I found a shitload of pictures of Heidi Klum’s new house in Brentwood on Lonny.com. My god is she rich. Coincidentally, I had just looked at a bunch of terrifying crap on BrainJet.com. B.J. has a photo gallery of the ugliest beings underwater. I found those toothy creatures less disturbing than the tacky palatial pool of the America’s Got Talent gal’s new digs.
The following are things I don’t dig about the supermodel’s Cali abode.
1. The Fabulous Fount is not so. The cement courtyard is drab and dull. The hard, chilly space reminds me of an outdoor wedding area at a Courtyard By Marriott. Also, the circular drive is an inefficient shape in which to stow a vehicle. Parallel parking on an arc is a motherfucker. A big, Crabby “thumbs down” for this dreary respite.
2. I don’t know who named this “Gothic Grandeur” but why would that be something anyone wanted? BTW, this dark-wooded and posh-to-the point-of-stuffy sitting chamber looks like a fancy perfume department in a big box store. Klum’s room is doom. Gothic Granduer = #Fail
Where oh where would I stash my beloved bong, BTW?
Furthermore, there is a nothing “grand” about goth. I have a friend who considers himself a “goth.” Dude is a total sad-sack that smells of Drakkar and cheap white foundation. Guy-liner must be applied constantly.
3. Who wants a stupid secret garden anyway? I’m not spending 12 million on a home and then have a backyard with a labyrinth of hedges in which I could wander piss drunk and never return. If not this Jack Nicholson nightmare, why not a corn maze? I hope Heidi never has to say, “The last time I saw Seal was during last year’s Easter Egg hunt.” The Secret Garden is a wanker.
4. I just couldn’t drop a delicious deuce properly anywhere in the room below. Not even into the Roman toilet! Why oh why would a human want a bathroom “Italian style?” I have been to the boot and it’s a beautiful country. The people are entertaining as hell running around like Animaniacs waving their arms all the while medieval torture devices dangle from bignè smelling necks. That being said, no one does crapping like Murica – certainly not the Italians. The Klum-crapper is mos def no hero.
5. The Palatial Pools blow big-time. Don’t get wrong. I would love to lounge a Sunday morning hangover away on those lush layers of what would have to be the downiest of goose feathers in the history of god. However, infinity pools totally freak me out. What if I am sleeping off a couple of white Russians and my floaty device goes over the side of my personal-size man-made lake and down into the Canyon Of Brentwood? What then? That cement-bottom-pond is a one-way ticket to shitting in a bag for evuh and evuh.
And…here’s another scary monster –
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