Peckerwood Manor

Welcome, fellow trollops, to the latest edition of "Who's This Week's Thirstiest Ho?" Today's trio are drier than the driest piece of Melba Toast, so your choice will be difficult. First, we have perpetual gold-digging mattress-actress, Sam Asghari, who hit the big-time when he married Britney Spears (code name Backwater Barbie). Almost immediately, she started yapping about family and them poppin' out a big ol' litter of chirruns, which Sam was totally into because who doesn't want to be a bio-dad Kevin Federline once divorce rears its head. Ka-ching ka-ching, and all you have to do is convince the judge that you're the better parent, which, let's be honest, is easier than a dead whore in the case of our Batshit Brit-Brit. But something funny happened on the way to dadimony. Either Sam couldn't spunk inside Britney's no doubt vajazzled vadge - the zircons spell out "Bagina" because that's what she called it as a four-year

Before anyone gets all up in their feelings about Britney and her issues, let's, as a collective nod, recognize that she has all sorts of problems and accept that we all know it and that it probably, regrettably, won't have a happily ever after. We already know the inevitable ending to these sorts of celebrity life stories. We knew it with Anna Nicole Smith. We knew this about numerous child stars who were irrevocably broken, like Brad Renfro or Amanda Bynes. We know the entertainment industry grinds and chews through tender innocence cruelly and mercilessly, then tosses the carcasses on a trash heap once they have bled the celebrity dry.  We acknowledge that Britney has been a victim of many things at the hands of a callous family, industry vultures, genetics, and enormous greed. We also know she can be self-centered, oblivious, mentally erratic, and lives absurdly untethered to reality. All that said, I find it surprising and remarkable that she did something sort of outrageo

Welcome, my chickens, to the latest edition of "Who's The Thirstiest Ho?" First up, we have Mark Ruffalo, who's baring his man teats and arm pitties for all to see while posing like a bloated squid that's tranqued on benzos and ready for either a wee nap or a moment of lazy-I'll-just-flop-here-and-you-do-me sexytimes-while-my-tushy-burps-a-blaster. I s this thirsty? Oh, my goodness, yes it is.   Also, what is "Perfect" magazine? And do they really think this dead-eyed crusty moose-knuckle is "perfect" or "sexy?" This picture screams raunchy unwashed ball stank, it screams a desperate combover to hide a beachball-sized bald spot, it screams a filthy hairy back sprouting mushrooms and infested with gnats and fermented feta cheese, it screams crutch tips and house slippers and dried earwax specks dotting a black turtleneck and power walking at the mall and nipple-high pants and enough nose hair to knit a sweater.  "I'm 55 no

Did you know? It's National Vanilla Cupcake Day! Crazy, right? What ghey do they tie up in a backroom and force to come up with these holidays? And what, you ask, does Britney have to do with this (beyond being a "Hi'ya!" to Madame Fleur, our resident Brit-Brit expert)? Thanks for asking! You see, the very idea of vanilla got me to thinking:  What's Good Vanilla and Bad Vanilla? For example, I think we can all agree that in her heyday, Britney was Good Vanilla and put out excellent vanilla pop music for the masses. Similarly, I think we can all agree that Chet Haze is Bad Vanilla, and on any day, past or present, puts out bad vanilla rap for the few incels who listen to him.  Below, I've put together two lists that I hope you can add to, if only to lead your fellow Peckers to Good Vanilla things, and help them street clear of the bad.  GOOD VANILLA 1) Britney. For reasons elaborated upon above. 2) Whitney Houston. Don't hate. In the early peak of her caree

I thought about writing about something else first, but it involves my girl (not really) Britney, and I seem to be the Peckerwood expert in residence.  I am no stranger to the problems associated with Hip Hop and its long history of misogyny. Some of the songs I love, or I have to accept it was a different time, or else I wouldn't like the genre. As a feminist, this always filled me with conflict because I am a Hip Hop Head. I would write about hip-hop gossip, but I don't think Peckerwood is much like 90s Vibe magazine.  This, however, deserves an airing because it goes straight to how some men really think about women but also the act of separating the artist from their art. How do you choose when to move on and when to cancel someone for good? I will shamefully watch old Miramax films, but I won't go near Woody Allen or Kevin Spacey. It is hypocritical in some aspects, but I think we all have our own lines in the sand. Timbaland, love or hate him, could make some bangers

The Woman In Me is explosive. It is like dynamite, and a grenade had a baby and was launched into the atmosphere, illuminating some things that filled in  some  holes that were question marks while leaving others totally unanswered. The childhood portion was too long, and I sped through it, pausing at the eyebrow-raising parts, skipping over some descriptive parts, and finally switching to the audiobook. If I won't read Ernest Hemingway because I hate how fucking long he takes to get to the main point, I am not going to read through her talking about lying on warm rocks. His books are torturous for me, so I finally stopped, hitting the big titles and skipping others, but this was easy and short to listen to while doing other things.  It is an example of her telling her story and me reading between the lines. I begged to differ; ma'am, in some sections, she can get dreamy and escapist sometimes in others, like someone who is never really in reality and spends time in fugue state

Greetings, Manor Hors! Periodically, "The Roving Pecker" presents urgent missives from filthy esteemed guest writers. Today's is from Saucy Kitty! It seems as if everybody has a memoir out nowadays, but maybe that’s because the three latest memoir authors, Britney Spears, Jada Pinkett-Smith and John Stamos have been blabbing all over the place to any media outlet that will give them coverage. But did we know that Julia Fox also put out her memoir in October? No? Maybe it’s because nobody cares now that she’s not “dating” Kanye.  Or maybe it's because she’s such a glamourpuss that we mere mortals can’t see her by way of our own, surely busted fashun radars. Regardless, Julia has put out a book, which is quite aptly named, “Down the Drain,” as that’s where I wish she’d go every time her weirdly “toned” body and “daring fashion choices” hit my screen. Even before the book was released, Julia herself proclaimed it to be "a masterpiece," which almost seems like

Breaking news! Justin Timberlake (pictured above during his "I'ma Kewl Gangsta" phase) is a mangy, soft-nutting cock sneeze who stomps on women to get what he wants, then lies about them in public - then later tries to say, "Aw, but it's all in the past, yo. We cool now," as if he'd merely friendzoned the women in question, as if his mean girl fuckery was acceptable both then and now. "Oh my dong, you don't say!" you say, because this is brand new information. I keed, I keed. We've all known Timberlake to be a punk-ass cheeseball for some time, only now, like a screeching Karen who finally gets called out after complaining about a Black girl using the sidewalk (to walk!), Justin seems to be getting ripped a new one on the daily these days. And, gosh, I don't think even his K-K-Karen Gurl Kornrows are going to help. Sad emoticon.  I should first note that I've never been particularly interested in Britney, the spiller of all the