Whatever you do, make sure you wait for the sax solo.
JK no one is wearing them because why would you want to look like you took a huge dump?
Fameflynet
Via soundcloud.com
Her boobs are really, really, really, soft.
"Even though I'm an ass girl, Kanye always says my boobs don't get as much credit as they deserve," Kim said.
Mert Alas & Marcus Piggott / GQ / Via Twitter: @caityweaver
"We definitely see that my brother is happy and getting healthy, and whatever gets him to that place, you know, we're happy for him. Chyna's a sweet girl, and I think we all have so many things going on in our lives that we just want my brother to be happy."
Kim Kardashian / instagram.com / Via instagram.com
The only thing Kanye could think of when it comes to what "drives him crazy" about Kim is when she forgets to forward emails from clothing designers of sketches.
Mike Coppola / Getty Images
“I bet whoever came up with the phrase ‘butt-ugly’ has never even seen a butt.”
Thinkstock / Via Twitter: @Home_Halfway
The series will go back to Oakland one last time.
Jason Miller / Getty Images
The Cavaliers subjected the Warriors to yet another stomping in Game 6 in Cleveland Thursday, pushing the series to 3-3 and pushing the series to a do-or-die Game 7 in Oakland.
The stakes are high for each team, obviously: LeBron James is looking to realize his goal of winning a championship for The Land, and the Warriors want to defend the sanctity of their record-breaking 73-9 regular season by capping it off with a win.
For NBA fans without strong allegiances to either the Cavaliers or the Warriors (or to LeBron or Steph Curry), a Game 7 that means so much to either party is a dream. For long-suffering fans of the Cavaliers and the Warriors fans who watched their team look invincible all year long, well, make sure you have a barf bag handy Sunday night for Game 7.
The Cavaliers jumped out early to an unbelievable 31-9 lead, holding the Warriors to a total of 11 points in the first quarter, and heading into the second quarter down 20. The Warriors later outscored the Cavaliers in the second and third quarters, but the Cavaliers never lost the lead.
As expected, James was the game's leading scorer with 34 points, but once again was helped immensely by point guard Kyrie Irving.
Which half of Zalfie are you?
“Everything’s better with some wine in the belly.” —Tyrion Lannister
Universal Pictures
Barefoot was by the far the most recommended brand by readers, with the Moscato variety edging out the Pinot Grigio.
"Barefoot Moscato (the green one) — I could drink it by the bottle, it’s that good, which may or may not be a good thing." —chowdersoup
Yellow Tail Shiraz and Moscato were the second most mentioned bottles after Barefoot.
"Yellow Tail Pink Moscato! I will drink a whole bottle by myself!" —mckennak3
"Winking Owl Moscato from Aldi! It's under $3 a bottle and it's the best Moscato I've ever tried. I was a loyal Barefoot Moscato drinker until I found this." —Brandy Townsend, Facebook
Warning: You’ll be hearing about this theory for a couple days.
Ayesha eventually deleted the tweet — 82,000 retweets later. She later explained that she had "tweeted in the heat of the moment because the call was uncalled for" and that "Police racial profiled my father and told him to remove credentials and tried to arrest him. It's been a long night for me. I apologize:"
We’re putting your knowledge of breasts to the test.
Caroline Kee / Agencyby / Getty Images / Via thinkstockphotos.com
Tentan / Getty Images / Via thinkstockphotos.com
Aha! How well do you know your way around those boobs now?
Patrick J. Lynch / Wikicommons / Via commons.wikimedia.org
Patrick J. Lynch / Reworked by user Morgoth666 / Via commons.wikimedia.org
The War of Five Kings — or Twelve.
This. Is. Art.
imgur.com / Via reddit.com
i.imgur.com / Via reddit.com
i.imgur.com / Via reddit.com
i.imgur.com / Via reddit.com
They basically make art.
Respect the fro.
Instagram / Via instagram.com
Courtesy of Nakyia Whitty
Courtesy of Nakyia Whitty
Kate Ferro / BuzzFeed News
On 16 June Jo Cox, a British MP, was shot in Birstall, near Leeds, in northern England. She died from her injuries on the same day. The suspected gunman, Thomas Mair, who reportedly was a longtime supporter of a U.S.-based neo-Nazi group the National Alliance, is in custody. If her death ends up being treated as a political assassination, it will be an event we are unused to in the UK (the last sitting MP who was killed was Ian Gow, in 1990).
For maybe the dozenth time in a few days, when I heard the awful news, I burst into tears. Cox, 41, was a mother to two very young children, married to their father, and a beloved friend to many; her loss is a terrible blow to her loved ones, a shocking and unexpected event, the sort of thing that simply shouldn’t happen. In the wider world, Cox was previously an activist and campaigner, and, as of 2015, a politician – a first-time Labour MP who stood up in parliament this past April and asked the government to accept 3,000 child refugees from Syria. Her death extends beyond those who knew (and loved) her personally.
I am far from my London home, where we will soon be voting to either remain in the European Union or leave it – a “Brexit”, as we have clunkily portmanteaued it. The dialogue, even from this far away, has been a toxic soup, all of us choking it down and spluttering, but mulishly not leaving the table. It’s not even a new dialogue – Great Britain, formerly a colonial empire that stretched across the globe, has been oddly defensive about letting anyone else in for a long time. I live in America now, where another toxic conversation has been underway for a long time as well, currently spearheaded by the presumptive presidential nominee of the Republican party, Donald Trump. The man who tweeted “AMERICA FIRST!” earlier this month has come up with some of the most repugnant rhetoric around pretty much every group of people over the last several years, with particular destructive vitriol reserved for Muslims, foreigners (and the children of foreigners), and women.
I am all three of those things, and I am tired.
The mental energy required to live with the bombardment of his opinions, and the implicitly sanctioned opinions of his increasingly boorish acolytes, grows ever greater. It has an almost tangible weight, like a cloak – or more honestly and uncomfortably, two large rocks, tethered to a stick across my shoulders – and it follows me around, invading every cranny of personal space. It crowds out my brain and steals my emotional bandwidth, broadcasting on a frequency it has no permission to access.
This is the month of Ramadan, the one month most non-Muslims know the name of, as well as its attendant obligation for Muslims: to fast, from dawn to dusk, in an act of self-denial, meditation, and piety. It’s a tiring month, one that has always been marked for me, by fatigue, in addition to all of its more esoteric spiritual rewards. It’s a fatigue many of us push through because we have other responsibilities, work and family chief among them, to attend to, and like “good minorities”, we are always wary of being made to look as though we are seeking “special treatment”. The month is about so much more than abstaining from food and drink; it is about being a better person, a better Muslim, turning away from the worst, most base elements in our being and becoming the best version of ourselves. I swear less during Ramadan. I fix my mouth to not gossip so damn much. I give more to charity and try to more charitable in my interactions with others. It is a battle – on a religious level, but also in the broader context of living in the world, subject to its many demands and temptations. We are all fallible.
My reading of these stories are laced with a sorrow that is rooted in fear – that could have been me.
I have been working as a journalist for most of my adult life, and working out of newsrooms means a far more sensitive ear. The news is something we report and reflect on, but our exposure to it manifests as more than just work. We are conduits of the news, but the news also lives in our skin, lingering long after we have sent copy off to our editors. In consuming and contextualising the news, that same skin can be pulled taut on a number of stories, the ones that “speak” to us on a different level. Stories of rape and domestic violence are never “just” sad news items, for example, but a reminder that these issues are existential threats for people like me. The drowning of black and brown bodies in the Mediterranean, a story that has occurred so many times but whose horror is never lost, makes me look at my own name and reflect on the choices my parents made in emigrating to the UK long before I was born. My reading of these stories is laced with a sorrow that is rooted in fear – that could have been me. And alongside this thought, I go about living my life, doing my job, and trying to be kind and understanding.
I arrived in New York on the same day as the first Super Tuesday of 2016. Back then, the Republican race had more horses in play: Rubio, Cruz, Kasich, and, of course, Trump. I turned on my faithful wireless radio and found WNYC and NPR (it has become the soundtrack to my morning ablutions) and was immediately caught in the sharp undertow of American politics. Ridiculous soundbites, such as equating the size of a man’s hands to the size of his penis, for example, became a thing that swirled in the political news cycle for far too long. The implicit – those feelings many of us with hyphenated identities have been aware of in a vague but real way – became explicit. Foreigners and their offspring should go back to where they came from; an entire religion was relegated to the scrapheap of terror, good only for incubating horror; women became a collection of walking, bleeding orifices… No opinion seemed too repugnant to air. It’s all out in the open. And so swaths of America – not all, no, but a good enough number to jar those of us who feel it the most – Leaned In and began to really go for it publicly.
If you don’t know, living like this is terrifying.
Donald Trump and the rhetoric he peddles so easily represents a huge leap forward (or backward, depending on how you see this) in the movement to ensure that I – a female Muslim of Nigerian descent – do not exist in the American landscape. Every day, I come into the office, and I am told, over, and over, and over again that people like me are unwanted. The exposure to it feels like a Silkwood shower in reverse: I come in, tear away the protective shell I have built and step into the fray, misting myself with the sludge of hate directed at me and mine. During the month of Ramadan, when my mental defences are a little less solid, the deluge feels insurmountable. I am an untested boxer, stepping into the ring with the world champion.
A Muslim journalist friend, tasked with listening to and writing up Trump’s speech following the massacre at a gay club in Orlando, told me she walked away from her desk and took a restorative shot of tequila afterwards to fortify herself. I have implicit and explicit pacts with friends to not link to Trump’s many fuckeries unless it’s for work. You best protect ya neck, RZA told us. Wu-Tang is for the children, and also for us.
To be “sitting this election out” reeks of a repugnant sort of privilege.
I realise that my assured immigration status is relatively cushy as compared with so many others’ – I am on a visa (from the United Kingdom, of all places!); there is no language barrier for me to overcome, and I am in paid employment. I am Other, and the worlds I know most intimately are becoming increasingly uncomfortable, but I still have the luxury of the option of packing my bags and returning to the also-troubled land from whence I came (London, for the obtuse). I think about that option when I see Americans say that they are not going to vote, either in protest at what they call a rigged process, or more worryingly, because Trump is “what we deserve”, a slap in the face to shock America into a corrective overhaul of its cultures and systems.
Here’s what I think: His usefulness as the most “necessary” jolt back to common sense is severely limited and/or massively overrated. To be “sitting this election out” reeks of a repugnant sort of privilege. The damage that life under would-be President Trump would introduce does not lie in the not-too-distant Future; it is in the Right Now, under Presumptive Presidential Candidate Trump.
It is the noxious idea of a fictitious Great American past, which allows citizens to incite hatred and fear, and stoke it to such a tempo that it leaves those most at risk in a state of constant terror. It is in the weary sighs of people who know that the worst of this election cycle is still to come. The damage flutters in the chests of people whose hearts race when they hear a combination of hated keywords – words such as “Trump”, “speech”, “rally”, “wall”, “women”, and “Islam” (a not-exhaustive list). The damage lives in the tension headache of listening to or reading a transcription of a speech that unleashes a stream of invective; speeches that grow more worrisome in their tone and frequency. The damage chips away at the self, burrows in and makes itself at home, erodes defences like water does topsoil. The damage strips away at the soul, leaving the body diminished over time.
The damage being done is having effects in the here and now.
Life is good.
Ahmed Ali Akbar
Ahmed Ali Akbar
Ahmed Ali Akbar
Ahmed Ali Akbar
We’re pretty punk, tbh.
Warner Bros.
SEE YOU AROUND THE COMMON ROOM, MR. THE ROCK.
Twitter / Via skipinouterspace.tumblr.com
Highwaystarz-photography / Getty Images
“Dude, your favorite artist is old enough to be your grandpa!”
Roc Nation
NBC
All of these people have tons of cash in the bank… but only one of them tops the list.
Posh Spice should be renamed Wizard Spice because does she even age?
Orlando and Turkey. Pools and dandies. They don’t make sense together, but neither did this week.
"Thousands of people around the world have honored the victims of the mass shooting at the Pulse gay nightclub in Orlando by taking part in vigils and memorial services. This collection of photos shows the heartache and sadness of those affected by the tragic massacre and hate crime toward the LGBT community that took place early Sunday, June 12." —Jared Harrell, photo editor, BuzzFeed News
Hagen Hopkins / Getty Images
"I love this edit so much. The photos are tender and counterpoint other, more familiar images of mothers in that area, turning around the historical idea of fathers as the more remote parenting figure." —Kate Bubacz, senior photo editor, BuzzFeed News
Dorothea Lange / Library of Congress (LC-DIG-FSA-8E07212)
"Turkish photographer Emin Ozmen believes that a war needs to be documented in order for others to know it actually happened. This hidden war Ozmen photographs is happening in the Kurdish towns of southeastern Turkey, where young militants are put up against Turkish military and police. Ozmen's photos are raw, personal, and very real." —JH
Emin Ozmen / Le Journal
"The horror and sadness of the shooting in Orlando is impossible to capture. CNN’s portrait series shows the wide variety of people affected by this tragedy, locally and more broadly, and speaks to the fact that violence is not a localized event — its effects radiate through communities." —KB
Scott McIntyre for CNN
Fresh prints.
Pyrosky / Thinkstock
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