There’s verbal diarrhea, then there’s the euphemistic version of anal prolapse. Katie Price aka Jordan aka put some gaffer tape over your freakin’ gob and/or snatch, is just that. And spookily, she’s also the same colour as a dirty protest so it’s all working out quite well, this euphemism thing.
Anyway, so Katie Price has been raped by a celebrity. Who of course she won’t name. How very Ulrika-cunt-cunt-cunt of her.
Minor segue: Peter Andre in Heat this week? Shiny brown baby-fat tits? Not on your Nelly the Elephant.
Ooh, news just in. We got raped by a very famous male celebrity too! And we too aren’t going to name names. Though in the memo he left after leaving us face down in our own Egyptian cotton sheets read, ‘It’s not rape, just surprise sex. Ta-da!’
Bad? Taste? Much? Perhaps, but when you’re dealing with the moral playground that is Katie Price’s life, it’s all rather no holds barred, Nescafé?