Some might ask how the Munter is qualified to present a column delving into the the latest scuttlebutt from the world of celebrity given that he is not an entertainment writer based in Hollywood, but is actually a truck driver from Invercargill. However, since the new office girl cleaned out the lunchroom at the depot and chucked out all the old copies of FHM, replacing them with recent issues of New Weekly, he's had fuck-all else to do but read this shit.So with that as a way of setting the scene, please welcome our Mostly UNTruthful Entertainment Reporter, our very own Angela Bishop, with his debut column.
Megan, stop reading this and go to bed.
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Cheers for that, you queer. Take that fuckin' hat off for Christ's sake. Leprechauns aren't supposed to have ginger beards. And don't talk to me about Angela Bishop - as an entertainment reporter, she ain't the Munter's ballsack. And besides, she's fuckin' rubbish in the sack. Compared to her mum anyway.
G'day. Munter here. I'm here to talk to youse about the latest goings on in the world of entertainment. Now down here in Southland our ideas of what 'entertainment' covers seems to be a bit different from the brief your dodgy Doctor has given me - different strokes for different folks I guess - anyway we're proud people in Southland and we'll get our entertainment where we can get it, it's all harmless fun and the sheep never press charges.
So I'll be talking to you wankers about movies, music, TV, B-grade celebrity schtick and all that sort of bollocks which everyone claims they don't know anything about but every bastard somehow does. You know what I'm talking about. You arseclowns might claim to be sports fans but you know as well as buggery that 'Brangelina' isn't a brand of high-fibre laxative.
Or maybe it is. That's the fuckin' effect they have on me anyway.
Jesus fuckin' Christ, I can't keep crapping on about the Cruise for Two all bloody night
So apparently there was a bit of a wedding on a week or two back - it's all over these stupid chick mags which the new girl keeps leaving in the office - too glossy to use as bum fodder so we've resorted to actually reading the fuckin' things, or at least looking at the pictures. Anyway Tom Cruise, who used to be a movie star, and Katie Holmes (John Holmes' daughter), who used to be the little dark-haired thing you wanted to bang the arse off on Dawson's Creek (unless you preferred that fat chick who went on to marry Leaf Hedger), got married in a castle in Italy. Publicity hungry oxygen thieves from all over the world flocked to the venue, particularly wee Tom's fellow Scientology cult members, who were keen to see the virgin being sacrificed under the holy writ of the Great One L. Ron Hubbard... sorry, our lawyers would prefer it was just referred to as 'the ceremony'. See what happens when you name your cult leader after a Seppo corporation that's gone arse-up. John Travolta was there to make sure there was another Scientolofisted actor with an even more laughable recent career than Tombo's, while Brooke Shields came along so Katie could score some drugs.
One of your so-called big name celebrity guests was that former England soccer bloke David Beckham and his fuckin' skeletal missus whose modelling career has faded to the point that her only recent work is as the 'Before' photo for Anorexics Anonymous. However Becks, who was allegedly on the injured list for his Spanish club Keepin' It Real Madrid (changed the name to appeal to kids, supposedly) couldn't stay for the virgin sacrifice bit as he was dramatically recalled to Madrid (the same way Ford recall most of the cars they build) on the instruction of his coach Fabio Capello. This had some reporters making up some preposterous bullshit about the possibility of Becks actually getting a run in the Madrid first team. Of course, this did not eventuate, and in hindsight the chances of Becks getting into the first XI again on form are about the same as the likelihood that Suri Cruise is Tom's kid.
And speaking of which, given the track record of his last two marriages (Mimi Rogers reckoned he couldn't get it up; Nicole Kidman had to adopt because his boys couldn't do their own stunts), it's pretty obvious the midget ain't the dad. But I think we've cracked it as to who's actually gotten young Katie up the duff. Check out our indisputable photo evidence as proof...
All we can say to that is... nice work my son!
One question you might be able to answer for us though - if she really is John Holmes' daughter, does that mean she has a really enormous... look, I'll ask you about it later.
I hate these Reeses to pieces
To Hollywood breakup news, and the biggest story at the moment there is the marriage of Reece Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe going Boris Splatsky. The pair first met years ago when co-starring on that Cruel Intentions flick where Buffy told her brother he could stick it anywhere he liked. Not that unusual down here in Southland, but apparently it was a bit controversial elsewhere. Still, when all you've got to keep yourself occupied is a wooden stake, the girl's bound to get a bit toey. And sick of getting splinters too I guess. The other woman in the Reece versus Ryan story is apparently young Aussie hottie Abbie Cornish, best remembered as that Penne chick who you wanted to bang the arse off on SBS's Life Support. However the divorce papers have dug out much more fundamental reasons for the marriage dying in the arse - on the original marriage certificate, both lied about their names to make themselves sound more interesting. As it turns out, Ryan Phillippe's real name is Philip Ryan, and he's actually a plumber from Lithgow. Unsurprisingly, Reece is a stage name too. You don't reckon her parents would have deliberately named her after a place that sells bathroom stuff, surely? Abbie Cornish couldn't be reached for comment due to something about a restraining order that the Munter isn't supposed to talk about, so we won't.
The Juice is on the Loose
Rupert Murdoch did something very odd the other day: he made a business decision based on taste. The decision involved shitcanning the new book from OJ Simpson about the death of his wife and her 'friend' Ronald Jewishsurname, entitled If I Did It (or to give it its full title, If I Did It And Wrote A Book About It To Make Money, Wouldn't That Be A Fucking Cunt Of A Thing To Do.) However Murdoch's publishing company have maintained that the Simpson tell-all wasn't given the arse due to the enormous public groundswell against the book, but because noone at the publishers could figure out whether the thing would need to be filed under Fiction or Non-Fiction.
It's not only Brad Pitt who stars in showings of Snatch
So what's the latest B-grade celebrity craze sweeping Hollywood? The Breatharian diet? Colonic irrigation? Being a fucking moron? Well, yes. But there's also something which we can all enjoy. Celebrity starlets getting their vertical bacon sandwich out in public! Yes, the dumbest women in the world have banded together and have collectively decided to (a) wear ridiculously short skirts to premieres, (b) forget to wear panties, and (c) try to get out of limos with both (a) and (b) in effect, with hordes of horny male paparazzi standing around with the long-lens out (if you know what I mean) ready to zoom in on a glimpse of the old fish co-op. For those of you sad bastards who are keen for a bit of a perve on some celebrity vag - for some reason the guvnor reckons that we'll get in the shit if we post the shots here, so just use Google Image Search like every other sad bastard who's keen for a bit of a perve on some celebrity vag.
First to kick off the flash-the-gash-for-cash routine was every paparazzi's favourite slag, Paris Hilton, who's managed to parlay getting her nasty out into a profitable career. Granted, the paparazzi have more often than not needed to bust out the wide-angle lens, but it was a decent first effort. Next up was her little mate Lindsay Lohan, who proved once and for all that she really was a ginga; and most recently Britney Spears, another of their mateship circle, aired her shaven haven as some kind of show of independence and female strength following her divorce from Fed-Ex. Or was it just because she's a skanky ho? Hollywood gossip columnists have been arguing the toss (and tossing over the argument) all week. However we can exclusively report on the REAL REASON Britney's gone the Sharon Stone option and ended up with her kebab in print - it's the only way her kids will recognise her, given that's the last thing they would have seen of her.
Is that you, Mommy?
Anyway folks, on that sour note (actually more fishy than anything) that's all the Munter's got for you lot this time around. We'll be back again real soon, unless the lawyers get to us first.
Until next time... Copulater.
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