This delightful creature was inside the mommy shark when a shark fisherman killed them both. Or all three of them.

Experts who examined the two-headed shark say it’s the first ever bull shark to be found with two heads — somebody put the dead fetus in the MRI machine because why not, and found that it wasn’t “conjoined twins” but an actual two-headed shark and the first two-headed bull shark ever to be put inside the MRI machine.

Researchers also claim the baby monster would not live long in the wild, but this sounds like eugenics. Wouldn’t the baby two-headed shark have twice the chance at survival?

Anyway, shark abortion should be illegal. The founders did not intend for fisherman to kill a shark fetus. And this shark could’ve been a major attraction, had it been allowed to live. People are tired of CGI and would like to see a real monster eat some actors. Imagine the career comeback for some burnout like Lindsay Lohan if she agreed to be eaten by a two-headed shark, for real, in 3D. Or, one shark head could eat Lindsay Lohan, and the other could eat … a real “left field” choice, maybe Val Kilmer? This would be a very good movie and it is a shame we’ll never see it now, because of some fisherman out there killing babies in the sea.

Photo by Dr. Michael Wagner.

“A new study suggests that the more choices people have, the riskier the decisions they make.”

We never get tired of Unhappiness Surveys, especially if we live somewhere that’s relatively happier than the states that always turn up on these lists. No matter how bad things are in New York or Los Angeles or whatever thriving urban hellhole you call home, it’s nothing like the misery of the “10 most unhappy states in the U.S.,” right? Consider Mississippi, America’s broken toilet in a vacant lot with waist-high weeds:

Mississippi ranked lower than any other state in Gallup’s basic access to necessities category. Nearly 25% of state residents indicated they did not have enough money to buy food for themselves or their family at some point in the past 12 months, the highest percentage of all states. Such problems are likely due to the state’s high-poverty rate and overall low incomes. The state’s median household income of $36,919 was the lowest of all 50 states, and the poverty rate of 22.6% was the highest.

With 38% of residents suffering high blood pressure (second only to West Virginia) and a diabetes rate of 15.4% (second to none!), Mississippi is also blessed with the third-lowest high school graduation rate in the nation and the world’s worst politicians. On the good side, real estate is quite affordable!

Despite being best known for a 10-year-old local news segment mocking the drug addiction, poverty and desperation for gold common to its poorest communities, Mississippi has also produced such notable people as Elvis Presley, the Depression-era country legend Jimmie Rodgers, Jim Henson, Morgan Freeman, Oprah Winfrey, Mose Allison, Bo Diddley, William Faulkner and my mom.

Kelly Brook, Our Lady Of The Selfies

by Emma Garman

A series dedicated to explaining Britain’s manufactured celebrities to an American audience.

At this pivotal juncture of Western feminism, as minds great and not so great debate Sheryl Sandberg’s diktats, parse Marissa Mayer’s tyrannical telecommuting ban, and analyze more rigorously the lyrics of “I Knew You Were Trouble” now that we know Taylor’s totally singing about Harry Styles, it is edifying to see that, when it comes to sisterly activism, one of Britain’s most influential female role models refuses to shirk her duty. “It’s hard being 33 and being a model,” beloved Page 3 alum Kelly Brook movingly — bravely! — confided to OK, “but I do it because it’s nice to have a real representation of a woman out there.”

Indeed, the millions Brook earns from posing in a state of dishabille and endorsing saucy lingerie must pale in importance next to her soul’s vocational call. Admittedly, the ideals encompassed by her particular brand of Get Your Tits Out For The Lads feminism — presenting an oiled-up cleavage for the unstinting appraisal of FHM readers, accepting the occasional acting job provided the role demands nudity, and endlessly eulogizing to the press about one’s “curves” — could forgivably be mistaken for comically, bordering on criminally, retrogressive. But our Kels would indignantly dismiss such a churlish interpretation of her good works on behalf of womankind. Stripping off, she is fond of saying, is “empowering,” and if anyone understands the millennia-long oppression of the patriarchy, she does. “It’s still a man’s world,” as she once lamented. “I’ve had to fight to be something that isn’t just a pretty face or body.” Precisely what that something is remains hazy, but lest anyone accuse this column of not giving its esteemed subjects the benefit of the doubt, let us scrupulously assay the career of Ms. Brook — née Kelly Ann Parsons in Rochester, Kent — who’s been famous for being something for nearly fifteen years.

Brook’s tempestuous relationship with the British TV industry — a cruel and fickle mistress even to those with discernible skills — is perhaps the most conspicuous facet of her valiant, and ongoing, battle to prove that her talents lie beyond the physical. As a stage school-educated 19 year old whose biggest gig to date was appearing topless in the Daily Star, she made her terrestrial TV debut as the presenter of a popular breakfast show. Alas, she was humiliatingly fired six months in, amid sneers about her inability to read unfamiliar words on the autocue and play along with her sharp-witted co-host’s humor. “I suppose I could have given up,” she later reflected, “but what would have been the point? You have to take the knocks, you know. It’s a tough business.” Instead, she retreated to advance, which meant hosting an MTV show and cultivating with laudable assiduity her loyal lad mag fanbase.

Our bonny heroine’s next high-profile foray into TV, some years later, saw her participating in what must, in all sincerity, be classified as human endeavor’s chilling nadir: a reality show entitled “Celebrity Love Island.” Even explaining the “rules” of the “game” feels like baiting the wrath of the gods; suffice it to say there were Z-list celebs, “love shacks” and viewers voting on their preferred couplings. When Brook’s efforts at fronting this televisual annex of Hades were deemed inadequate — reviews were brutal, and she was replaced after the first season — it could so easily have sounded the final death knell for any ambitions in this arena, and surely would have for a thinner-skinned type.

But, with her unwavering determination to leave more for posterity than bestselling calendars and eleventy thousand step-and-repeat shots, she prevailed, and soon achieved the middling starlet’s true mark of distinction: being dismissed by Simon Cowell as a talent show judge after two episodes. Brook, displaying the fierce integrity of someone paid £1 million to appear in Lynx commercials, announced: “We’re not friends. I didn’t know him before and I’ll probably never meet him again.” And, as if in karmic rebuke to the almighty Restylaned despot, this spring has brought glimmering hints that Brook’s TV career may at last have turned a corner. Currently doing maternity cover as a team captain on the game show “Celebrity Juice,” she has so far acquitted herself admirably in duties including, but not limited to, fellating rubber objects while blindfolded, reciting scripted jokes about the week’s trivia, and having the shiniest hair in all of Christendom.

Rather poignantly, Brook has often said that acting is her raison d’etre. No stranger to serious theater, since 2000 she has trod the boards in “Eye Contact,” “Calendar Girls” and “Fat Pig” by Neil LaBute, as well as in Parisian burlesque “Crazy Horse.” Destiny, ever capricious, has yet to send a stage role in which her character is required to remain attired, but that’s the unfathomable business of show for you. As for her cinematic oeuvre, it’s probably kinder to gloss over the mostly naked, mostly critically reviled details. (When Fishtales — in which she plays a mermaid opposite then-boyfriend Billy Zane — was shown at Cannes, half the audience got up and left.) Nevertheless, in the sunlit chasms of Brook’s mind, her lack of Hollywood glory can simply be chalked up to her status as a Jill of all trades. “I often think if I had been better at focusing on one thing exclusively,” she shared with Sunday Telegraph readers, “I’d have had an acting career like Kate Winslet.”

With such remarks, which give new meaning to the phrase “too easy,” it’s momentarily tempting to wonder if Brook’s ditzy persona is an act of high-wire satire, a prank on us all. The moment tends to pass, however, as soon as she starts banging on about her curves, an event that punctuates English life as reliably as rain and random stabbings. Per a cursory Googling of Kelly headlines: “I know how to get pleasure out of my curves”; “How I feel about my curves”; “I’m happy with my curves”; “How I keep my curves in shape”; and, many times over, “I’m proud of my curves.” There’s only one entity whose fascination with Brook’s T & A equals her own: Daily Mail Online, which updates practically hourly on whether her curves happen to be “flaunted,” “covered up,” “highlighted,” “unleashed,” “accentuated,” “shown off” or, everyone’s favorite, “poured into” some garment or another. Earlier this month, shockwaves went through the top secret bunker where the cloned imps, bred to identify cellulite dimples with split-second x-ray vision, compile the Mail’s Sidebar of Shame: Brook, without so much as a by your leave, had imposed a moratorium on selfies, a copious stream of which normally flows daily onto her Instagram feed. This devilish stunt lasted hours, during which goodness knows how profoundly the cosmos was altered by the butterfly effect of pervy Brook-obsessives unexpectedly, disconsolately, seeking their jollies elsewhere.

Recently reintroduced into one in every two or three hundred of her selfies is Kelly’s boyfriend Danny Cipriani, a 25-year-old rugby player whom she dated between 2008 and 2010 before severing and, as of a few weeks ago, joyfully re-establishing relations. In the meantime she was in a relationship with Thom Evans, who to the casual observer is barely distinguishable from Danny, also being a 20-something rugby player with rippling muscles and an expression that might politely be described as far away. (Side note: in conformance with the ancient law stipulating that all C/D-list celebs must be part of a love-quadrangle, Thom is now dating Danny’s ex, Jessica Lowndes off of “90210.”)

Worryingly, Kelly is at imminent risk of devastating heartbreak according to several concerned citizens, including American model Jasmine Waltz (no, me neither), who warns that “Danny has no way of holding down a serious relationship. I feel sorry for Kelly and am pretty sure he is the kind of animal she cannot tame.” Strong words, but the mother of another ex-girlfriend heartily concurs. “Danny can never be faithful to one woman. I like Kelly a lot, but she shouldn’t be chasing around this airhead toyboy,” insists Margit Irimia, whose daughter, Cheeky Girl Monica, was cheated on by the caddish athlete. (What, pray, is a Cheeky Girl? I hear you vaguely mutter — a question to which only those with a cast-iron capacity for extreme levels of unreconstructed Euro-pop kitsch should seek an answer.)

But busybodying controversy-mongers be damned: a woman who has graced more FHM 100 Sexiest Woman lists than anyone on the planet can’t possibly be expected to spend the briefest interlude single, as Brook’s romantic history confirms. Her first go-round with Danny was preceded by seven years with (I believe this is the obligatory label, but please visualize your columnist’s wrinkled-nosed moue of distaste) “action hero” Jason Statham, then four years with Titanic actor Billy Zane. And on the rare occasions that she’s casually dated, the media’s relentless scrutiny has generated some unfortunate PR. A 2010 liaison with “Glee” star Matthew Morrison led to his ungallant, and ubiquitously reported, characterization of her as “not the brightest bulb.” (Well, it stands to reason that a man who makes his living performing “Ice Ice Baby” in a high-school auditorium would want to discuss Kierkegaard and Heidegger on his downtime.) Then in February, after Kelly was photographed with nightclub owner and Cosa Nostra snitch Chris Paciello in Miami, a deluge of headlines varied on the theme that Kelly was GETTING CLOSE TO A CONVICTED MURDERER. Honestly, you have lunch with one notorious bank robber whose most recent heist involved a woman getting shot in the head, and the papers hear wedding bells.

Rest assured that Brook, as is her custom, will breezily rise above any impertinent chatter about her choice of suitor, and focus on what’s important. For starters, her new make-up collection isn’t going to promote itself. Though the products were developed by fashion chain New Look, which also carries Kelly Brook clothes, shoes, swimwear and lingerie, she’s made it clear that her full engagement with the creative process is non-optional. Hence, “polka dots, gingham, Marilyn Monroe, flowers” was the radical blueprint she flung, with what I like to imagine as Lagerfeldian imperiousness, at the “branding people.” And woe betide the underling who misinterprets any element of the Brook vision: “I can get really upset about things that haven’t been named correctly,” she confessed, “or colours that weren’t what I wanted.” Such is the lot of the true artist in a world that cares more for per-unit profit margins than creating the most flattering hue of berry lip gloss.

An even more pressing professional obligation currently on Brook’s packed agenda? Nurturing a vicious feud with Katie Price. The Artist Formerly Known As Jordan, whose antipathy toward Kelly may stem from her own brief but torrid fling with the sociable Danny, recently committed to print the provocative view that, in a new bikini snap, her adversary was carrying some extra poundage — this milieu’s equivalent of a Crip throwing a burning red bandana onto a Blood’s doorstep. Kelly, thus mad disrespected, had no choice but to direct puerile insults at Katie from the safety of a TV studio. God willing, they’ll be able to keep this gripping contretemps — sorry, “sexy catfight” — in the headlines for another week. Or at least until something earthshattering happens, like Cheryl Cole is pictured pensive or thin or fat or with a new tattoo.

Meanwhile, Brook must resolutely soldier on with her soi-disant campaign to elevate womankind via the cunning strategy of getting her kit off in exchange for money — $500,000 in the case of Playboy, an offer she accepted without hesitation in 2010. “I love Playboy,” she said at the time, “I think it’s such an iconic brand,” pretty much echoing Gloria Steinem’s famous comment that “a woman reading Playboy feels a little like a Jew reading a Nazi manual.” And yet, for some reason, the question of whether Brook is a genius or an idiot, an exemplar of liberated womanhood or the ultimate female chauvinist pig, continues to confound the media whose powers Brook, or perhaps more accurately her management, harnesses so lucratively. As she herself put it: “I guess that’s kind of the debate. Am I the ultimate feminist, or am I not? I don’t know. I don’t really drive myself mad about it.”

Previously: The Miraculous Exploits Of Princess Michael Of Kent

Emma Garman is on Tumblr and Twitter.

“Obesity has its obvious manifestations; it’s a disease that is difficult to conceal. And now, doctors say they can even smell it on your breath.”

This song is great in the way that many of Maybach Music Group songs are great, which is to say: a behemoth beat made of 808 bass, piano and church bells, Rick Ross’s baritone sounding good while saying nothing interesting, and Meek Mill’s higher register sounding urgent and ever better while saying sharp, slick, clever rhymes. When Ross says that he has “that Justin Bieber,” I’m pretty sure he means that he is selling cocaine. (Cocaine being white like Justin Bieber.) But it’s fun to think of other stuff he might be talking about. A funny haircut? Perfect teeth? Or maybe Justin Bieber himself, bound and gagged in the trunk of his Cadillac.

“A gorilla sculpture has been painted by a nine-year-old Western lowland gorilla at Paignton Zoo. The zoo said [the gorilla painter] chose to use fingers — and occasionally lips — rather than brushes to apply the child-friendly paint and had been ‘inspired by the promise of grapes’.”

“Why do so many of us believe we have sensitive skin?”

“’Asking prices’ are not that at all. They are ‘marketing prices.’ Buyers should never reflexively assign any validity to the price advertised on any particular property. Listing agents purposely under price their properties for sale and set an offer date. ‘Why?’ individuals may ask. They do it because it works.”
 — Are you in the market for buying a home in the San Francisco Bay Area? Sorry to hear about that.

This Tumblr is just hypnotic: Our Incredible Journey collects the deadly combination of “We’ve been acquired, now our company will be amazing!” with the inevitable “We’ve suspended service to focus on Google/Facebook/Yahoo’s core products” announcements. (via)