The fill-in-the-number-heresomething drama gramma of Ashton Kutcher's Oedipus obsession (E-Hollywood Docudrama #291, at right, to bring us eyeballs) is denying the whispers that her bristling balcony -- sheesh, an Oakland Raider could do chin-ups on those boobs -- are the handiwork of science, and not the type of jealouse God who would order a Yankee-Redsock game to be rescheduled rather than compete with reruns of "Barnaby Jones."
Says the smokin' hot vixenette from "G.I. Jane" and "St. Elmo's Fire:"
'It's completely false - I've never had it done... But I would never judge those who have. If it's the best thing for them, then I don't see a problem."
Quick: Who does this sound like?
Yep.
Papi, the former Christlike manifestation of pure love, before the whispers became news accounts. He was always stressing that, while he hadn't plunged needles of fortifying jib into his ample seat dumpster, he could understand why the lesser lights would need a little -- ahem -- surge syrup.
Maybe they have psychological implants. Right, Papi? (Pictured below, to drive eyeballs away from this site.)
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1 comment:
Ive tried to read this post 4 times now. I give up. Im sure it was funny.
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