And What You Are Is A Crack Whore With No Fashion Sense

photo by Jeremy Scott

Hi! Lindsay Lohan here! Yeah I know, like...a superstar like ME, in this piece-of-shit blog thing. When I learn to read I'm so going to write someone an angry email about suing. So like, I thought I'd share my newest cover photo for next month's "Paper" magazine. I was psyched to do this shoot because it's a very elite publication. I turned down like....100 other shoots to do this one you know. I totally made the people at "Dog Fancy" cry! Yeah! Anyway, Paper's really high class so you philostines probably never even heard of it. Anyway, they totes wanted me to do it as I'm like...the biggest skan...star...I'm the biggest STAR in the world.

Of course they wanted me to look really sexy as usual cuz sex sells suckas. Like I could be anything else. I wake up sexy. I go to bed sexy. I take a steaming dump sexy. You all just wish you were as sexy as me.

I'm wearing this chic little silk Chinese inspired number here to highlight my fabulousness and it is SUBTLE, cuz like, it doesn't even show my whole boobs! I feel like an Amish lady.

OK, well, look, maybe it's not SILK so much as polyester but it's really hot.

Talking of hot, oh my God, my special place itches like a shit. That's what my daddy calls it "my special place". At least when he's sober and not trying to kill my mom. Granted, it's less special nowadays and more like a YMCA for b-list actors and homeless guys with accents. I wonder if there's a pharmacy round here that sells Vagisil. Or Monostat. I wonder if this is what they mean by FIRECROTCH...

Are my legs blotchy? I think the people at Paper totes made my legs look blotchy. Oh wait, it's my freckles. Some guy just said I look like a whore but I don't pay attention to that sort of thing. Good luck finding a whore who can blow three Italian men in one night while wearing VERSACE, asshole! I've had more spicy man-sausage in my oven than a German Bratwurst factory.

Where is Germany anyway? Is it near Florida?

The Funny Part of Tragic

I'm so sorry. I had to post this because it's so goshdarn funny. Just when you thought that pictures of Amy Winehouse couldn't get any more tragically funny, today I saw THIS. I mean I know it's not funny to mock the afflicted but dude. How high do you have to be to leave the house looking like that? Because I'm thinking at least "sub-orbit" possibly higher.

Another Britney Moment

In case you're wondering, "What does the Guv do with her downtime, with those moments home, relaxed and with time on her hands?"

Well, here is your answer. While looking through some folders on my laptop I found the following from a few months ago that I made then promptly forgot about. So just for you, dear friends, the Guv'ner presents: MY BRITNEY.

It's rather NSFW so you'd think, out of the kindness of my heart, I'd put it under some sort of cut wouldn't you? HA! Suckers.


I know. I'm sorry, truly.

The Guv'ner Pretends There Are No Embarrassing '80s Photos Of The Porcupine That Lived On Her Head

This entry is for everyone, but I dedicate it especially to FALWLESS, Catholic schoolgirl and Jesus' personal home girl.

You see, unlike Falwless, as a little child, Jesus most certainly did not love me, nor did he touch me in any way (because that would be a felony) since I was a godless heathen who ate babies and puppies. Here I am right here, looking 6 years old and Scottish - both of which I was - and if you look real hard you can see Satan's reflection in my 6 year old blue eyes. Yes, I was a tomboy child. Yes, I wore that sweater of my own free will. It was part of a set of fashion statement pieces I like to call "desperate 1970s' hell". Don't worry, that non descript hair soon became a big, spikey '80s pineapple of hell. And yes, despite this picture, I DO have eye lashes.

I'll spare you the 1980s' photos mainly because I've burned them all due to the eye burning danger element and my desire not to get my ass sued for cruelty. Ok, I admit, I do have some and one day I will scan them and in a particularly low, drunken move, post them here for hilarity purposes.

For now, here's one from the mid 90s of myself and my big-faced sister.

I should point out that I have no idea, a) why her face is the size of a small planet as it really isn't in real life, b) why we look like we've never seen the sun - damn photobooths and their flash of death, c) Why I have no chin, d) Why we share two parents but look nothing alike. e) Why I look totally cheesed off.

Around this time, I was playing in a band so here's one from about the same time of me looking uber-cool, like the freaking ghost of Kurt Cobain or something. Gosh, you are pointing a camera at me, I HAD NO IDEA! Allow me to caress my Les Paul and pretend you don't exist.

Now here's one from 2005, taken at a weird "My Space" type of angle that makes me look like my face is totally squished and that I have a giant, Karl Malden nose (I do NOT). I have no excuse for that hairstyle (two pony tails, I am hip!) or the fact I'm standing in front of a shower curtain.

Don't you feel like you know me now?

How Low Can YOU Go?

You know what's funny? Duets are funny.

No, no, I'm not talking about Barbra "Mecca" Streisand and Kenny "Beard" Rogers singing "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" (Or its lesser known but still relevant trade title: "You Don't Give Me Herpes") or Elton John and Kiki Dee crooning their ginormously, annoyingly catchy 1970s' pop hit, "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" (Trade: "Don't Go Breaking A Fart").

No, I'm talking about the sort of duet that occurs when you emit a particularly violent sneeze and as a golden bonus, an unexpected keester-kamikaze at the same time.

Not that I am suggesting I would ever do this. I am a lady therefore I don't emit gases of any sort from my posterior (only Jade plug-in scents in peaches and cream). However, let's say for a moment someone else busted a sneeze with such gusta that out popped an air grenade, unannounced? That would be very hilarious, no? Take my word for it. It would be even more hilarious if the butt-muffin and the sneeze were in the same key and produced a little light harmonizing. Like a barber's shop quartet of bodily expulsions. A Satanic Butt Orchestra.

Which may be the name for my new band.


This would probably not be cute, however, if one were to get the ratio slightly wrong and sneeze viciously only to realize they had stamped their underpants with a beige daisy. I know because this happened to my friend Timo while on a conference call and he was so surprised he had to email me about it.

Farts are funny.

This public service announcement brought to you by the Guv'ner, aged 7.

Happy You Know What

For all you lovely people. The Guv'ner loves you.

(pilfered and altered from FALWLESS' even funnier Jew Card)

The Guv'ner is Cross

There's nothing screams "I'M A BRIT!" quite like standing in the supermarket line clenching a jar of Roses' Lime Marmalade in your sweaty fists. Well, except maybe standing in a supermarket line wearing a Union Jack t-shirt while sporting a skinhead and featuring a tattoo of the Queen.

Naturally I was doing that as well. Look. Apparently I was also a zombie, but no law says you can't multi-task.

Scary isn't it? Maybe I should do it for real and freak my coworkers out? Anyway, lime marmalade is the cat's bollocks. (Not literally, that would be gross!)

This damn writer's strike will be the death of me. There's only so much Vagina Vision one can take, you know. Lifetime, LMN, O. Hallmark. Movies where fancy dressed soccer mom types solve murders. Where widowed housewives rent their guest house to some suave but overly creepy dude, with poufy hair and amazingly he turns out to be a pyscho mad stalker type who video tapes her in the shower and then tries to kill her with her own panty hose. Whoa dude, no one saw that coming!

I'd actually like to see the national, female suicide rate for the period of the strike. There must be thousands of TV addicted women throwing themselves out of windows and slicing into their wrists, while muttering, "Not fucking Valerie Bertinelli again!" and "What does Richard Grieco DO these days anyway?" and "You'll always be LAURA INGALLS, bitch!" I blame Canada for making movie making affordable. Damn you Canadia.

End the damn strike already!

Hobos and Miscreants Line Up Here

Once, while a touch intoxicated, I let my guard down and kissed a dude with a moustache. Not the “permitted” type of moustache either, for example, that which is attached to a cute goatee or a nicely trimmed beard, no, I'm talking about a little bum-fluff, downey, trainee moustache, the sort that screams, “I aspire to grow a mullet, wear plaid and belch hilariously when I grow up!”.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Just how high were you at this point in time, Guv’ner?” and you could be forgiven for thinking it. However, I had merely partaken of a few stiff ciders and I was 18 and this volatile combination of these two combustible elements made for a very dangerous evening. Thinking back, this is probably why having a legal drinking age of 18 is probably not a wise idea.

Even while I was dancing with Mr. Suave, I knew it was wrong. I just didn’t much care. I was inebriated and happy and I was looking sassy, thanks for asking. I was at an indie show and the band had been great, the drinks were cheap and the world was my oyster. And given that analogy, when you consider I could’ve gone for the pearl, I instead decided it was wise to snog some moustachioed undesireable who looked like Joe Dirt.

This was the first of many undesirable men I would kiss over the years, for varying reasons, because I was an equal opportunities kisser and thought I was doing my part for humanity. I mean for some of those men, who would kiss them if not me? See? Call it the good deed of my lifetime. A public service if you will. (I didn’t “public service” any of them though, don’t go thinking it.)

Mr. Moustache though was a strange oversight. Kissing him was like kissing a particularly hyperactive slug – one that had digested a bunch of crack causing it to wander around my mouth aimlessly banging off my teeth. And he sort of grunted while he was kissing me which creeped me out because I kept envisioning opening my eyes and noticing that I was actually kissing a pig.

After about two minutes of this I claimed I needed another drink and while he went to fetch it, I ran off and hid in the cloakroom where two of my girlfriends staged an intervention that went something like, “You are coming home with us RIGHT NOW, miss, you will NEVER drink again and you will gargle mouthwash until your lips burn off.” And next thing I know I’m in the back of the car, still drunk, singing Pogues songs and going “Did you see that guy? Did you see him? He was NASTY! Did you see that guy?”

Yes indeed they saw. And proceeded to remind me of him for the next 10 damn years.

A few days later Joe Dirt called my house. Yes, I’d actually given him my phone number. My real phone number! I guess I was drunker than I thought. Luckily, I was sober by then and managed to get out of the whole thing. This was also the first of many times that would happen over the years – in particular there seemed to be a slew of hippies and other people no one else wanted anything to do with, that I’d encounter in clubs, feel sorry for, dance with, let follow me around all night then a few days later they’d call and I’d have to instruct my sister to say I had gone on a very important mission to Timbuktu, possibly never to return. Thankfully I didn't kiss many of them. But still.

I don't know what was wrong with me. I'm quite picky nowadays about whose tongue I allow to sweep my molars.