Oprah's got a little (?) sister and I'm comin' out!

I'm sure by now you've all seen or heard of the latest addition to the Winfrey empire - and no, I don't mean another lesbian love muffin doubles partner best friend a la Gayle - but rather her long lost little (audible tittering) sister.

It's a family afffffffaaaaaaaiiiiiiiir!!!!

For review:


I don't know about you, but I had hoped that (in the spirit of International Drag Month) Oprah's big secret would involve her removal of certain female acoutrements set to the tune of "I'm Comin' Out" but I guess that's too much to ask. So instead we're treated to a Sister Sledge type of set up, replete with tears and hand holding.

Awwwwwwww, black love :)


Now far be it from The Hostile Negress to turn a moment of ebony familial bliss into an opportunity to focus on money. After all, I myself do this for the love of shade - and for an extra shake or three of fry seasoning by my homies at Bojangles. But I'm gonna just go ahead and state the obvious -

This hoe is about to be filthy, stankin' assed rich.

Jackpot! Boogers to baguettes! Fuck work! BALLLLLLLIIIIIIINNNNN'!

Don't act like you didn't think about it. This broad is gonna be donning a bathing suit and swimming in Oprah's Ebenezer McScroogesque pool of hundreds faster than you can say "Fuck Indian hair - Italian weave only from now on!"

Recognizing the genius of the ole long lost relative routine, yours truly has thought up her own scheme, er, plan to reunite a family.

Until now, I have kept this factoid pretty far under my hat, lest the media bombard my peeps. But I feel like now is the time to come out:


I am the long lost daughter of Ashford and Simpson


(and don't you DARE insult my father's chest ringlets!)

The year was 1980. The incident involved the windswept duo, a beach and a gang of Tanqueray. Months later, I am told, I washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan in a bedazzled hat box, with a bottle of activator tucked under my tiny arm.

I am proud to assume the A and S throne and all of the responsibilities and benefits that come along with it, including (I presume) roughly $500.

The floor is now open for musical requests!

Flavor Flav's chicken joint is open for bidnass!

Dear God, It's Me Hostile Negress:

I know you're busy up there rallying your troops against Antoine Dodson, annointing Monique's legs and meditating on how to handle the "Toya situation" but I need you now more than ever.

I think it's time for you to call Flavor Flav home. He's done his duty here and has been an amazing ambassador to coonery. The blacks won't ever recover.

Do you think you could rapture him now? I'd sure appreciate it.

Thanks

-HN

This moment brought to you by Steve Harvey's teeth whitening trays

This.


I don't know about you, but this couple screams pure, unmitigated sex appeal to me.

Laugh now. But one of these days Bugsy Seigel's ghost is finally gonna catch up with this nucca and the score will be SETTLED.

*walks away humming "speak lawd, speak to me"*

Red Alert Coonery: Cocaine, meet pastry

Photo care of Necole Bitchie

I knooooow you see it. I'm so tempted to just slap this photo up here and allow you to self-tragedize. But that would be neglecting my duties as sergeant in arms against the spread of foolwangary and a publically elected documentor of coonanigans (Trademarked).

Soooo, I was in the midst of my normal morning routine as of late - downing of a mug of vodka while mumbling bitterly about The Man and perusing the latest submissions for Coon of the Year, when I stumbled upon the above photo, snapped at Ray J's 30th birthday.

Ray J. Yes, that. We won't delve into how he remains relevant anywhere on planet Earth; I will leave these mysteries to be solved by the likes of Stephen Hawkings, who has recieved a detailed WTF query.

Anywho, I was just about to move on when something about the cake caught my eye: Are those cocaine bricks atop the cake???

Nevermind that this fool would be summarily ground into a fine powder and distributed by the likes of Gucci Mane iffen he EVER set foot in an establishment peddling such bricks. (I won't even begin to address the "Pure" sign...) Nevermind that he has no familiarity with the monetary currency represented on the cake.

No, those are the obvious offenses. The real question is who made the cake? I thought Desserts by Latrell was closed?

And at this point, dear readers, I shall fold up my laptop, fold myself into 44 pieces, and await the mushroom cloud.

I suggest you do the same.

Fashion police moving violation #235: When glitter and pastel attack

Photo care of Getty Images and a really bad Mariah Carey acid trip.

So I'm not going to pretend that I watched the Golden Globes - I was way too busy eating french fries and plotting world takeover on the couch. But this little piece of butterfly beauty has been making the rounds and I'm sure I don't have to say why.

I am, quite frankly, a stan of Sidibe. Yes, her size might, in certain circles, qualify her for statehood. And yes, the wig situation will likely be the topic of an emergency United Nations meeting in the near future. Annnnd yes, each of her wrists is equivalant in circumferance to a small pineapple.

But why dwell on the obvious. She's effin HILARIOUS and I would love to hang out with her.

And despite everybody's thoughts to the contrary, I see where she was going with this dress.

Sure, right now it just looks like a star spangled mumu. But with the addition of a cape, sash and wand, it's perfect. What else would you have the tooth fairy rock after all?

You better get those molars girl!

Fashion police moving violation #234: Psychadelic dungaree theft

Well sho' ya right.

Look at the picture above. Now look at this picture:



Now back at the first picture.

Now at me:



I've stood by idle, as Kimberly Jones has abused padded panties, shat all over the dynasty of immaculate pancake makeup Lil Richard spent years building and made an obvious mockery of Jermaine Jackson-style facial reconstruction.

But I draw the LINE at the theft of intergallactic fashion. Bootsy Collins has spent countless blood, sweat and glitter on building his wardrobe of Huggy Bear stack shoes and tin foil pasties.

Was it all for naught???

Meanwhile, a very large and I suspect very cranky camel is somewhere missing its toes.

In the immortal words of one of my readers: Shiggity. Wiggity.