Wednesday, March 23, 2016

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Tad was gorgeous as hell per fucking usual in his ELEVENPARIS Basquiat t-shirt, True Religion jeans with the tasteful rips near the crotch and American Rebel cowboy boots. Oh. Yeah, motherfucker. He was rocking a pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. And you know it, bitch. He was smelling to kill thanks to that AXE Anarchy shower gel he scrubbed his dick, balls, asshole and every damn thing else with in his Simple Luxe shower.

Kammi was equally fucktabulous in her Kate Spade pleated shirtdress, Giuseppe Zanotti sandals and Chanel sunglasses. She exuded that ever alluring Guilty by Gucci perfume cloud. Her naturally appealing face (no plastic yet...don't hate...don't hate) was naked except for Urban Decay Deep Berry Wine matte lipstick. She was carrying a Granny Smith apple green Yves Saint Laurent clutch. Stop hating. Kammi's mother died when she was three months old and her dad's a raging sex addict currently consuming Wife #6 and the nine or ten Playboy Bunnies he keeps on the side.

Tad and Kammi were enjoying the vibes and the sushi at Mastro's Penthouse. They just got it like that, boo. You must content yourself with Cracker Barrel and sometimes Chili's. Lo siento.

"And I was, like, literally loving it. I mean...full body massage? You know what I mean? It was, like, so...soothing? You know? How does life, like, get any better?" Tad said in between sips of lemon water. Kammi nodded. She knew the feeling pretty fucking well.
"Yeah, totally," Kammi said.

A hair band (Poison, Motley Crue, Warrant...Ratt, maybe) drummer's ex-wife walked by with her matching poodle. An US Weekly photographer snapped a shot from the bushes.

Then a Kardashian entered the restaurant with her latest accessory, a retired child star with fabulous fingers. Everyone waved, smiled, pretended to care.

Paradise Kitty would be performing at The Viper Room in two hours. Anybody who was anybody was going. It was, like, going to be sick. Literally.

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