Greetings trout-lipped slaggamadaggama,
Which brand of pink velour tracksuit are you lounging around in today? Juicy Couture or Versace And have you got your glittery Uggs on or your diamante Converse?
My reason for writing is of course not to establish what god awful ensemble you are wearing, but to question a few things that have been bugging me.
1) What the utter fuck have you done to your lad’s hair?
Poor lad. Poor poor lad.
As if he’s not got enough on his plate? He’s Dwight Yorke’s lad for fuck’s sake. That’s punishment alone. Then he’s got that Peter Andre tool crying about him that he misses him and that ..
And lets face it – not the best looking lad in the world is he? Bless him. He was about 3 stone when he was born or something wasn’t he? And you go giving him a hair do like that? To help him “blend in” ? To help him “be normal” ? Has he not been sent home from school?
You’ve basically drawn all over his head with some chalk? A load of white lines and then a frog. A fucking frog. What lad wants a frog on his head? I’d sooner see a Nike tick and an undercut.
And then... you’ve got the cheek to tweet that he “loves it” ??? How on earth can he love that monstrosity .. ???
Is he blind?? Oh... Soz about that... Bit sly doing that to a blind lad? Right? I'd have to go to prison if I'd done that to a blind kid.
2) The things you tell the press
If I did a survey now about whether you are an attention seeking media whore or not, I’d like to think that the results would be unanimous. You’ve had more desperate reality TV shows than The Osbornes, more publicity stunts than any other ‘celebs’ I can think of, and you rock up at the opening of cereal boxes and that don't you, forever launching a new perfume range / make up / awful book / own range of tampons in 'bucket fanny' size etc..
But girl, why do you have to tell the press this? :
Q: “What’s the rudest thing you’ve ever done in the name of love?”
Katie Price: “I fucked Alex Reid up the arse with a vodka bottle.”
(source: Now! magazine)
REALLY? You have got three kids. Fuck’s sake. Do you really want your 3 kids knowing that?
Granted they’ll have seen your tits and flange in every lads’ mag going, and they’ll know you’re an absolute dirt valve. BUT do you really want them knowing that much?
I can’t even express how fucked up I’d be if from a tender age I knew that my Ma goosed my Dad / some bloke up the arse with a bottle of Voddy.
And Alex Reid? Of all the people.. Chimp faced, sawdust brained, ubercunt Alex Reid. Was he dressed as his alleged alter ego Roxanne at the time?
To be fair, I’d sooner see Peter Andre with a bottle up his arse. Preferably a broken one.
And you know what the aftermath would look like?
YOUR LAD’S FUCKING HEAD WITH THAT JOKE OF A HAIRCUT !
3) Your Range Rover
All the money in the world, and you’re driving round in this eye sore:
I wouldn’t step in that if you paid me.
If it was pissing down, freezing and I had no shoes on and I needed to get somewhere 100 miles away and I had no money – I wouldn’t step in that. I’d walk. I’d crawl. I’d even get dragged by a sledge of Huskies attached to my foreskin, before stepping in that god awful contraption.
And your number plate?? Really? KP11 HOT? Fuckkkkking hell.
Here, I’ll give you a heads up when I see B4D SL4G come up at the next DVLA auction.
Right that will do for now, as I can’t even be bothered spending anymore time on you.
But on a genuinely serious note – stop acting a twat, for the sake of your kids, you've earned your money so just settle down and be grateful for what you've got... They deserve a more normal life – where they will never ever ever ever hear about what depraved sexual acts you perform on your boyfriend(s).. Ever.
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