You know, you gotta love Brooke Hogan. Between her hair, her clothes, her body and her attitude, it’s like this woman lives in some sort of suspended-time situation. Between the Pamela Anderson boobs, the Anna Nicole toward-the-end-of-her-life hair and her father’s body, it’s like Brooke is unaware that it’s currently 2010 and people are looking more like this and less like this. Yup, we should love Brooke Hogan, if not for the fact that she seems dumb in that sweet-as-pie way, but because she’ll be clutching those baby tees and extra low-rise jeans in her cold, dead fingers. I love anyone with that level of commitment.
Clubgoers at Las Vegas nightclub Enclave reported that a plastered Brooke Hogan showed up last night in what one guy described as “an utter state of hot drunkenness,” which is also now my knew favorite way to describe that phase of consciousness. At about two in the morning she hopped up on stage and stumbled all over herself to give an impromptu performance that included slurred lyrics and terrible, clumsy dancing, which is actually no different from any other Brooke Hogan performance.
So, she embarrassed herself– again, how is that any different from a normal Brooke Hogan musical performance– but she’s 21, so there wasn’t anything illegal about it. I just hope for the sake of her daddy that she’s not going to start down the Lohan expressway to nowhere. Judging from the premature aging in the picture above (Brooke is on the right) she’s been putting some things in her system on a regular basis that aren’t good for her.
That whole family should probably go to rehab together. Last week on the Joy Behar show, The Hulk talked about popping a few Xanax, staring at a bottle of booze with a gun in his hand, and contemplating suicide after his wife filed for divorce. He also commented that he could “understand” where O.J. Simpson was “coming from” and thought about “turning everything into a crime scene” and “slitting everybody’s throats.”
Hey, guys. I have to make this quick. I started playing this recording of the fantastic song that Brooke Hogan lent her, uh, vocals to on her rapper-boyfriend Jeremih’s song “Birthday Sex” and now every dog that resides in a two-mile radius is howling on my front porch. I’ve got a situation on my hands.
While I deal with animal control, I ask you this: Which is worse? “Birthday Sex” or “Sneakernight?”