Myla Sinanaj is some big booty bitch who “dated” Kris Humphries after his whole 5 minutes of marriage with Kim Kardashian tabloid fodder…and in efforts to keep her big booty relevant, because dating an athlete got her in the tabloids riding Kim Kardashians’ fat tail, she might as well continue the trend and film her own sex tape that she’s spinning as being better than Kim Kardashian’s tape and that includes anal…but not just any anal, anal she is pretending is being taken from her for the first time….on video…by some Kris Humphries lookalike for all your Kris Humphries and the big bottomed women he loves fetishists…that is anti-Kim Kardashian….released by the homies at VIVID. I haven’t seen the video, but I am going to say I love it and I appreciate her effort in making this happen. I also love the concept of making it a battle sex tape, you know going up against KIM K like it was the WWE….it’s funny. Not as funny as any girl who is groupie-ing on an athlete, getting hooked on his past, who looks like she is probably a professional at this kind of thing, finally accepting her fate and fucking on camera, even though she doesn’t have the money or contacts Kim Kardashian had, making you think she may just end up fading out like so many sex tapes before her, but still leaving a legacy for anyone to cross reference in the event this does work out for her…even though all odds are against it… Sure she’s not my kind of girl, you know thick, rocking booty generally don’t like, but I love this classy shit….it’s fucking amazing and worth watching…. TO SEE THE EXCLUSIVE HARDCORE NSFW TRAILER CLICK HERE or…. Visit Vivid.com
George Zimmerman was pulled over for speeding on Sunday in the town of Forney, Texas, according to police, with a gun in his glove compartment. He informed police that the weapon was there shortly after being pulled over. The officer who pulled him over asked Zimmerman where he was going, to which he responded, “nowhere in particular,” according to news reports. CBS News says that, during the traffic stop, which occurred at 12:54 p.m., the 29-year-old also asked the officer if he recognized him from television. He was given a warning after police determined he was free of outstanding warrants. He was sent on his way with a polite goodbye, “Have a safe trip.” Zimmerman was found not guilty of second-degree murder charges related to his killing of Florida teenager Trayvon Martin just over two weeks ago. This is the second time he’s been in the news since. Three days after his acquittal, Zimmerman aided a family trapped under an overturned SUV on a Florida highway, pulling two kids and their parents to safety. It’s unclear why he was, or is, driving through Texas, but he has been in hiding ever since the not guilty verdict became a national story back on July 13.
Not everything in the WWE is scripted. During an event in Cape Town, South Africa yesterday, Randy Orton celebrated a victory by standing on the ring’s turnbuckle… only for a fan to sneak into the ring and clock the grappler in the testicular region. See for yourself and, fellas, you may wanna cross your legs as you do: Randy Orton Punched in the Balls “The matter is currently under investigation by the local authorities, and the South African fan is being held in jail pending criminal charges,” reads a post on the WWE website. “The extent of Orton’s injuries are unknown at this time.” We doubt they’re very serious. But, as every warm-blooded male around the world can relate to, that doesn’t mean this wasn’t extraordinarily painful.
I always forget whether I’m supposed to call her Kelly Kelly still or Barbie Blank , both names are kinda dumb, so it’s tough. But whatever she wants to be called now, there’s no question that this former WWE Diva is still epically hot. And judging from the Sheldon Souray iPhone case and jersey she’s got on combined with the ridiculously awesome bikini pictures, Souray scored big time. Lucky dude.
Trish Stratus was always my second favorite WWE Diva, but now that has changed after seeing these pictures from her latest yoga photoshoot. So move over Stacy Keibler. Unless you start wearing booty shorts and working your long delicious legs, Trish and her downward doggie has won my heart.
Mama Snooki’s looking good! The reality star has taken to Instagram to show off how much of that baby weight she lost after giving birth to her son Lorenzo . Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi posed in her beachwear for the Instagram photos, which she captioned “”Beach body ready!” After shedding over 40 pounds, Polizzi now weighs just 109 lb. How do you think she looks?
Some sad news out of North Carolina today, as Reid Fliehr (stage name Flair), son of wrestling legend Ric Flair, died today at age 25. Flair’s agent released the following statement: “We are heartbroken to confirm that Ric’s son, Reid, has passed away today March 29, 2013 in Charlotte, NC. The investigation into the cause of death is ongoing. Reid was an incredible son, brother, friend, and professional wrestler. No words can describe the grief that Ric and his family are experiencing and they do request privacy during this devastating time.” The cause of death is unknown at this time, though the younger Flair had struggled with heroin in the past. Reid was scheduled to tour with his father after having wrestled in Japan over the last year to improve his skills. It was expected for Reid to join WWE , which his father had recently rejoined, some time in the near future.
The world of professional wrestling may be fake, but former WWE superstar Chris “The Masterpiece” Masters made a very real and incredibly impressive save this week: He saved his mother from a burning house. By uprooting a tree with his own hands and using it as a battering ram to enter the residence. Sources confirm to TMZ that Masters responded to a call that an unhinged neighbor had locked himself into the house with Chris’ mother. When Masters called the cops, this neighbors remained true to his word and set fire to the home. The ex-grapper then picked up the tree and broke a window with it. He reached in, saved his mother and the cops soon arrived to arrest the neighbor for arson. He remains in custody. What a truly amazing story. Your move, Hulk Hogan .
Representing a slightly skewed take on 2004’s Cellular crossed with a lobotomized Silence of the Lambs , Brad Anderson’s high-concept thriller The Call would be an unremarkable bit of women-in-peril dreck were it not for two distinguishing factors — the sexualized sadism inflicted upon the half-dressed 16-year-old Abigail Breslin, and the equally sadistic Sideshow Bob coiffure affixed to the otherwise lovely Halle Berry. These indignities aside, there’s little to differentiate this high-pitched screamer from a particularly feverish Law and Order rerun, and it might be tough for such a film to dial in sizable auds to theaters. One of the more high-profile films to bear the WWE Studios label in recent years, The Call features no actual grappling, yet it shows the fingerprints of its benefactor in the presence of wrestling star David Otunga, as well as a serial-killer villain (Michael Eklund) who seems less psychopath than juice-head. Perhaps it’s unfair to blame the producers for the film’s overwrought tempo, but whatever the cause, the pic’s dunderheaded emotional timbre is miles removed from the relative class of director Anderson’s previous efforts The Machinist and Transsiberian , confusing macho aggression for menace, and tightly framed screaming for suspense. Berry stars as Jordan, a hotshot 911 operator who rules over the bustling call center known as “the Hive” — we know she’s a star when co-workers casually ask her for the institutional code for a multiple stabbing. Featuring some nice aerial photography of Downtown Los Angeles, the pic expends 10 minutes laying character foundations involving Jordan’s unseen cop father, her handsome LAPD-officer boyfriend (Morris Chestnut), and her charged relationship with an unsympathetic supervisor, then disregards these details entirely once the action gets rolling. Receiving a 911 call from a teenage girl in the midst of a home invasion, Jordan concocts an elaborate strategy to help her evade the predator, but gives the girl away by hitting the redial button when the call is cut off. (Berry’s character will similarly vacillate between Jason Bourne-like ingenuity and howling stupidity throughout the remainder of the film.) The girl is abducted and murdered by the unseen, catchphrase-spouting killer, and the guilt-ridden Jordan takes a leave of absence. Try as she might, Jordan can’t avoid the call to heroism, which arrives soon, via another emergency call. Teenage Casey (Breslin), has been drugged and kidnapped from a mall parking lot, and wakes up in the trunk of a car speeding down the freeway. Through some needlessly convoluted plot machinations, she has a friend’s untraceable pay-as-you-go cell phone in her pocket, and Jordan must don the headset once again to talk her out of harm’s way. It’s here that the film generates its only real sparks of invention, as the desk-bound Jordan is forced to coach the hysterical teen though a series of ruses to try to tip off passers-by. Unspooling more or less in real-time, the pursuit sequences manage to evoke the primary appeal of such high-concept material, for which one happily suspends disbelief just to see how long the filmmakers can stick to the premise. But no sooner can you say “this time … it’s personal” than the film disengages completely, running Jordan through some paint-by-numbers Nancy Drew routines, and veering toward the ickily exploitative as it invents reasons to remove Breslin’s shirt and tie her up. Berry is enough of a pro to muddle through yet another underwhelming star vehicle with her dignity intact, and Breslin acquits herself well enough for a problematic role in which she’s forced to cry and scream nearly continuously. Eklund is a hulking, malevolent presence, though his scrambled-brow attempt at a psychopathic glare provoked gales of laughter at the screening attended. Whether it’s the odd directorial tic of freeze-framing during moments of violence — perhaps intended to suggest a sort of rage-induced blackout, but which feels like a projector glitch — or the offputting cadence shifts in editing, the film hits a number of unusual technical notes, yet the overall quality is solid. Practical effects and freeway footage are well handled, as are the scenes contained entirely within the trunk of a car. Follow Movieline on Twitter.
Representing a slightly skewed take on 2004’s Cellular crossed with a lobotomized Silence of the Lambs , Brad Anderson’s high-concept thriller The Call would be an unremarkable bit of women-in-peril dreck were it not for two distinguishing factors — the sexualized sadism inflicted upon the half-dressed 16-year-old Abigail Breslin, and the equally sadistic Sideshow Bob coiffure affixed to the otherwise lovely Halle Berry. These indignities aside, there’s little to differentiate this high-pitched screamer from a particularly feverish Law and Order rerun, and it might be tough for such a film to dial in sizable auds to theaters. One of the more high-profile films to bear the WWE Studios label in recent years, The Call features no actual grappling, yet it shows the fingerprints of its benefactor in the presence of wrestling star David Otunga, as well as a serial-killer villain (Michael Eklund) who seems less psychopath than juice-head. Perhaps it’s unfair to blame the producers for the film’s overwrought tempo, but whatever the cause, the pic’s dunderheaded emotional timbre is miles removed from the relative class of director Anderson’s previous efforts The Machinist and Transsiberian , confusing macho aggression for menace, and tightly framed screaming for suspense. Berry stars as Jordan, a hotshot 911 operator who rules over the bustling call center known as “the Hive” — we know she’s a star when co-workers casually ask her for the institutional code for a multiple stabbing. Featuring some nice aerial photography of Downtown Los Angeles, the pic expends 10 minutes laying character foundations involving Jordan’s unseen cop father, her handsome LAPD-officer boyfriend (Morris Chestnut), and her charged relationship with an unsympathetic supervisor, then disregards these details entirely once the action gets rolling. Receiving a 911 call from a teenage girl in the midst of a home invasion, Jordan concocts an elaborate strategy to help her evade the predator, but gives the girl away by hitting the redial button when the call is cut off. (Berry’s character will similarly vacillate between Jason Bourne-like ingenuity and howling stupidity throughout the remainder of the film.) The girl is abducted and murdered by the unseen, catchphrase-spouting killer, and the guilt-ridden Jordan takes a leave of absence. Try as she might, Jordan can’t avoid the call to heroism, which arrives soon, via another emergency call. Teenage Casey (Breslin), has been drugged and kidnapped from a mall parking lot, and wakes up in the trunk of a car speeding down the freeway. Through some needlessly convoluted plot machinations, she has a friend’s untraceable pay-as-you-go cell phone in her pocket, and Jordan must don the headset once again to talk her out of harm’s way. It’s here that the film generates its only real sparks of invention, as the desk-bound Jordan is forced to coach the hysterical teen though a series of ruses to try to tip off passers-by. Unspooling more or less in real-time, the pursuit sequences manage to evoke the primary appeal of such high-concept material, for which one happily suspends disbelief just to see how long the filmmakers can stick to the premise. But no sooner can you say “this time … it’s personal” than the film disengages completely, running Jordan through some paint-by-numbers Nancy Drew routines, and veering toward the ickily exploitative as it invents reasons to remove Breslin’s shirt and tie her up. Berry is enough of a pro to muddle through yet another underwhelming star vehicle with her dignity intact, and Breslin acquits herself well enough for a problematic role in which she’s forced to cry and scream nearly continuously. Eklund is a hulking, malevolent presence, though his scrambled-brow attempt at a psychopathic glare provoked gales of laughter at the screening attended. Whether it’s the odd directorial tic of freeze-framing during moments of violence — perhaps intended to suggest a sort of rage-induced blackout, but which feels like a projector glitch — or the offputting cadence shifts in editing, the film hits a number of unusual technical notes, yet the overall quality is solid. Practical effects and freeway footage are well handled, as are the scenes contained entirely within the trunk of a car. Follow Movieline on Twitter.
