(credit where it’s due)

Man, this is the most boring pron ever.

Celebrity sex tapes can be a great time, especially when they are leaked, and the subjects don’t see it coming. We’re entertained for different reasons. We were so stoked to know that Paris Hilton was as shitty a lay as we knew in our hearts she would be. We tittered sympathetically at Tommy Lee’s massive belly rope and how it fit in the vagina we’d wanted to see for some time. We gasped in mock puritan disgust at what Martin Lawrence did to that tranny hooker – - what? You don’t have that one? Oh, snap, come over tomorrow night. We’ll have Cold Duck and pizza bagels.

Ok, now I want you to mentally picture the celebrities you would not want to see in a leaked sex tape. The list is shorter than you think, once you put your mind to the task. Celebrity does strange things to tolerance levels, and morbid curiosity covers everybody else from Tori Spelling up to, say, Jon Lovitz.

Now I want you to bump that list down by one. That’s right, Precious just made your maybe list, because life just hacked up what you didn’t want to know was your actual #1.

Maybe we should just make the list go to 11

A [recently filmed] sex tape featuring former professional wrestler Hulk Hogan has surfaced, according to TMZ. [Huffpost]

Now you can’t stop thinking about it either. Share in my pain! I have never heard of anything more unnecessary in my entire life. The homoerotic spectacle of 1990s WWF footage has been more than plenty for anyone who found him attractive when he wasn’t ninety years old. Any chick who was in her early twenties at the time had a 70% chance of firsthand knowledge, if they wanted it. The worst part isn’t the part that someone thought this tape should be shopped, the worst part is that they and the distributor are bound to make a shit ton of cash.

In the clip, Hogan sports a thong-shaped tan line and pulls off his shirt to inform his female friend, who is not his ex-wife, Linda Hogan [a twat, btw - ed], or his current wife, Jennifer McDaniel, that he started working out again.

Wachu gonna do when Hulkamania goes wild all over your face?

Gah! Stop! I know! I actually imagined that exact scenario when you told me there was a Hulk Hogan sex tape. Put ‘em away, bitch tits! No matter how you sculpt them, they’re still rotting orange-peel wrapped old eggplant pecks, because you’re ninety! “Check out my 24 centimeter pythons.” Shut up, man. If you want to tan, that’s between you and the skank, but decency calls for some board shorts or something. Christ, tell me – tell me, you pig fucker – you don’t go to the beach in a thong.

You know how you never could actually smell what The Rock was cooking? And how you were pretty thankful for that? It’s like that. Subconsciously, I knew he had sex at least two or three times because they shoved Hulk’s stupid, rich, untalented get in our faces relentlessly for a couple years. Not until now did I have to congeal that knowledge into anything resembling a cogent mental picture.

Wachu say?! No, seriously, your ears start going around the 50 year mark...

If you’ll allow me an anecdote: My folks were kind enough to hold my fifth birthday celebration at Chuck E Cheese’s. I remember distinctly getting a crapload of Hulk Hogan gear. Weird punker hats with “HULKAMANIA” emblazoned across the front. Bandannas, fake mustaches, glistening balm, the whole nine. For weeks I ran around yelling, “Eat your vitamins, brother!” and tackling the retarded kid down the street. Weeks! My birthday is in mid-June, I had two months of nothing to do but tackling retarded kids wearing ridiculous blue and red accoutrements.

Those blissful summer memories are now irretrievably tarnished. Can you imagine the conversation you would have with 5 year old me? Yeah, kid, wear the bandana, but in 1999 he turns into a bad guy, and in 2012 you are going to see his strapping, sixty year old, naked ass semi-rhythmically pounding some strange whore hoping to get on his reality show. “What’s a reality show?” I would have asked. “It’s kind of like a celebrity sex tape,” you would have replied, “only you don’t care about anybody that’s on it, and there’s less dignity.” Why the hell would you tell a kid that, you dick?

Hogan’s lawyer David Houston released a statement expressing that his client is “appalled at the unauthorized release of a secretly filmed video,” adding, “[Hogan] neither approved of the filming nor the release of the same. It is clearly an outrageous invasion of privacy and breach of trust if it is genuine.”

We’re all appalled, Hulk. More than you can possibly know, but thank you for granting that all the same. But an “outrageous breach of trust”? Come now. You’ve been having your way with bar whores and skanky hangers on for upwards of thirty years. What made you trust this one? Did she say you could while you were in your vinegar strokes, because I’ve been burned by that trick before, too. If I were him, I’d be searching hotel rooms for webcams and paparazzi every time I picked a bitch up, or bringing them back to my safe room every time. Hope you didn’t let any bank account numbers slip while you were busy making your tits dance, dummy. Any final words from a former hero?

To all my little Hulkamaniacs, say your prayers, take your vitamins and you too can pose naked in front of a half-interested prostitute.

Hey now, keep that left pinky where I can see it.

To reiterate the mission statement of Scumbag Style penned some two and a half years ago: “Scumbag Style seeks to permanently eliminate the language of the sex scandal, whether a media personality has an affair, lets some grainy cell phone mirror pics for her boyfriend slip, or a sex tape is released. Nay, these are not scandals, but fodder for general happiness. Call them ‘sexyrific’ or ‘nakedpicture-bations,’ but never an outrage.”

Scandal is usually too negative a word for these blessed events, and it insinuates that, while we’ll be happy to capitalize on them, we normies are above such things. As if anyone wanted to spread naked pictures of you on the internet. Remember when Vaneesa Hudgens sent Zach Effron those nudey pics (some of them have disappeared), and ‘somehow’ they ended up on all our desktops? Was anybody scandalized? Or did we all silently thank whoever was treacherous enough to betray the trust of two Disney stars, and save them for viewing later where our wives couldn’t find them? Well, we at SBS will be the first to admit that every philosophy has its downside.

For instance, just recently, a pregnant Jessica Simpson did what weird people call a tasteful nudey cover for Elle. Shortly thereafter, Atlantic Wire’s Jen Doll did the unthinkable by criticizing the decision. “What?” your liberal media brainwashed brain might say. “But she’s pregnant. She’s beautiful! DON’T YOU THINK SHE’S BEAUTIFUL? What kind of monster would not want to look at her totally nude?” Really, all Ms Doll wanted to know was if anyone else thought this shit was getting old.

Too much more.

As a woman, it has to burn when you pose nude in the same fashion as hundreds of other women over the course of decades, and the entertainment world wonders if it is getting old when you take your turn. Especially when it is supposed to be a bold, empowering photo, like it was in the early nineties when Demi Moore did it.

The once-controversial photo, shot by VF photographer Annie Leibovitz, has lost its sting much in the same way that Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” after being aped by generations of quivering “American Idol” contestants, has: It becomes diluted through overuse. [Huffpost]

Now? It’s old to see preggos naked now? It took twenty-one fucking years for society at large to say, “Huge woman with a parasite living in it? Not for me.” Admittedly, our cursory awareness of what was happening under all those maternity moomoos was insufficient in 1991, and it took a woman like Demi Moore to remind us there’s a war zone under there. Just like it took Demi to show us just how heinous a pussy bush could grow in Playboy to truly appreciate the amateur gardening our own women do for our benefit.

Don't look, Marion! Keep your eyes shut!

Are these photoshopped monstrosities supposed to make us forget the horrors that are pregnancy?  The constipation, the ralphing, the bitchiness, the eating of the sardines, the ‘do you still think I’m pretties’? For those dudes who can and have tolerated that in their personal lives, god love ya, and your lovely ladies love ya. But I doubt those same men, or any person really, needs to be reminded of all that messiness in their sex symbols. How am I supposed to crank one out to Dukes of Hazard when I’ve looked into the abyss of that cavernous belly button, and wondered how many midgets could cram in there?

Get a good look fellas, because soon my ass and my ankles will be indistinguishable.

It isn’t “bold” to airbrush your stretch marks and photoshop those purple underarm pustules and advertise you got knocked up. It isn’t “empowering” to hold overflowing, overly mammoth mammaries six inches higher than they’ve avalanched and pretend you’re better endowed than you have been since we’ve been made to witness your career. It isn’t “controversial” that you’re pregnant; I watched one stray dog do that to another stray dog from my perch at the bar the other night. If anything, it is outrageous that your spawn sack is taking up cover space from truly accomplished women, like poets, actual musicians, and comedians. And for the rest of us, outside of your fetishists who are having a great day today (holla!), I don’t think we have to apologize for finding this gross shit intolerable when forced on us in the checkout line.

I do agree that this particular instance brings to light an important issue, particularly as it concerns Jessica. We haven’t seen a sexy picture or video of her for years. She had a tough couple of years, and plumped up. You might hit your favorite vice too, like an adopted kid when the real one died, if you got dumped by the forgettable one from 5ive, your daddy was a lecherous fuck, and you had to settle for Billy Corgan’s port-wine stained little nubbin. That’s forgivable.

Wardrobe provided by Lane Bryant's "Butt Belly" department.

The problem was, she kept trying to perform, and half the world mocked her for being a fatty. Immediately, the other half jumped down our throats. “Hey, asshole, you don’t get to call her names and throw ding dongs at her because she is fat! She’s a human being – - a woman – - and she doesn’t have to live up to your impossible physical ideals to be a person deserving of respect and dignity!”

Also, you have to spell women with a "y" now, because I don't understand what etymology is.

Ugh. No, but she does have to live up to some degree of attractiveness if she wants to perform like she is. If she doesn’t, we have every right to call her fatty lezcakes and set her up in a pancake batter dunk tank. Why? Because as a performer, her hotness was all she had going for her. Her music was ass even by the pop standards of the early aughts, she didn’t write any of it, her voice was substandard compared to Britney and Christina, she couldn’t dance all that well – - literally the only reason we, as a discerning body of slathering entertainment junkies, let her have a career is because she was easy on the eyes, and men and women alike could imagine themselves in that tush.

Nobody ever mocked Aretha Franklin for taking up three seats at the Grammys. Nobody of consequence told Sinead O’Connor to grow her hair out like normal girls. Whitney Houston, a greater professional and better performer than Simpson could ever hope to be, had the grace to drop the hell out of the game when she did a couple of shows three or four years ago and realized, “Shit, I don’t have a voice anymore.” Then she had the good grace to die.

There was a time when Jessica Simpson was on the top ten list of every adolescent male. She chose to use that time cockteasing in Daisy Dukes instead of doing some tasteful early morning Cinemax films, and that was her prerogative. But now, when she’s 8 ½ months deep in Simpson the Hutt mode with no career to speak of, it is not the right time to strip down and deface the cover of a magazine. Now is the time to learn some chords and become a folk singer, or pack it in and work in a tollbooth. Inflicting your condition on the Western World is no longer an option.

Ah yes, mature enough to be a mom, still saying OMG.

A pink sundress-clad Snooki, she argues, makes a more forward-thinking statement on her pregnancy cover for Life & Style by the mere fact that she’s clothed.

‘Nuff said. Snooki making a better statement than anybody isn’t quite an excuse to mandate you stay home ‘til you squeeze the little bastard out, but can we at least put the kibosh on making statements altogether? Put it away, we don’t want to see you ‘til you get better.

We will be using the medium of babies to express how we feel about this scenario.

the superlative increase be “going to towns”? These are articles about some of those people who merely went to town in their ridiculousness, but did not fully commit by going to towns.)

“For the first time in years I felt sexually alive.”

The headline reads: Indiana Grandmother  Is Having A New Baby. With Her Grandson. It´s from yet another retarded “mom blog.” She is 72, he is 26. They didn´t know each other for most of his life (there was some kind of adoption scenario, who cares?), but when they met, it wasn´t even a matter of time before they were slapping pink wrinkly against gray wrinkly in the game of horizontal shuffleboard.

“I called Phil into my bedroom, sat him on the bed, and then I leant over and kissed him.”

They are in love, they make fulfilling, passionate, incredibly careful whoop, and they are going to be parents.

“I never in a million years thought at 72 I’d be ‘pregnant’ and in love with my grandson.”

The entire scenario is so deliciously groady, so horrifically and philosophically rank  that it rolls around the mouth like well aged santorum (c´mon, catch up).  In case we weren´t clear, Scumbag Style completely endorses this – - wait what?

The pair paid $54,000 (£35,000) to find a surrogate mother and buy a donor egg to inseminate with Phil’s sperm.

Let us get this straight, Phil. You went far enough to engage in a multi-generational incestuous…. nyehhh carnal relationship with your grandmother. You decided, against the very dictates of nature, to make a frigging baby with this woman who may not live to see the birth, let alone Junior Prom. You are able to describe, in graphic, hilariously nauseating detail, your first kiss and subsequent sex life with what amounts to a living sex doll made of rheumatism, arthritis, and extra skin who is also related to you. You did all of this and you didn´t have the decency to grant us the opportunity for a couple of retard jokes?

This one isn´t even cute.

That was pretty inconsiderate, Phil. You choose now to do the responsible thing? Your entire adult life has been the setup to a monumental knock knock joke of proportions H.P. Lovecraft couldn´t have imagined, and you chuck the punch line at the last minute? You bastard! We mean, shit, the author of this SBS post is a whole year older than you, and he isn´t entirely sure he is old enough to make the kind of sexual decisions you are making for yourself, and you go ahead and get all conscientious on us?

Listen, bro. Nobody is judging your relationship. We bet you are madly in lust, absolutely in love, and up until now, we wished you the best. We just also thought it was super icky, like Garbage Pail Kids. Exactly like Garbage Pail Kids. Because remember when you collected all the cards, and these kids were just plain hilariously gross? And then they made the movie and you saw your trashed out, scummy assed friends once destined for toothless, methy gutter laughs suddenly singing songs about friendship and working together and good civic duty and shit? That´s what you´re doing to our fun, and we don´t appreciate it. If you´re going to be a scumbag, embrace it! You don´t half-ass the scumbaggery.

She´s not even going to technically be the mother now, you realize. You bought eggs and rented a womb. This is your baby! She friggin´ tricked you! She´s just going to be the great grandmother, and you´re just producing your own competition. When she´s 96, she´s going to trade up to the newer model of you. I… gar! You had potential, Phil. And you blew it.

This baby feels better now that he has ralphed. You make babies ralph. High five.

 *As an aside: Mothers, I understand you want pictures of your ugly-assed spawn all over the internets, taking up space that could be used for valuable info. Shit, I want it too, obviously, I need these things. But for fuck´s sake, they don´t need to all be 2000×2000 pixels. It only makes it harder on the people who want to exploit them for a cheap laugh.