Unless you have short-term memory issues (read: smoke a lot of pot), you probably remember these pictures of Kristin Bell in a bikini. Well, here she is again, this time in lingerie in Maximal Magazine, which appears to be the poor Yugoslavian smelter’s version Maxim. Sama sebi škoditi! Only 300 dinars per issue! Come with free pohati and endemic nephropathy screening. Won’t you order today?

We Yanks might not know who Jodie Marsh is, but my fellow Brits will “recognise” her as that skank with the fake tits that managed to make a fucking belt look slutty. Anyway, she showed up at the “Daylight Robbery” premiere yesterday in this classy little number. It’s a sad commentary when a spandex/jersey knit unitard cut to the navel is an improvement on your last outfit. Of course, I use the term “improvement” loosely. It’s an improvement the way being constipated is an improvement on explosive diarrhea, or the way one lazy eye is an improvement on two lazy eyes. That is, negligible and likely to make your asshole chap. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, mates!

Danielle Lloyd was stripped of her 2006 Miss Great Britain title after posing topless in Playboy and an alleged affair with one of the judges. Oh big freaking deal. You can’t try to tell me that almost every girl who goes for one of those “Miss So and So” titles gets there by being beautiful and NOT sharing it like a kid with pinkeye. Some smelly, sour old curmudgeon who wasn’t getting his raisins nibbled on decided to ruin the fun for everyone else. Way to be a boner-kill.

Danielle shares because she cares!

For all my seizure-loving fans out there, here’s cyberslut Miley Cyrus shopping in a dress that appears to have been designed by M.C. Escher’s retarded cousin. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I squint or which angle I turn my monitor, I still see Miley Cyrus’ face. Where are the explorations of infinity and impossible objects? The dress gets an epic fail in the school of graphic arts. A+ in the school of epilepsy, but epic fail in the school of graphic arts. Please excuse me while I twitch and try not to bite off my tongue.

Summer’s almost over, and the summer supererogative will soon mercifully come to end. I can’t tell you how much fun it is drumming up something snarky to say about generic blond actresses that appear to all have been cloned from the same generic blond host and their toned-to-perfection bikini bodies and porcelain Hollywood smiles. It’s like trying to make fun of the number 7. Your average person would say it couldn’t be done. But as you well know, I’m not your average person. Those standardized test they made me take in elementary school actually proved I was “special.” Suck it, Ali Larter!

Ali with her boyfriend on the beach:

Men and Women’s Individual BMX competitions were added to the roster for the first time at the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing, along with modifications to the 10k Marathon Swim and Women’s 3000m Steeplechase. But for some reason, the IOC still refuses to recognize the oral sport of lesbian tongue wrestling. Russia gymnast Ksenia Semenova (pictured above with her coach) is clearly a natural. Such form! Such precision! That’s a double labial press with full upper body contact, and absolutely no training whatsoever! I can’t remember ever seeing such raw talent. Oh, wait — yes, I can. The director’s cut of “Sex Starved Fuck Sluts #22.” My mistake.

Sonya’s on the scene tomorrow, so I’ll see you snarky bastards Monday!

In case you’re wondering who the behemoth in the picture is, it’s Pierce Brosnan’s wife Keely Shaye. A long time ago, she looked like this. Now she looks like she should be dodging harpoons and swallowing puppet-makers whole. I’m not sure if those are chins or just a stack of backup pancakes for emergencies. Either way, it’s probably best not to poke at ‘em. You wouldn’t want to lose a finger in the attack.

Kate Beckinsale is 35 years old in these bikini pictures taken in Mexico yesterday. 35 years old. To put that in perspective, when my mom was 35, she was tipping the scales at 280 and routinely herniated herself hitting the TV when her stories went out. Of course, Kate Beckinsale didn’t give birth to the greatest voice of our generation, so it’s not even a competition, really. I’m pretty sure birthing this kind of talent buys you a mulligan or two on the aesthetic greens of life.

Interesting tidbits about Veronica Mars here: 1) she has a lazy eye, 2) her first movie role was in the cinematic classic “Pootie Tang,” and 3) she once petitioned her parents to legally change her name to “Smurfette.” It’s a real shame her parents never indulged her. If they had, you might actually remember her name instead of just calling her “that chick from Veronica Mars.” I know it’s the main reason I named my only daughter “Cuntee McBeaverson.” Try washing that name out of your cerebral cortex! Science says it can’t be done!

Kristin Bell smurfing it up on the beach:

Mariah Carey is yachting off the isle of Capri with her husband Nick Cannon, and has apparently constructed an elaborate fantasy in which she is a Bond Girl, and therefore must swan about in a bathing suit approximately 9 sizes too small while being fished out of the Mediterranean by one of her minions. Since she’s slicked into that thing like a wet seal in a greased up corset, it comes as no surprise that her nipples made a desperate bid for freedom. Ain’t nothin’ gonna break their stride, oh no! They’ve got to keep on movin’!

…I’ve inexplicably had that song in my head all day. If I have to suffer, y’all can suffer right along with me. You’re welcome!

Today when I was lying prone on the couch, high on Vicodin with fluid draining out of my ear, I asked myself, “Why don’t I look as good as supermodel Helena Christensen in a bikini?” Then I went back to drinking cake batter with a straw and watching hour number four of “B.J. and the Bear.” Some of life’s mysteries were never meant to be solved, my friends.

It’s hard to say what I hate most about Rihanna’s beach look — the mismatched prints, the Lucky Star jewelery, or the Pete Wentz hairdo. Fortunately, one of the great things about hate is that it doesn’t require you to be specific. All you really need is a deep-seeded sense of self-loathing stemming from years of abuse and maybe a gun and a megaphone. Check, check and check, baby!

In Barbados this week: