The Beefus tells Consuela to HUSH.... instagram video in progress.... Consuela apologizes

Discussion in 'The Howard Stern Show' started by SillyOldMan, Oct 21, 2015.

  1. SillyOldMan

    SillyOldMan Well-Known Member

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    Thanks to @Betteb56 for mentioning this in another thread. Here is the instagram video. I searched and didn't see this posted here. From 6 days ago.

    Consuela: "My phone is already ???? (full of pictures?). I cannot..."

    Beefus?: SHUT THE FUCK UP

    Consuela: "Sorry"

     
    Last edited: Oct 21, 2015
  2. Quality Control

    Quality Control dove Gold

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    I can't.

    [​IMG]







    .
     
    Last edited: Oct 21, 2015
  3. MyLazyHand

    MyLazyHand Russia and France Know What to Do

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  4. Calloused Shins

    Calloused Shins Well-Known Member

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    Consuela?
    She's around....
     
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  5. beetlejosh

    beetlejosh I got a head that's large Gold

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    It sounds like Consuela said, "my phone is already full of pictures, I cannot..."

    Probably full of pics of dumb twat face
    and her mangy cats.
     
  6. wigtropolis

    wigtropolis Well-Known Member

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    guntsquad calling consuela
     
  7. ZevonFan

    ZevonFan VIP Extreme Gold

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    One of the rudest things to say to a person's face is SHUT UP. So demeaning. It isn't like the Hindenburg is going down at that second. Beef is so ugly inside, a total twat mental case. Poor Consuela shouldn't have to use or explain the BeefQueen about her own phone. Boy, that pisses me off!
     
  8. tv910

    tv910 Well-Known Member

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    Just like when she grabbed that puppy away from her assistant during the TV appearance. That's the REAL Beth, not the sweet saintly persona she tries to promote.
     
  9. ZevonFan

    ZevonFan VIP Extreme Gold

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    YES! I can picture her bitchface hissing that garbage to Consuela, too. Poor thing.
     
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  10. johnfreeman1

    johnfreeman1 Well-Known Member

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    oh my lanta
     
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  11. MyLazyHand

    MyLazyHand Russia and France Know What to Do

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    Beth acts like she's on safari in the cat play room.

    Don't worry, those precious cats will be shown the door in six days to make room for more Instagram fodder.

    I wonder if the "permanent cats" talk amongst themselves?

    "Hey, where's that blind cat, Buddy? I thought he had a book coming out soon."
     
  12. John Mahlin

    John Mahlin These go to eleven Gold

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    How dare the hired help ruin her amaaaaaazing video while she's doing God's work. She really needs a hot poker rammed up her ass. She can't die fast enough.
     
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  13. Tim

    Tim ty dawg for gold! Gold

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    I'm not even surprised anymore
     
  14. tv910

    tv910 Well-Known Member

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    Beth really does seem to be shuttling as many kittens as possible through Cat Piss Manor. The two she dumped off recently were only with her for a few days and hadn't even been spayed/neutered yet. I suspect she's trying to get the number of kittens she's "fostered" up to a nice round number (200?) so she can brag about it when she goes on her book promotion tour.
     
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  15. MyLazyHand

    MyLazyHand Russia and France Know What to Do

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    Other than confusing the hell out of the cats, exactly what benefit does Beth provide through her "fostering" process?

    Hey, come out to the Hamptons for part of a week so I can play with you?

    How does that help.......at all?
     
  16. JessOnCrack

    JessOnCrack Check out my maniacal laugh! Banned User

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  17. JessOnCrack

    JessOnCrack Check out my maniacal laugh! Banned User

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    Last edited: Oct 21, 2015
  18. WillyBest

    WillyBest Achiever Gold

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    I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself.

    One week prior, at the behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I'd flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I'll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my country honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction.

    And so on the morning of that New Year's Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed, upon returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the closet and give myself the discharge I deserved.

    I walked for hours. I looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to Trinity Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and a drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other pedestrians darted for awnings and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt that had coagulated around my heart. It didn't, of course, so I started back to the apartment.

    And then I saw you.

    You'd taken shelter under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown, which appeared to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders. I'd never seen anything so beautiful.

    When I joined you under the balcony, you looked at me with your big green eyes, and I could tell that you'd been crying. I asked if you were okay. You said you'd been better. I asked if you'd like to have a cup of coffee. You said only if I would join you. Before I could smile, you snatched my hand and led me on a dash through Downtown Crossing and into Neisner's.

    We sat at the counter of that five and dime and talked like old friends. We laughed as easily as we lamented, and you confessed over pecan pie that you were engaged to a man you didn't love, a banker from some line of Boston nobility. A Cabot, or maybe a Chaffee. Either way, his parents were hosting a soirée to ring in the New Year, hence the dress.

    For my part, I shared more of myself than I could have imagined possible at that time. I didn't mention Vietnam, but I got the sense that you could see there was a war waging inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it.

    After an hour or so, I excused myself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my reflection in the mirror. Wondering if I should kiss you, if I should tell you what I'd done from the cockpit of that bomber a week before, if I should return to the Smith & Wesson that waited for me. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of the resuscitation this stranger in the teal ball gown had given me, and to turn my back on such sweet serendipity would be the real disgrace.

    On the way back to the counter, my heart thumped in my chest like an angry judge's gavel, and a future -- our future -- flickered in my mind. But when I reached the stools, you were gone. No phone number. No note. Nothing.

    As strangely as our union had begun, so too had it ended. I was devastated. I went back to Neisner's every day for a year, but I never saw you again. Ironically, the torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my self-loathing, and the prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of discovering what had happened in that restaurant. The truth is I never really stopped wondering.

    I'm an old man now, and only recently did I recount this story to someone for the first time, a friend from the VFW. He suggested I look for you on Facebook. I told him I didn't know anything about Facebook, and all I knew about you was your first name and that you had lived in Boston once. And even if by some miracle I happened upon your profile, I'm not sure I would recognize you. Time is cruel that way.

    This same friend has a particularly sentimental daughter. She's the one who led me here to Craigslist and these Missed Connections. But as I cast this virtual coin into the wishing well of the cosmos, it occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime of lost sleep, that our connection wasn't missed at all.

    You see, in these intervening forty-two years I've lived a good life. I've loved a good woman. I've raised a good man. I've seen the world. And I've forgiven myself. And you were the source of all of it. You breathed your spirit into my lungs one rainy afternoon, and you can't possibly imagine my gratitude.

    I have hard days, too. My wife passed four years ago. My son, the year after. I cry a lot. Sometimes from the loneliness, sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke over Hanoi. And then, a few dozen times a year, I'll receive a gift. The sky will glower, and the clouds will hide the sun, and the rain will begin to fall. And I'll remember.

    So wherever you've been, wherever you are, and wherever you're going, know this: you're with me still.
     
  19. Tim

    Tim ty dawg for gold! Gold

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    It helps her have kittens while they're cute then throw them away to a normie peasant like you when they're big. Now come sweep up this cat shit Consuela! clap clap
     
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  20. MyLazyHand

    MyLazyHand Russia and France Know What to Do

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    I argued with you the first time we met.

    You wanted the last scooter at the entrance to the Elkton WalMart, but I was there first. Sure, your swollen calves screamed "carry me" on the warm November morning, but dammit I was there first.

    I'll never forgot the stains on your Florida Georgia Line sweatshirt that day. One looked like ketchup, but it might have been blood.

    Why is it that the scooter can manage 500 pounds net weight, but the basket cannot manage to hold a 12-pack of Hawaiian Punch?

    When I rounded the corner in the Seasonal Section, my scooter made square contact with one of your swollen calves. In what could've been a bitter moment, I found laughter instead of distress.

    We argued a second time.
     
    Last edited: Oct 21, 2015