Another day, another Courtney Stodden post. I can’t help myself. It’s fascinating to behold: she’s the world’s first 18-year-old 40-year old. The worst part of it all is, the joke is on us. Because she keeps people like me writing about her, even though the only things she’s accomplished in her short life are marrying that old guy who was in a good movie once and being a poster girl for childhood trauma.
Our favorite future Bukake model was out and about with her creepy husband the other night, and apparently the two somehow scored an invite to a book party. A celebrity book party hosted by Carmen Electra, but still… a book party. An event joining people together to celebrate the written word.
I bet Courtney’s favorite book is Moby Dick. See what I did there? I could have just went the easy route and said How to Make Love Like a Porn Star, but I didn’t. I tried to be a little more creative. Because this post is about Courtney Stodden, whom I can’t seem to escape writing about even though everything I write about her is essentially a copy of the last thing I wrote about her. I. Just. Can’t. Help. Myself.
No, wait, there IS something different about this post: the absence of Doug Hutchison‘s beanie hat and the presence of a mystery man dressed even gaudier than Courtney. See? Winning.