28 Celebrities Who Made 2014 The Year Of The Bob

Just try to make it through this without wanting to cut your hair.

1. Lauren Conrad

Just after her wedding, Lauren said good-bye to her Pinterest-perfect long locks in favor of this ridiculously stylish non-mom bob.

2. Lucy Hale

Aria Montgomery has never looked better.

3. Gabrielle Union

All hail Mrs. Dwyane Wade and her perfect hair.

4. Emma Stone

Really though, Emma can do no wrong.

5. Lily Collins

Between the brows and the bob, Lily Collins is the picture of perfection.

6. Lala Anthony

Side fringe goes a long way with a bob.

7. Vanessa Hudgens

A bob and bangs!

8. Brooke Burke-Charvet

A bob so pretty it could make a grown man weep.

9. Halle Berry

Kevin Mazur For Getty Images


10. Lo Bosworth

Because best friends get bobs together. LC and Lo forever.

11. Kristin Cavallari

Basically every girl from Laguna Beach now has short hair.

12. Whitney Port

Plus, every girl from The Hills (besides Audrina).

13. Kate Mara

This beauty pulled a double whammy going short AND blonde.

14. Emma Roberts

Going from long and blonde to short and brunette isn’t easy, but Emma made it look like a breeze.

15. Beyoncé


16. Kylie Jenner

The only member of the Kardashian-Jenner clan ballsy enough to say good-bye to her long hair.

17. Hilary Duff

Just call it part of her comeback.

18. Mandy Moore

Pure beauty.

19. Jenna Dewan-Tatum

How can you not want this haircut?

20. Kelly Rowland

Super short bob with bangs, anyone?

21. Britney Spears

Her bob means business.

22. Rita Ora

Blonde bobs for the win.

23. Taylor Swift

She shook the length right off.

24. Jourdan Dunn

If this doesn’t make you want a bob, nothing will.

Seeing This Is All I Needed Today. What This Boy With Autism And His Dog Do Is Priceless.

One reddit user recently shared these magical photos of his autistic son and the amazing bond he has with his service dog, Tucker. As a companion dog Tucker’s job is to provide a bridge for a child with autism to connect with the world. Autism service dogs provide a sense of security and they help keep kids calm in new or fearful situations. They can be an ice breaker in social or school settings – you’re the kid with the dog, not the kid with autism. Each companion dog is trained to meet the unique needs of the child they are paired with. Be it autism like in this case or to help a child with poor motor skills, to help steady and brace them or even be there to give them something soft to land on should they stumble and fall. Dogs really are man’s best friend!

Tucker and his little master/best friend have a very special bond. They go on the trampoline together.

They cuddle in the car together.

They go trick or treating together.

They go to the movies together.

They go to the store together.

They opened Christmas presents together.

They hide out during boring IEP meetings together (IEP = Individualized Education Program).

They enjoy breakfast on the patio at the family’s favorite restaurant together.

They enjoy breakfast at the house together.

They play at the dog park together.

Tucker really is a part of their family.

Here’s Tucker all tuckered out from being a good dog.

In short, Tucker is one cool dog.

For this young boy with autism, Tucker serves as a loyal and constant friend who doesn’t judge and provides unconditional companionship. All he asks for in return is love…and the occasional treat. 😉 Source: reddit Share Tucker’s inspirational story with your friends below.

Read more: http://viralnova.com/tucker-service-dog/

MSNBC’s no good, very bad week? That’s entertainment


It wasn’t a very good week for MSNBC, but it was exactly the week the channel deserved. “Cycle” host Touré kicked things off Thursday with his suggestion that U.S. Senators are affected by gerrymandering.

On Friday, host Martin Bashir concluded his program by suggesting that someone should defecate in Sarah Palin’s mouth and urinate in her eyes as her punishment for using slavery as an analogy for crushing debt (an analogy heartily endorsed by the Occupy Wall Street crowd).

Finally, MSNBC announced that its new show “Up Late” would be suspended for two weeks after host Alec Baldwin was again accused of using homophobic slurs against a photographer. In a statement, Baldwin said he wasn’t sure if the show would return.





Read more: http://twitchy.com/2013/11/16/msnbcs-no-good-very-bad-week-thats-entertainment/

Kaley Cuoco, Mandy Moore, Jameson and O’Day share 4th of July photos

Be safe
God bless http://t.co/29lShIeG

— Kaley Cuoco (@KaleyCuoco) July 05, 2012

Celebrities took to Twitter to share pictures of their Independence Day celebrations. First up was “The Big Bang Theory’s” Kaley Cuoco.



Um. Oh, dear.

Next came singer/actress Mandy Moore; luckily, without fireworks and babies:

Wonderful night of comfort food and fireworks w @minkakelly, @rp1313 and @kennyflorian. Wish @TheRyanAdams could have joined!! #wearesteel

— Mandy Moore (@TheMandyMoore) July 5, 2012

July 4th Photo booth @rp1313 @minkakelly @themandymoore http://t.co/BjFq52Cj

— Kenny Florian (@kennyflorian) July 5, 2012

And Jenna Jameson:

http://t.co/rLaz3po1 baby I'm a firework….🎶🎶🎶🎶

— Jenna Jameson (@jennajameson) July 5, 2012

Finally, Aubrey O’Day, who was wearing her standard fare.

Elevator Shot! http://t.co/zQ8hbXZq

— Aubrey O'Day (@AubreyODay) July 5, 2012

Happy Fourth. #FIREWORKS at The Perry Rooftop! http://t.co/8kkLkuvT

— Aubrey O'Day (@AubreyODay) July 5, 2012

Read more: http://twitchy.com/2012/07/05/kaley-cuoco-mandy-moore-jenna-jameson-and-aubrey-oday-share-4th-of-july-photos/

Home Is Where The Heart Breaks

Was my aunt and uncle’s house in Montreal a warm family home, or a hoarder’s paradise?

Alice Mongkongllite/BuzzFeed

The first 18 years of my life were spent waiting for a mythical place. What I knew of Montreal growing up were the weekends in the suburbs of the West Island, sleeping on a creaky foldout in a house filled with chatter and laughter. My aunt’s suburban mansard house in Pointe-Claire seemed to me a castle full of trinkets. I wandered around in the afternoons while the adults napped, gently examining the details on the Precious Moments figurines that lined a shelf in the living room. I read the labels on tiny souvenir liquor brought back from vacations: little round bottles of Mozart Chocolate Cream from Vienna and decorative drums of Niagara ice wine. Big bottles of mostly creme liqueurs and tequila gathered dust on a giant lacquered oak chest in the dining room.

The term “hoarder” wasn’t in vogue in the early ’90s yet; my aunt and uncle, Goo Ma and Goo Jeung, were simply avid collectors of insignificant tchotchkes. Every surface was covered with random figurines, crystal animals, Christmas cards spanning decades, and silver frames around smiling people. Lace was everywhere — covering the tables, adorning windows, hanging under beds. Their daughter, Vanya, an aerospace engineer who lived with them, collected Coke cans from all over the world and foreign candy containers in flavors like eucalyptus and piña colada. My uncle kept his library of books and an impressive collection of discounted Blockbuster VHS tapes in the cavernous basement.

As a child, on our monthly visits from Toronto, I found the basement terrifying. The darkness got to me — I would turn off the lights at the base of the stairs and run up as fast I could, and then lean forward to slap the top step with my hands. The kitchen to where the stairs led was the safe zone, a warm space filled with the smell of soy and ginger chicken and laughter, the domain of my dear Goo Ma, a large and happy woman in a pink apron.

The restaurant that Goo Ma and Goo Jeung owned closed down in 2001, so they went to China to do missionary work for about four years. The house was left occupied and unchanged by my cousins, Vanya and her brother Wilbur, who were then in their mid-twenties and spent much of their lives in other places. By the time of my aunt and uncle’s return, I had grown out of a precocious childhood into my sullen teens, while they seemed less joyous, less lively, ashen-faced and travel-weary. On the weekends we visited, I’d leave the quiet, green-spotted culs-de-sac of the suburb for the city, where the streets were lined with spiral staircases, and where beautiful people smoked on second-floor balconies. Goo Ma and Goo Jeung stayed at home those days, cooking and cleaning for that night’s dinner. After dinner Goo Ma would crack open a pomelo with her formidable hands, leave the pulp on the table and pass around pieces of the giant citrus fruit. It was good for digestion, the adults explained. At night I wandered the house listlessly, blowing dust off stacks of books.

The summer before I started university in 2007, Goo Ma’s health was deteriorating rapidly. Lung cancer had come back. I woke up to the sounds of my dad sobbing on the phone at 7 one morning. She had fallen into a coma. We left the next day. The drive from Toronto was quiet — at least, I think it was. I had my headphones on.

We stayed at the house in Pointe-Claire at night and went to the hospital the next day. The seven of us sat in the waiting room of the Montreal General silently. My cousin Vanya walked in and out of the room, giving us updates, and then finally, she returned with red eyes and told us that we should go in to say our final words. My parents did, while I stood watching them from the hallway dumbly. The plastic tubes running along her body, bald scalp, and antiseptic hospital gown rendered her unrecognizable from the bouncy happy woman who ushered us into her aromatic home of curiosities.

While my uncle and my dad settled final details with the hospital, I looked for Vanya. I found her in the hallway, peering through the glass door at Goo Ma, trembling, tears and snot falling from her face into a puddle on the hospital floor.

The funeral was at Mount Royal Cemetery.

I moved to the city the next week to start university.

For the following years, my uncle spent his evenings pacing sullenly around the house, examining things. He watched movies and read a lot — I never knew what to talk about with him so I asked him about books. His voice grew quieter, more timid. Every time we saw him, he seemed lose a little more color on his face and whatever hair remained. The house creaked a little more heavily in the silence; it was sighing in the absence of my aunt. Two years after the death of his beloved wife, Goo Jeung died. A heart attack in the middle of the night.

He left the house and all its scattered objects to Vanya.

Inevitably, most of the people you go to university with in Montreal don’t stick around. Sometimes they go back home to their parents, working odd jobs and saving up for grad school or at least for somewhere nicer, where they don’t have to pick up a second language and the political situation is a little tamer. Or they move to Toronto in search for more career options, better internships, more money, and the hope of some job security. I did both, because I could do both. After I graduated, it took 10 months in a condo in North Toronto to realize I couldn’t listen all the way through an Arcade Fire album without smelling the weed and beer-stained grass of a Montreal summer day spent in the park. I had spent four months fact-checking full-time by day and wiping tables and shuttling plates of half-eaten fish ‘n’ chips in a dark, subterranean faux-British pub under the concrete fields and glass office buildings of Toronto’s Financial District by night. The only thing I enjoyed about how I spent my days was complaining about them.

And so, a year after graduating university in search of broader horizons, I found myself back in Montreal. Within two weeks of moving back, I found myself unable to find a job or an apartment, and had gotten my laptop and overnight bag stolen from the back of my parents’ car. After a somewhat tepid reunion, my no longer long-distance boyfriend had a difficult time dealing with our newly recovered proximity and broke us up over the phone — the medium we had spent most of our relationship communicating through.

Once again, I was in the house full of trinkets, this time for two months. Vanya was off to Japan for a very long business trip, and she needed someone to house sit and water her plants. She left me her keys, a pantry full of dry goods that might not have been touched since my uncle died, her Wi-Fi and Netflix passwords, and a refrigerator full of Sapporo. I spent my brokenhearted, unemployed days crying over the phone to my mother imploring her to remind me once again why I decided to move back. I smoked joints and drank beer in the overgrown backyard. I wondered if my uncle and aunt could see me from above, corrupting the home that they had so laboriously cultivated for so many decades. The house was an entity, its contents were physical embodiments of these people who were no longer there, and the Sapporo bottles filled with crushed cigarette butts and weed dust were reminders that, no matter how temporarily, this was now my home.

I wandered the house listlessly at night, blowing aging particles off the frames of family portraits on top of the lace-covered piano. There was no trace of soy and ginger chicken in the house’s thick antique air made heavy and stale in the windless suburban summer.

Lost in this familiar archaeological site, I tried to piece together the story of a family by the impossibly varied items they left behind. A lace window curtain overlooking the yard with an L-shaped tear in it. Family photos, mugs congratulating someone on turning 50, picture books marked with crayon, and a lottery ticket dated 1998 bookmarking an anthology of DH Lawrence stories. Dust was inescapable. The walls had absorbed the best years of a family’s life, absorbed the boisterous laughter and gentle wafts of Chinese herbs, the small, quick strides of a child bolting up the stairs. Its weary frame creaked as my slippered feet paced the kitchen. Still, coming up from the basement, I would turn off the light at the bottom and sprint up as soon as I could, leaning forward to tag the top step. It wasn’t the same safety zone, but it was the only thing that still kept the darkness from wrapping around my ankles and pulling me back under.

Time moves on, of course, and I did what any artistically inclined young adult in Montreal does — I found an absurdly cheap apartment and a job at a cafĂ©. Two months is a long time to wallow, particularly when you’re an hour and a half from the city without a car. When the opportunity came to move in with a friend in a hip, young area opened up, I was none too eager to rejoin the rest of society. When I moved out, I took with me Vanya’s inflatable mattress and an old wooden lamp and carelessly left a bottle of Sapporo half-filled with cigarette butts in the backyard. This was three years ago.

These days, when Vanya comes home, she walks up the granite steps and unlocks the door just as she did when, 20 years ago, she was a teenager and could feel her parents’ presence just by the aroma of boiling herbs wafting out of the kitchen. I asked her once what her university years were like, and she replied, “Not as fun as yours.” I moved out of my parents’ as soon as I could and became, for better or for worse, a writer. She lived at home to take care of her parents, graduated from her undergrad and master’s from a prestigious school, and maintained a close-knit group of friends from church. She’s responsible, extremely well-traveled, close to her family, and fluently trilingual; all these qualities I increasingly envy.

She and her husband have a kid now, and they live together in the house. I haven’t returned since I moved out. It’s nothing personal — they’re busy with renovations, work, and raising a child, while I’ve been making up for my fun years by being a productive and responsible adult. And, to be honest, we’re not that close. We see each other occasionally for dinner at my uncle’s house. I’m constantly trying to prove to Vanya that I have matured and grown up, no longer the same sad loafer who drank all her beer and ran up her internet bill on Netflix those three summers ago. I ask about the house a lot, probably too much, fishing for details on their kitchen reno and the new upstairs floors. It feels like I’m inquiring about a distant family member who I once spent a lot of time with. I think about my uncle and aunt moving through the dust, peering from the photographs at the rooms which have been rejuvenated by Vanya, now a mother herself, and her family.

I imagine them all padding around with little feet on the shag carpet, filling the rooms with warm smells of her mother’s recipes, replacing the ’90s Christmas cards with ones from this millennium. The house is a home again, to these people who love the tiny things that piece together a portrait of a happy family, whose tears in the lace mean something because, incrementally, everything means something, even the white particles that gather on forlorn objects.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/jwei/home-is-where-the-heart-breaks

Rachel Campos-Duffy: Beyoncé’s halftime show was slutty


Beyoncé’s halftime show got rave reviews from most people in the Twitterspehere, but not from Rachel Campos-Duffy.

Campos-Duffy is the wife of Rep. Sean Duffy (R-Wisc.), a mother, and a celebrity in her own right (former star of MTV’s reality TV show, The Real World).

She’s not the only one who thought Beyoncé’s show was raunchy:

#not a great role model @beyonce slutty little stripper routine!

— Shawn Chaplin (@homeexpertinc) February 4, 2013

Beyonce just promotes be sexy and slutty she got Yall women heads messed up smh

— Kelso (@mikekelso313) February 4, 2013

@rcamposduffy Thank you! we turned the channel.

— Trevor Polas (@trevorh321) February 4, 2013

@rcamposduffy perfectly said Rachel….TD!

— Butch (@ButchM737) February 4, 2013

Is it just me or does Beyonce look extremely slutty right now.. #omgstahp

— Soccer Blondes ⚽ (@soccer_blondes_) February 4, 2013

Beyonce is a tad bit slutty

— Isko (@bigisko) February 4, 2013

Beyonce you slutty whore

— Jacko Lambo (@JackThisLamb) February 4, 2013


Well that was a pretty slutty half time show! Nice job Beyonce for making all the guys happy!

— charity carlson (@cherry_berry94) February 4, 2013

Wait until these folks find out what else is on the radio. By comparison, Beyoncé is practically a nun.


Bieber fans buzzing about ‘Lolly,’ wonder how dirty it will be

Women of Twitter can’t get enough of Flo Rida’s ‘Whistle’


Beyoncé unites Campos-Duffy and Roseanne Barr:

Beyonce’s crotch was quite entertaining! Just sing next time

— Roseanne Barr (@TheRealRoseanne) February 4, 2013

I’m going to start exposing my crotch more!

— Roseanne Barr (@TheRealRoseanne) February 4, 2013

Read more: http://twitchy.com/2013/02/03/rachel-campos-duffy-beyonces-halftime-show-was-slutty/

Marg Helgenberger demands plan to end gun violence after death wish for NRA members


“Common sense laws,” eh? That’s a somewhat less violent gun-control strategy than the one Marg Helgenberger advocated last week.

Hours after the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre, the former “CSI” actress  joined author Joyce Carol Oates in “hoping” that shooting a significant number of NRA numbers would result in gun control.

Helgenberger has still not retracted that tweet or apologized for hoping NRA members would get shot. But that’s a-OK, because like many celebs, she’s joining the “national conversation” about gun violence by demanding a plan for stuff. Or something.

Is that her backup strategy in case the whole shooting NRA members thing doesn’t pan out? Or are they just companion pieces in the gun control puzzle?

Helgenberger joins dozens of celebrity know-it-alls in signing on to the “Demand a Plan” campaign being pushed by starstruck gun-grabber Nanny Bloomberg.

Michael Bloomberg’s Twitter feed is a spectacular fail. Mayor for 11 years and he has to suck up to Hollywood airheads for legitimacy?

— Nathan Wurtzel (@NathanWurtzel) December 22, 2012

Will any of these actors and sports figures confront Helgenberger about her violent death wish for NRA members? We won’t hold our breath.

I stand with @jessicaalba @azizansari @carmeloanthony. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us. bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

I stand with @elizabethbanks @batemanjason @imkristenbell. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us. bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

I stand with @stevecarell @mrjoshcharles @courteneycox @teamvic. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us. bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

I stand with @zooeydeschanel @richeisen @iamjamiefoxx @selenagomez. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us. bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

I stand with @beyonce @johnlegend @iamrashidajones @iamgreenfield. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us. bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

I stand with @_juliannemoore @joelmchale @debramessing @officialjld. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us. bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

I stand with @jessepooljesse @mradamscott @evilhag @busyphilipps25. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us. bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

I stand with @oliviamunn @conanobrien @nick_offerman @gwynethpaltrow. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

I stand with @chrisrock @sarahksilverman @realmichellew. I #DemandAPlan to end gun violence. RT to join us. bit.ly/R98na8

— Mike Bloomberg (@MikeBloomberg) December 21, 2012

How many of these celebs are “demanding a plan” that will include giving up their armed security?

Read more: http://twitchy.com/2012/12/22/after-hoping-nra-members-will-be-shot-marg-helgenberger-demands-a-plan-to-end-gun-violence/