better part of last year smuggling Cadbury's Cream Eggs from the enormous basket on her nightstand to her (rapidly expanding) stomach. However, all of that is apparently a thing of the past. According to Carey, "I've been working out like mad - you can even punch me in the stomach and feel how tight that is. But I've gotta slow it down, cos the other day someone told me I was losing my ass - and I don't want to lose that." First of all, Mariah, you might want to watch your words. After subjecting us to the likes of "Glitter" and "Charmbracelet" Shrimpjaw is guessing that there are a good amount of people who would be all too eager to take you up on that offer. Normally we would be first in line for such an endeavor. Nevertheless, we find this offer to be simply too risky. As the resulting explosion following a Shrimpjaw punch to Mariah's stomach would cover anyone unlucky enough to be in the ten mile blast radius with thick layers of milk chocolate, caramel, nougat, and the occasional almond. Secondly, in regards to that ass (or "dat azz" as we hear the rappers say), don't worry, it's not going anywhere. One more bomb movie or flop album and we promise you, it will be back in full force.


    Finally, Yanni hits his girlfriend. Yep, that's him, Yanni the girlfriend beater. Hey, remember when Yanni used his famed circular breathing method to sustain a single note for forty minutes? No? How about when, at the age of 14, he broke the Greek National record for the men's 50-meter swimming freestyle? Not ringing any bells? Oh, I know, how about when he physically assaulted Silvia Barthes at his home in Manaplan, Florida? Yeah? Heard all about it? Imagine that.
    Monday, March 6th, 2006
    10:16 pm
    Madonna Rides Her Chariot Through Idiotville
    You know Maui?  It sucks.

    Wait, you don't know Maui?  No, of course not, why would you?  It's not across from a Wal-Mart.
    Shit.  Well, for starters, it's an island...you're serious?  An island...ISLAND.   I swear, I fucking hate you guys.  You know what?  Just forget it.  We'll put it in terms you can understand...on Maui you can go out behind your house and not have your view blocked by the other trailers up on blocks.  

    But anyway, back to the main point...Maui fucking blows.  It just straight up sucks.  Yeah, there's a beach, there are tons of plenty of beaches, but come on!  You think the mindblowingly wealthy and potent Shrimpjaw goes all weak-kneed for a beach?  Hell, we fucking own Nendo, we bought it from the Soloman Islands government in '98.  
    It's not the beaches, okay?  It's the Hawaiian Tropic Pageant.  Every spring the women come to Maui for a month to 'train'.  This year, with all the bullshit that's been going on around the office, we thought we'd stop by and give the ladies an early, little 'good-luck'.  I mean, how else are we going to spend a relaxing couple of days, going to Pheasant Hill Mall in Nashua, New Hampshire?  Fuck that, we'd rather be the victim of a hammer and tent peg murder.
    So, after ripping our way through 50 tanned and buxom women in a single night we were a little discouraged.  I mean, they could barely move anymore, let alone go another round with us, the Zeus-like Shrimpjawicus.  We turned our sights on the population of Maui hoping that after working our way through their nether-regions we would be satiated, but hell, Maui only has 118,000 inhabitants.  That would never be enough (we plowed the roughly 60,000 women of Maui anyway).

    After broadstroking the Alenuihaha Channel in mere minutes we then sacked the vaginal walls of the women of Hilo.  All in all, it was a decent 24 hours but now here we sit, at the Beach Dog Internet Cafe on Kinoole Street...and why?  For you.  Now,  in spite of the fact that 98.3% of Shrimpjaw's readers are illiterate (we know, Kaak's done studies) we still take time out of our vastly superior and more fantastically delicious day to fill you in on lives that you will never be a part of.  You're welcome.


    "Oi!  Ee need'en summ fishhen 'n chuppz!  Wai iz'n Amuuricah sew proppostiruz?"
    Yeah, Shrimpjaw's Madonna impression is really coming along.  That's good news because the ole' Material Girl is once again in the news.  Seriously though, when ISN'T Madonna in the news?  Christ, we don't get it.  Everyone seems to love Madonna, that old queen of the lepers can do anything and get into the papers; "Ooo, look, Madonna bought a hummingbird, she's naming it Wolverstein, PRINT IT, FRONT PAGE!"  We just don't get it.  Why would someone who looks like Odo from Deep Space Nine get so much press?  It doesn't make sense.  Surely the amount of press attention one receives should be based on the index rating of their sheer beauty.  Hence, Shrimpjaw would be the most covered subject followed in second place by Shrimpjaw's piles of money.  Madonna would be near last, a few notches above Paltrow's Shivaesque breasts and of course, in absolute graveyard last place, Gorecki, the bringer of plague and death.

    So, Madonna still has a massive uterine boner for Europe.  Why?  Well, the United States just fucking sucks so much, don't you know?  I mean, Robbie Williams isn't even a superstar here!  Can you believe it?  What's the point of living (if you can even call life without Robbie Williams on the tele every night 'living')?  But yeah, according to Madonna, America is terrified of a strong woman.  Here, she'll tell you..."In Europe and Asia and elsewhere, women have ruled over millions; it's not an abstract or frightening or out-of-the-box concept.  But in America, men are still afraid of women.  And women, I don't think, trust women.  I find that amazing." 
    I don't know Madonna, I don't think a lot of people would consider a woman president an abstract concept.  Perhaps they might consider it an unlikely one, but abstract, I don't know.  The effects of solar gamma radiation on the human emotion of love...now that's an abstract concept.  Can THAT run for President?  Now, that would be something.  
    "President Effects of Solar Gamma Radiation on the Human Emotion of Love, the Kyoto Protocols are turning out to be drastic for this nation's economy.  What should we do?"
    "...BURRRRRN THEM!  BURRRRRRN EVERYTHIIIIING!"
    "Thank you, sir."
    What a fucking cabinet that thing would have too.  Secretary of Defense?  The Symbiotic Mental Bond Between Mother and Child.  Secretary of the Interior?  The Weight of the Human Soul.  Yeah, it might be a few years until the American people are ready for that team.  As for American men being afraid of women, we would have to disagree, unless of course, we're talking about being afraid of women having small titties, 'cause that's absolutely horrifying!  AM I RIGHT?  AM I RIGHT?  OOOOOOO, YEAH, HIGH FUCKING FIVE ME, JIM!  Listen though, there's only one thing that Shrimpjaw is truly afraid of, and as we're never going to lose our looks then we actually don't have anything to worry about.  So, if a woman wants to run for president of Neutrogena Cosmetics, then fine, so be it.  We're content with getting paid more than she will anyway.

    It also must be said, that as much as Madonna IS terrible she has done one thing right; her daughter Lourdes.  Shrimpjaw loves Lourdes so goddamn much because Lourdes absolutely hates her mother.  We were going to have a birthday party for Lourdes in Quijada's lab last year but Quijada advised us not to as we'd probably just get drunk and try to bang her.  He's definitely right though, we would try (even with just one eye he sees everything).  Well, we'd try and succeed.  Anyway, Lourdes recently asked her mom if she was una homosexual...
    "Lourdes is really obsessed with who is gay," says Madonna in an interview in Out magazine. "And she even asked, 'Mom, you know they say that you are gay?' And I'm, 'Oh, do they? Why?' And she says, 'Because you kissed Britney Spears.' And I said, 'No, it just means I kissed Britney Spears. I am the mommy pop star and she is the baby pop star. And I am kissing her to pass my energy on to her." 

    Uhhhhhhh, okay.  I don't actually believe Madonna has a reason to be gay or not gay.  As a person with both sets of reproductive organs, Madonna is something unto herself.  But the thing that really makes us curious is why didn't Madonna just give Lourdes a simple, 'No, I'm not gay' ?  Actually, scratch that, we know why she didn't say that; it's simply much too rational of a thing for Madonna to say.  If she HAD tried to say it we're sure it would have come out more along the lines of "No, Lourdes, I'm not gay.  You're gay, you little gaybo.  You dirty vagina-eater!".  That's MadonnaDetroit parenting for you.  Really, the point is anything would have been a less bizarre answer than 'I am the mommy pop star and she is the baby pop star. And I am kissing her to pass my energy on to her'.  Madonna could have said 'Hey, Rumixlcotzl, look at those four legged monkeys' and it would have been a better explanation.
    Great.  This is going to be like a get out of jail free card for Lourdes' sexual escapades for the rest of her life.  She's going to be off in seven years banging the shit out of the Seal/Klum lupus nightmare baby in the Tower of London (Editor's Note: ....hmmmm?) when Madonna will burst in and see Lourdes, Seal/Klum's LupusChild, a bear, boxes full of Typhoid Fever, David Bowie, some dude wearing one of those cheesy Scream masks, and a turtle altar.  Madonna will ask what the fuck is going on and Lourdes will just be like, "It's cool mom, I'm just passing on my energy to them", and then she'll smile that fucking mischevious smile that 17 year-old's give when they are throwing something their parents said or did back in their face.  Yeah, Lourdes...soldier of fortune.  


    In more Teri Hatcher-y news, Mrs. Ed herself has come forward in the latest issue of Vanity Fair magazine claiming that she was sexually molested by her uncle from the ages of five to eight.  In the article, Hatcher tells of how in 2002 a 14 year-old girl killed herself after being sexually abused by the man.  Fearing that the case may have been thrown out of court, Hatcher stepped forward to report his abuse of her when she was a young'un and viola, the bad guy gets 12 years in prison.  Huzzah!  Santa Clara County Deputy D.A. Chuck Gillingham commended Lois (but not Clark), saying, "Without Teri, this case would have been dismissed - heroic is a word that doesn't do what she did justice."
    Oh man, Shrimpjaw loves it when celebs save the day!  Why, it's just like a movie in REAL LIFE!  Wowie-zowie!  You know what have been a better ending for this real life movie though?  If Hatcher's uncle went full out with the molestion on Hatcher and the story ended with Hatcher killing herself, not some not-famous 14 year old girl.  If the world had any sense of justice, Teri Hatcher would have killed herself out of sexual abuse realted guilt.  That's right, Teri, it WAS your fault.  No amount of 'Take Back The Night' rally's can change that.  Damn, if there was any justice in the world Teri hatcher would have offed herself.  That's what's wrong with the world today; Teri Hatcher can come forward and say "Oooo, my uncle rubbed a pinky over my pre-botoxed labia" and people proclaim her a hero.  What's that all about?  Wouldn't it have been more heroic if Hatcher had come forward earlier, you know, like before the 14 year old girl shot herself in the face?  Seems to us that perhaps that would have been slightly more heroic.   But then again, like we were just saying, there's no justice in the world.  That's why we here at Shrimpjaw are inventing Shrimpjawstice, our own form of iron-clad, steel-balled, small-Vietnamese-village-raping justice.  It's like normal justice but way more beautiful and musclebound.  Also, our justice always finds in favor of hilarity, because, really, without the laughter of small children in the world, what have we become?



    Saturday, March 4th, 2006
    11:26 pm
    A Gift From Our Beautifully Sculpted Hands To Your Insidious Faces
    You lucky fucks.  You lucky, lucky, lucky fucks.  

    Okay readers, you're not beautiful, right?  No, of course you're not, don't be fucking stupid you hideous fucking slags.  Jesus, have you even looked in a mirror lately?  Please, don't even bother, it's not worth it.  Plus, why would you want to cause the mirror that much pain?  Don't take out your crag-faced anger on a mirror just because it shows you the truth.  

    Anway, let's face it readers; you ain't pretty, you'll never be pretty, you're incapable of seeming attractive even in your own dreams, ok?  
    Now, as we all know, to be young and famous in Hollywood, well, you pretty much gotta be pretty.  You want to run with the 'in-crowd'?  You better damn well look like Leto and be adept at banging anything that so much as...exists.  
    That description wasn't you, was it?  No, you dumb, gangrenous, beastly fuck, obviously it wasn't.  Well, it seems clear that you, the average, repulsive Shrimpjaw reader will never know what it's like to party with the hot stars and starlets.  You'll never know what it's like to be out at Pure at 3am getting hit on by B-level Fox sitcom celebrities.  That's right, Frankie Muniz will never try to grab your pudgy ass.  Loser.

    But fear not, Shrimpjawicus has arrived on his magical steed of generosity just for you.  We're not going to bullshit, Shrimpjaw can pretty much get any woman we want, so this isn't really a problem for us, but for you, all for you troll-like readers, we recently asked Lindsay Lohan herself to photodocument a few nights in her life so that you might have this one, golden opportunity in your life to see what you will never have.

    With no further ado, Shrimpjaw presents...
    "Something You Can Never Have?  Friends" - A Lohantastic Photo Essay



    Okay.  Uh...wowie.  Alright.  Look at how great Lohan's life is!  GREAT!  AWESOME!  YOU'RE NOT THERE!  YOU SAD BASTARD!  LOOK!  JUST LOOK!  LOHAN!  LOHAN AND...uh...uh....LOHAN AND FRIEND!
    MAN, FUCK YOU!  YEAH....yeah....alright.  Shit, let's just be honest; this is the best Lohan could do at 1:30 in the morning?  Shouldn't she be out giving Fez a hand job as they drive down Wilshire?  Instead they're where?  At Lohan's Aunt Barbara's house or something?  This is the worst party house ever.  Yep, nothing says 'young, dangerous, ready-to-fuck, Hollywood' like a wicker basket full of fire wood, next to a just-read Seventeen.  Do you think Lohan and Darkhair just finished reading an article about Aaron Carter and started blushing?  Yeah, I can see it now, "HE is TOO cute!", "OMG, I KNOW!"  Great.  Real fucking party animals, these two.
    And, just hold up a second.  What the fuck is going on in this picture?  These two are so goddamn awkward looking.  It's like you've just arrived in Amsterdam and you have tens of thousands of dollars to blow.  So what do you do?  Get high priced hookers, of course.  So you check into your hotel and immediately get on the horn to an escort (aka BANG-OUT) service.  The heavily-accented Dutch woman on the end tells you your girl will arrive at the hotel in an hour or so, so in the meantime you lounge around, watch a few minutes of Dutch TV (it's terrible) and then decide to take a shower.  When you get out and walk back into your room, your pro is there with a duet, and they are both waiting for you on the floor, but they turn out to be, like, fourteen.  They try to look seductive but the whole age difference (you're 49, you fucking flabby perv) sort of makes you nervous.  The girls look uneasy and don't really seem to know what sexy is, they just sort of know what the gleamed off of Sean Paul music videos.  So you sit there deciding what to do and in the end you just jerk off moistly into a paper bag while the girls watch television.  Yeah, welcome to the Netherlands, you man-child.  Way to lose your cool.



    Yeah!  This is more fucking like it!  Hood-rat bitches, right?  Awesome.  Lohan is so ghetto-hard.  Goddamn right, La-la-la-Lohan, throw your arms in the air, neeeegro!  Give that middle finger saluuute!  Shit, girl totally knows how to thug it out.  Nothing says hard-ass-motherfucker like hanging out in a parking lot at the country club. These bitchez are about to go Charlie's Angels all up in the motherfucking polo grizzounds!  Quick!  How many BMW's are in this picture?  Four? Five?  No, it's cool though, they're rebellious and everything.  I believe that one girl is trying to show us all how thick dat azz is, as well.  Tremendous.  
    God...I'm really already hating Lohan's posse. In fact, Shrimpjaw bets that Lohan must be pretty sick of them as well. I mean, come on, there is no way that she's going to invite them to any Academy Awards after parties anytime soon. Darkhair Cockteasorson (Don't even try to deny it. Billy Prescott told us all about you) might be desireable in the eyes of Jim Mediocre, backup quarterback for the Hicktown Nobodies, but in Tinseltown she'd barely be worth a cursory groping by a C-list celeb (we're thinking Fred Savage). The less said about Little Miss Hagface on the left, the better. Really regretting those BFF bracelets now, aren't you Lo-Lo?




    Oh, awesome, we're back at Aunt Barb's house.  The party never stops.  This is pretty normal though.  Just five BFF's, their Seventeen mags, and of course, one huge bong.  I'm sure that's not even Lohan's though, right?  She's a responsible young starlet, she would never do drugs, right?  She would definitely never admit in an interview with a major magazine that she loved jcocaine, correct?
    This picture actually leaves one a little confused.  Shrimpjaw's definitely getting mixed messages here.  So, I mean, all the water bottles and a Diet, Caffeine-Free Coke...that's healthy living, yes?  But, uh, the huge bong...hmmm.  Also note all the cigarettes.  So really, drugs are fine as long as they don't make you fat, right?  Like, alcohol?  Baaaad.  Cocaine?  Goooood.  Pizzapills?  Baaaad.  Heroin?  Goooood.  
    See, dieting is easy.  No wonder all the Hollywood stars are so thin; eating right is as simple as your ABC's! On top of all this, you just know that Aunt Barbara is sitting in the other room, watching old taped episodes of "Murder, She Wrote" and silently giving off that unmistakable aroma of crushing loneliness and impending death. Every once in a while she'll venture in with a plate of stale Ritz crackers and cheese, or a bowl of ribbon candy. Old Barb will try and make some lighthearted joke about how the girls better not cause too much mischief. The girls will laugh uncomfortably until she is out of earshot, at which time they will ruthlessly deride her. Slumber parties are fun!   



    About damn time!  Out somewhere!  Yeah, they finally left fucking Barbara at home. That old slut ruins everything!  Now it's just the five girls out on the town, ready to fuck every guy they see and play all the Sims 2 that they can.  
    Fuck.
    Seriously, that's the Sims 2 on the table.  Amid all the drinks (non-alcoholic I'm sure, remember the lesson we just learned?  That's right, we don't want any Mischa Barton's around here), amid the shot glasses...the Sims fucking 2.  Great.  Jesus Christ, these girls are the shittest batch of partiers ever.  Was the Sims 2 just so goddamn good that they had to bring it along?  Do you even see a fucking computer around?  NO, NO YOU FUCKING DON'T.  Know why?  Cause it's a fucking bar.  You go to drink and make sexual mistakes, not to sit around discussing the merits of hanging the fucking clown painting.  I bet you anything this is Darkhair's doing.  Look at that bitch.  "Lindsay, I don't think we've played enough Sims 2 today.  We're TOTALLY taking it out with us!  OMG!  Can we even DO that?  Like, for real?  Oh my god, we're going to bring the Sims box and totally just, like, PUT it on the table!  Tanya will flip!  Holy shit!  We're so goddamn funny!  Haha, Parent Trap!"  What a whore.

    Hey, do you think if you hit Lohan in the face hard enough with that Sims 2 box, cocaine would come out of her ears?  



    So, 12 am and Lohan looks like she's had enough.  Fucking lightweight.  Who passes out at midnight?  

    Of course, passing out is understandable after talking about the Sims 2 for six hours.  If this is the case, then go right ahead Dear Linz, pass out.  Oh, and yes, thank you for giving that middle finger again.  It was TOTALLY necessary and absolutely hi-larious. At a Shrimpjaw party, this would be the point where all nubile young models would begin annointing us with various exotic oils, followed directly by an orgy of such a size and ferocity that it will be visible from space. Take that, ISS astronerds. All the degrees and fancy medals in the world don't change the fact that we've been pleasuring your wives on a daily basis since last July. Hell, they're not even that good looking. Especially Irina, Christ, what's the Russian word for "botox"? Shrimpjaw is just trying to remind you of your place. Even though you may look down on the earth from a distance of 220 miles, never forget that Shrimpjaw is lightyears above you in every other conceivable way. Wait, what were we talking about? Oh, right, Lohan's boring life. Fuck, someone get these girls some drugs quick, before they bust out the sleeping bags and start comparing tampon brands.


    "BEEEEE-OOOOOOOO!   BEEEEE-OOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!  I'm Roy McGillicuddy, Life-Of-The-Party for hire!  BEEEEEE-OOOOOOO!  BEEE-OOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!  Look, Lindsay!  I'm making you glasses out of my HANDS!  Now you can SEEEEEEEE BET-TOR!  But look, your magic handglasses shoot lasers!  Whoooo!  BEEEE-OOOOOOZAP!  BEEEE-OOOOOZAP!  Careful with your newfound powers, precious!  Ha, J/K, J/K, you know I'm just playing wit' you.  Oh man, I'm so funny.  Hey Lindsay, let's do a quick group improv now, okay?  Uh, I'll give you a word or phrase and you have to base a scene around that word or phrase, okay?  Cool, cool...your word is LAZER GLASSES!!!  Ha, oh God, I kill me!  Did you see how I brought that back?  Brought back the lazer glasses? Did you see that?  The lazer glasses?  It's called a callback, in comedy terms.  I can teach you! BEEEE-OOOOO!"



    Holy.
    Fucking.
    Shit.

    ...

    It's Kate Fucking Moss.

    Lindsay looks absoutely frozen in terror.  That's probably the right way to play it; if she makes any sudden movements, Moss will probably inhale her. 
    You just know Lohan is wildly out of her element here.  Like, she showed up to some model party thinking she could handle it, and Moss immediately takes a shine to her and starts being all friendly, but Lohan is terrified because Moss is sucking pile after pile of blow into her bloodstream and Lohan is scared to follow suit, but she wants to, you know, seem cool too?  So she does a little and then Moss starts to lose her shit and gets completely whacked out and suddenly she whips this headband on Lohan's head and is all like, "Now we're TREE SISTERS FOR LIFE!", and she starts to drag Lohan around a little too forcefully and Lohan isn't sure (it's kind of dark inside) but she thinks Moss' shirt is covered in blood and after a while Lohan asks if she can leave and Moss gets a crazy look in her eye and says in a far-away voice, "But you can never leave..."
    And then the chanting starts.


    So, in conclusion; Lohan...we're never fucking her again.
    Thursday, March 2nd, 2006
    9:34 pm
    A Wake-Up Call
    Hey, mothers of starlets.  Watch your daughters!  Is this what you want them to be?



    What a cow.  Jesus.  Mischa needs to hit the treadmill.


    Maybe Shrimpjaw will update later tonight, maybe not. 
    Wednesday, March 1st, 2006
    7:31 pm
    Givin iz thut quiDD
    We give a little and they take a mile. Christ, does Shrimpjaw's generosity know no bounds? We give and we give and we give to our employees and they constantly just rape our kind actions with the penis of ungratefulness.

    What's the problem? Mascella. He's gone.
    While this isn't really important (really, you think he's not replaceable?) our ire is only stroked because he set his office aflame sometime last night. We hadn't even seen him in weeks (we didn't even think his security card was still active, we're going to have to rip into Security and Perimiter Guard in Sector 7 at a later point today) and then suddenly we come into the office today and our beautiful, idyllic heaven has been shattered by Mascella's flames of ineptitude. What an asshole, I bet he's totally flaccid all the time, even when he's with a woman.

    Anyway, the Shrimpertons assure us that Mascella left behind a mountain of evidence and he shall be located soon. Then our cold and massive vengeance will lay claim to his body and mind.
    It's actually kind of ironic that we had sex with his wife this morning. This totally saves us a trip back over there later in order to spitefuck her. I mean, we hadn't even yet heard the news of what he had done at that point this morning. Boy, she was a lousy lay. She wasn't even worthy of Shrimpjaw's virility (but we porked her anyway, take that poor Italian immigrant!).

    Anyway, how about that Jeg Blyan? Er, how about that Segg Splyin? Marg Ryrn? Meg Ryan? Really? Christ, I barely remember her. Was she the pitcher in 'A League of Their Own'? She was who? Sleepless in Seattle? When Harry Met Sally? Aren't those films from the 50's? That lady's still trying to be famous? Oh, okay, uhh, cool, I guess.
    So, yeah, in a desperate attempt to prove she's still sort of newsworthy, Meg Ryan adopted an asian baby last year (see Angelina, Mag Ryine can be cool and 'with it' too). After naming the baby 'Charlotte', Ryan was soon afflicted with a bout of crazy, and decided that the name Charlotte just wasn't cutting it.
    Said Ryann...
    "I already had to change her name...I thought she was Charlotte and she’s just not...she’s a Daisy."
    Oh...okay. So, Marge Blaine just HAD to change the baby's name, right? Totally, we can see it now. Meg walks into her baby's nursery and bends over the child's crib, tenderly whispering to it when something just suddenly screams "WRONG!" in the back of her mind...
    "Charlotte...wake up baby Charlotte. Charlo...Char...Ch...no...uh, Marla? Wake up, Marla. No, that CAN'T be right. Maple? Maaa-ple? No, you CANNOT be a Maple. Trixie? Trixxxx....Nathan? No, that's not even the right gender, yeesh. Come on, Marg Slyann, what's wrong with you? You can DO this! Find this baby's name! Pull it out of the wonderous cosmos! Darla? Dai....DAISY! OH GOD, YOU'RE A DAISY!"

    Now, I can see it's time for a quick personal note from the mighty Shrimpjawicus to Meg Ryan, so here goes; Hey Meg Ryan, you idiot, you can call a baby whatever the fuck you want. The baby does not have its own name, ok? It doesn't. There's no assigned name. Call a baby 'Facecrab', call it 'His Honourable Esteemed Lordship Chestwick R. Lamdfordshire; 2nd Earl of North Dunlophumbertsurrerysett', it doesn't fucking matter. God, I hate you Mig 29yan.

    Hey! Noticed how Britney has totally orca'd up? You're not the only one. That old Prince of Charm, K-Fed, has also noticed his wife's extra poundage. What does an upstanding gentleman do when his wife just ain't the "banging hottie" that she used to be? Why, deny her food of course...
    "Kevin Federline recently called Malibu's Moonshadoes restaurant prior to his wife's arrival in order to make special arrangements for his wife's meal. After Britney's party finished their meal, the waiter refused to bring out the dessert tray and reportedly told Britney: 'I'm sorry, Ms. Spears, but your husband called here a few minutes ago and told us you weren't allowed to have dessert. In fact, we've been told that no one at the table can have dessert--because you'll eat it.' "
    As much as a good idea as this plan actually was, K-Fed really has no room to talk on this one. I mean, it's pretty much his fault that Britney has fallen from masterbatory fantasy of 16 year olds nationwide to that lady you see lined up at 8:55 in the morning outside of "Joe's All You Can Eat Steak Factory", just licking her shanks in anticipation of that 9 o'clock opening time. If we were married to Federline (EDITOR'S NOTE - WE'RE NOT) we'd be eating everything in sight to block out the mental pain as well (EDITOR'S NOTE - NO AMOUNT OF FOOD CAN ERADICATE OUR ORGASM-INDUCING ABS).

    Seriously, Federline is such a toolbox. We used to have a K-Fedalarm that would sing its shrill siren-call everytime he did something idiotic, but that bitch wore out the third day after installation. Federline...Jesus fucking Christ. Remember when you were little and you would stick a kitten in a bag and then tie bricks to the bag so it would sink to the bottom of the lake faster? Yeah, if only that kitten were Federline. Although if he were that lonely, ill-fated kitten then the bag would be...that's right, our innocence. We would all drown that day. Ah, childhood, the loneliest state of all.
    See, writing novels is easy. Fuck you, Willa Cather. Faulkner? Hack. Absalom, Absalom, my ass.
    Monday, February 27th, 2006
    7:41 pm
    Supreme Court to Render Decision in Whore v. Corpse
    The time has come. The federal government has completely lost its shit in relation to what is and is not important. The Supreme Court has decided to hear the a case involving none other than Anna Nicole Smith.

    We're just going to give you a minute to ponder over that last sentence while we grab a ridiculously high proof beverage from our fully stocked bar.

    Yes, Anna Nicole Smith, a woman who is so pathetically idiotic that she makes Pamela Anderson look like Marilyn Vos Savant (Oh, you've never heard of her, simple reader? Shrimpjaw is shocked. Shocked) has been given the opportunity to have her case argued before the nation's highest court. Surely Ms. Smith's case must have been of the utmost importance. Perhaps her freedom of speech was being infringed upon, well, if you can call the mumbled gibberish that comes tumbling out past her super-botoxed lips "speech". Or maybe she was denied the right to have an abortion. Lord knows that at the rate she gets banged out (Kaak once calculated it at something along the lines of 68,996 gigabangs per minute.) it was going to happen eventually. I'm sure her son Daniel wishes that she had utilized that choice about twenty years ago, you know, before she did him the huge favor of having him cast in bit parts in two of her softcore porn movies. I'm sure that went over real well with his friends, "Hey dude, I was jerking off to 'Skyscraper' the other day and I totally saw you. High five! Oh, and could you steal some of your mom's underwear for me?" Yeah, his middle school years weren't at all awkward.

    Unfortunately, it turns out that the case involves an inheritance dispute over the $1.6 billion estate left by Smith's deceased oil tycoon husband Howard Marshall. What? You don't remember their storybook love affair? How a twenty-six year old Smith married a man sixty-three years her senior (We'll wait for you to do the math...ok, you were way off, but whatever.) only to have him die of stomach cancer a year later. Shrimpjaw is sure she was torn up about it, him being her one and only true love, and all. Smith is fighting with Marshall's son Pierce for half of the estate money. Christ, what's the big deal? It's only a measly 800 million. Shrimpjaw routinely finds that much money searching through the pockets of his finely tailored Italian silk pants. Now, why the Supreme Court would be interested in this particular case, seeing as it only hands down about 150 decisions a year, is beyond us, but we have two good guesses, and both of them are firmly (if not surgically) attached to Anna Nicole's torso. It would explain the comments current Chief Justice John Roberts made on taking the bench, and we quote, "God, what this place needs is some fucking TITTIES! U S A! U S A! U S A!" Judging from the current makeup of the court, we predict that anyone who wants to bone Smith is going to vote in her favor. Predicted outcome: 6:3, Sluts.

    It looks like George Michael has hit another career milestone. It seems that Andrew Ridgeley's better half was found by London police passed out inside his car in the middle of the night. He was arrested on suspicion of drug possession, but judging from the Britpolice's less than stellar track record with the eternally awesome Kate Moss (There was video of her snorting it, for fucks sake!) he should be ok. Well, no, maybe not ok, after all, he's still George Michael. Fuck, that guy really should have blown his brains out after "Faith". Oh, and what are the chances that this little tidbit makes it into Gwyneth Paltrow's next UK dicksucking diatribe? Yeah, that's what we thought.
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