At one point in their lives, everyone Googles themselves. Personally, I always add my name to an Internet search just to make sure the pornography I'm about to look at involves me. But here are eight individuals who are so self-obsessed that they don't even need nudity to masturbate when they find themselves on the Web. Please enjoy 8 Assholes Who Found This Article By Googling Themselves.
Her real name is Tila Nguyen because the people of Vietnam never invented a second last name. Which means asking Vietnamese children to line up alphabetically is as confusing and impossible as asking Tila Tequila for her hat size.
If it gets her attention, Tila will try it. She's faked pregnancies, Tweeted about domestic abuse and she was the only survivor from her engagement to a woman. She had a bisexual reality dating show that gave my Tivo genital sores. It was so disgusting that cable providers didn't even give episode descriptions. They gave warnings:
Boston went on to do I Love Money, a reality show that humiliated fame whores without the pretext of finding them dates, and one game involved everyone cramming money into their speedos. This was a problem for Mr. Boston since he'd already secretly filled his speedo with toilet paper to disguise his medically hilarious penis. He had a tough decision to make. Almost immediately, he on camera began removing wad after wad of dick padding from his panties to make room for cash. There has never been a clearer visual metaphor for someone trading their dignity for money. Mr. Boston will let you crap in his mouth if you promise to write him a check and tell people about it.
So here's his reality: Mr. Boston is now famous for having a tiny dong, being terrible with women and looking like a late term abortion in his speedo. Unfortunately, Mr. Boston stopped paying attention to reality after the word "famous." He thinks of himself as an ordinary celebrity and he has tried to parlay that into freeing his tubular tofu body of its virginity. Two female friends of mine have met Mr. Boston and verified that he immediately propositioned them for casual sex. So casually in fact that they thought he might not know what sex actually is. On a "Where Are They Now?" special, a tour of his home revealed that he keeps his latest STD results posted on his bedroom door so any of his "groupies" feel more comfortable giving him sex. It had all the practicality of a zombie defense plan, but seemed even less likely to be necessary.
Sex is an empty-eyed nerdy creep obsessed with becoming not only a celebrity, but a sexy male sex icon. As he describes it, he wants to be like a Brittney Spears, only the boy version. He's categorically insane, and as you can imagine, didn't dance very well in his audition. He moves like his knees failed their saving throws against bending and the parking cones inserted 15 years ago by his high school bullies seem to still be in there. He's got the grace of chicken rape.
Luckily, when the dance judges screamed at him for wasting everyone's time, his mother was there to defend him and his sex appeal. It was all so perfectly insane that it had to be a prank, right? Wrong. Sex was already well known by many people in the dance community as the strange man in the back of the class. And on that subject, what goes through the head of a dad who drops his daughter off for ballet and sees "Sex" in her class? Does he come back after rehearsal, or does he just plan on picking her up in the woods after her classmate named Sex strangles her and dumps the body?
After failing to make it as a dancer, Sex has gone on to audition for a couple other reality shows and his mom still drives him to the So You Think You Can Dance auditions every year. It's cute for her to support her son's chemical imbalance, but Sex could do a routine in the center of 300 sudden epileptic seizures and the paramedics would still stop and comment how he's the shittiest dancer in the room. He's such a clumsy attention whore that you'd swear you're watching a barking sea lion wrestle to the top of a pile.
I almost feel sorry for Sex. Not because he's got the mind of a little girl, but because when he obsessively Googles his name, he has to go through 27,000 pages of birth canals mixed with God-knows-what before he finds any mention of himself. A guy named Sex has more trouble finding himself on the Internet than a guy named Nguyen has finding his chair at a Vietnamese wedding reception.
Let me show you an example. The following is a comment from an article I wrote about Daredevil prematurely ejaculating. It was from someone named Angelina Jolie: "Super Senses? Yeah hes got game! http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1292175/ Bagged chicks into the triple digits (lucky ladies)!"
This seemed strange because no one has "bagged chicks" since 1961, and because Angelina Jolie isn't type of person to butt into a comic book discussion to rant about irrelevant Canadian cocks. So I asked Cracked's computer experts to send me any other comments he might have made. They came back with over 60 almost exactly like it. One of my favorites comes from an article I wrote that had nothing to do at all with Jennifer Aniston, where someone with the username "Aniston is gettin some!" wrote: "Hey as anyone else read that this guy is filling up Jennifer regularly like a hot water bottle? http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1292175/ If so good for him. If so good for her (she needs some loosening up from the backside!)."
While it was good to finally answer the question of which background actor's penis would be the best cure for Friends star Jennifer Aniston's constipation, I was starting to see a pattern. Sure enough, all of these comments came from the same IP address which is a computer's way of saying, "I KNOW THAT IS YOU, NEIL FIFER."
A Google search revealed that someone was going around the Internet and informing everyone that Neil Fifer was going to be the next Captain America and he was also sleeping with Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston. It was so obvious to everyone who this was and what he was doing that no other commenter ever bothered to ask, "Who the hell is Neil Fifer and why are you doing this, Neil Fifer?" The closest he ever came to getting a response was when he made another fake name to agree with the first that Angelina Jolie was very lucky to have such a handsome yet mysterious dick inside her.
Do we not send our good TV shows to Canada? Because I could have sworn I saw the PG-rated version of this on Arrested Development. Neil Fifer's next publicity stunt is probably going to be putting on a dress, buying surgical sutures and telling the drugstore clerk that he's repairing his backside that was so ably loosened by actor Neil Fifer who can be contacted through his agency, Fifer Equities, Inc. and is available for voice over work and Bar Mitzvahs.
He acts like a bitchy queen and looks like Edward G. Robinson's face was genetically modified to create a blowjob assembly line, but he's such an offensive caricature that I don't think he's actually gay. He acts like an eight-year-old whose only experience with gay culture is the He-Man cartoon from the 80s decided to pretend to be gay for Halloween. Of course, even if he's straight, Ian Bernardo would suck a horse off if he thought it would make The Farm Report. And if he is really gay, that wouldn't stop him from sleeping with his sister in exchange for 20 seconds of her attention.
On the American Idol 2010 Finale, Dane Cook performed a terrible song and let Ian and other rejects like Floppy Lovehandles Girl on stage. Ian Bernardo immediately grabbed the microphone and announced that he was Ian Bernardo. I've seen fake suicides that were less pathetic. While Ian was in the middle of whining for everyone to look at him, some other attention whore thought that he had a great idea and tried the same thing. He had to fight the microphone away from her. In this article's final animal kingdom analogy, they were like two baby birds begging for their mother's vomit and then watching it fly away when it smelled that they'd been handled by strange human hands.
Heidi and Spencer are so desperate for us to hear about their personal lives, that it's almost a philosophical victory to not know anything about them. Which is why I feel good about reporting this as fact: Heidi Montag had to power sand her crotch to a smooth finish because her husband can't reach the back of a bottle cap with his dick. They're currently going through a divorce, so it's nice to know we officially live in a world where gay unions damage the sanctity of marriage but these two genetic diarrhea bags are allowed to use divorce as a publicity stunt.
There are certain curse words we save for special occasions just so when we meet someone who so clearly deserves our worst one like Heidi Montag we have a word strong enough to describe her. Heidi's obsession with cosmetic surgery has turned her into a patchwork ghoul of plastic and ass fat. She even got something called a "back scoop." I'm too scared to Google it, but I'm absolutely certain this is a procedure where a doctor takes a post hole digger and carves out room for all her former stepfathers to have sex with her at the same time.
If you punched this thing in the "face," it would squirt donkey lips and saline bags out its spinal blowholes and you'd be arrested for tampering with medical waste. She's gone on to become a singer, or more accurately, her swelled gash of a once-human mouth has been modified into a delivery system for bioweapons.
Heidi and her little bitch of a husband actually wrote a book called How To Be Famous: Our Guide to Looking the Part, Playing the Press and Becoming a Tabloid Fixture. If you're adjusting your moral compass, this book lies somewhere between A Rapists Guide To Rape and I Can Haz Cheezburger Presents: Photos of Hitler's One Ball in Sleeping People's Mouths.
Phoebe Price is the type of famous that's always mentioned in the same breath as the question, "What the fuck is she famous for?" She claims to be a supermodel and an actress, but she looks like someone tried to recreate their grandmother out of Turtle Wax and she's in fewer movies than Bigfoot. The only notable thing about her is if her blood touches scorpions, they become giant scorpions.
Phoebe Price's website is a bizarre shrine to nothingness featuring nightmarish animations of her head smearing across America and a collection of broken links she labeled "Celebrity." Which sucks, because I honestly wanted to know what Phoebe Price does during the day other than chase travelers away from her eggs.
Spencer is semi-furry and beady-eyed like someone bought an Ewok costume to fuck and then lost interest while shaving it. His face has all the likability of a Burmese genocide and most of it is covered in a beard made out of lichen scleroses, a disease you rarely see outside of menopausal anal regions*. Spencer Pratt is such a pussy that when he gets a haircut they charge him for a bikini wax. When he throws a temper tantrum, pillows punch him. He's such a total pussy that when his wife shakes his hand, it's a lesbian fisting scene.
It's almost good that Spencer is an idiot because his desperation for attention is sociopathic. If he was actually smart, he would have seen all the TV time that OJ got for killing a white woman and gone after Heidi with a knife so fast that her six baboon hearts would spin. That ship has sailed, though. At this point, she's about as human and killable as a flashlight with a hole to put your dick in. If he stabbed her now, the only publicity he'd get would be "Earlier today, a crazy person was found gently poking a squawking meat sculpture."
* The phrase "Menopausal anal regions" means that Phoebe Price's Internet search found this article twice.