Break Ups & Make Ups
Canadians, please accept my eh-pologies when it comes to Avril Lavigne’s separation from Nickelback’s Chad Kroeger. It’s not every day two musical heavyweights who have provided such lyrical genius as “Dominoes, but who knows?” and “Chill out, what you yelling for?” decide to split. Married for two years, divorce rumors have plagued the couple since last September, but an official announcement was made Wednesday on Instagram. Avril confirmed that she and Chad are done. Divorce wasn’t mentioned, but I’m assuming they’ll end up in court to fight it out over assets, including Chad’s huge stash of Revlon Frost & Glow® kits.
Paul Briley, one of five fans shot during a Chris Brown appearance at a San Jose, California nightclub in January, is suing the rapper for not providing enough security at the venue. According to TMZ, Paul filed a lawsuit claiming that the violent shit tends to hit the fan whenever Chris performs, and that measures should have been taken to increase safety measures. Paul says the injuries he suffered in the shooting are permanent, so I have my fingers crossed he scores enough settlement money to hire a financial adviser willing to smack him upside the head and say, “Stop spending your money on stupid shit like tickets to Chris Brown performances.”
It’s been a banner week for Miley Cyrus and by banner, I mean I want to roll her up in one and stuff her in a high school basement incinerator like that one scene in Grosse Pointe Blank. Reaching down a good half-inch into her tired bag of tricks, Miley did the absolute most while wearing the absolute least while hosting MTV’s Video Music Awards. The tongue was out. Inanimate objects were humped. One of her tits popped out to say “hi” to the East Coast feed. And the after-party—which also served as a launch for her shitacular album Miley Cyrus and her Dead Petz—turned out to be little more than a cesspool of fake cocaine lines, guests bobbing for dicks in tubs of milk, and pictures of genitals on the walls. Party planning by Peenterest? (I hate myself.)
Dear Dancing with the Stars,
I want to offer my congratulations on finally roping me into watching Season 932 of your show with the announcement of a certain contestant. Backstreet Boy Nick Carter didn’t do it for me. The promise of watching Paula Deen sweating out her breakfast stick of butter wasn’t enough. Even Bindi Irwin, some fetal Vine star I’ve never heard of, and Chaka Kahn couldn’t reel me in. But toss Gary Busey and his special brand of crazy into the mix, and suddenly I’m in so far I’m hitting cervix. If you wouldn’t mind giving him the microphone for no less than thirty-seven minutes of each broadcast and allowing him to spew his beautiful word salad every week, I will be a devoted watcher until his ass voted off do we part.
This original piece by Megan was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured photos in collage (edited) courtesy of Avril Lavigne (Instagram), Chris Brown (Instagram), Miley Cyrus (Instagram), and Channel 5 (UK).