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Maggie Gyllenhaal is off the market and from looking at the photo above, that is a good thing. No, but seriously she is actually smokin’ hot and I wish I had a chance to tap that but I won’t get such chance because she is married some douche bag named Peter Sarsgaard. What is with the double a’s?  The tied the knot this weekend in Italy and her reps said, “We are happy to confirm that Maggie and Peter were married on Sat, May 2.”

What the fuck? She gets married during the Kentucky Derby? What fun is that? How can you focus on nuptiuls when you don’t know if your life savings is going down the toilet or if you just made yourself rich? While all the “cool” celebrities were drinking mint juleps in the heart of the south, these two jerks were saying “I do” in another country. Do they own a house in Italy? Is she shooting a movie there? Why would anyone wanna get married in the spaghetti capitol of the world?

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In one picture, Maggie Gyllenhaal has single-handedly become my hero. I have so many questions, but all I can do is stare. I can’t tell if that youngin’ is actually breast-feeding or just mocking what daddy does every night after 9pm. But more importantly, Maggie is my favorite kind of mother. You know, the ones who just let their babies latch on in the middle of the freaking street, without a bit of modesty, as if it’s natural to show your boobs on a bench in public. It is, isn’t it? The only way this picture could be better is if they were in Burger King surrounded by dirty-faced little urchins crying MAWma! and DIDdeee!. Cause nothing suggests redneck upward mobility like a peep show in the BK lounge.
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