Showing posts from March, 2010

Don’t Cry For Me, Tart-gentina

So, I’m trying to decide for whom I feel more sympathy; a rabid, garbage-eating, filthy-whiskered rat dipped in feces, or any one of Tiger Woods’ harem of hussies?

I’m going with the rat.

It’s bad enough that the public has been sucked into the private celebrity life of Woods in all its ingloriousness, but please stop assaulting my senses further with the constant loop of cry-baby sluts who think they actually have something to cry about. They don’t.

But cry they do, reading their feelings from a crumpled cocktail napkin moments before Gloria Allred wipes their noses with it, and then mugging for the camera with a look so indignant, it should growl.

Listen up bimbo brigade, nobody cares about what you’re “going though”, because what you’re going through, you created. “But I wuv him,” sobbed some bobble-headed porn star. “And, he lied (sniff, sob, blow). He owes me an apowogy. Wight, Glowia?”

Wrong. Nobody owes you a thing. When you make your bed with a married man, you lose the right – no …