Go Fug Yourself
- Thread starter caitlin1214
- Start date
Welcome home, Lil' Kim.
Yes, she's been out of the pokey for a while now. But she's been looking pretty consistently covered and cute since her prison stay, to the point where I'd almost started to believe the fug had been slammered right out of her.
Oh, me of little faith. I should have known she'd return to form eventually. I mean, this is Lil' Kim. If you offer Lil' Kim a sheer mini-robe two sizes too small, a belt that looks like a skin infection, and glittery pasties shaped like Texas, she is going to take them and run. That's like dangling a sloppy-haired foreign shipping heir in front of Paris Hilton. Lil' Kim is only one woman; she has only so much will power, and so very much history of being as naked as possible.
I blame the Pussycat Dolls. Lil' Kim was a judge on The Pussycat Dolls Barely Showed Up Enough To Quality As Presenting: The Search For The Next Faceless Bandmember, and while it was awesome to hear her be all, "You think staying up late to rehearse is hard? Girl, I went to PRISON," I do also suspect all that semi-nude writhing made her miss her glory days of being America's most reliably exposed torso.
Yes, she's been out of the pokey for a while now. But she's been looking pretty consistently covered and cute since her prison stay, to the point where I'd almost started to believe the fug had been slammered right out of her.
Oh, me of little faith. I should have known she'd return to form eventually. I mean, this is Lil' Kim. If you offer Lil' Kim a sheer mini-robe two sizes too small, a belt that looks like a skin infection, and glittery pasties shaped like Texas, she is going to take them and run. That's like dangling a sloppy-haired foreign shipping heir in front of Paris Hilton. Lil' Kim is only one woman; she has only so much will power, and so very much history of being as naked as possible.
I blame the Pussycat Dolls. Lil' Kim was a judge on The Pussycat Dolls Barely Showed Up Enough To Quality As Presenting: The Search For The Next Faceless Bandmember, and while it was awesome to hear her be all, "You think staying up late to rehearse is hard? Girl, I went to PRISON," I do also suspect all that semi-nude writhing made her miss her glory days of being America's most reliably exposed torso.
Be careful -- don't make any sudden moves. It's very rare to see a Pussycat Doll on its own in the wild, and we don't want it to get scared and run until we've made careful study.
Its name is allegedly "Kimberly," and based on the shoes and the fact that it is treating corsets like they're the new layering tees, I can only conclude that this species of Doll is part-elf, part-Hot Topic spokeswoman.
It also apparently missed the memo about formal shorts -- perhaps because it was too busy looking inward to try and find the inner confidence that inspires sexiness, or the inner sexiness that inspires confidence, and trying to decide when in that equation is the right time to just give up and flash more boob. Yes indeed, it's hard out there for a Doll -- which I believe is the logline for Hustle & Flow II: ***** Crazy.
Its name is allegedly "Kimberly," and based on the shoes and the fact that it is treating corsets like they're the new layering tees, I can only conclude that this species of Doll is part-elf, part-Hot Topic spokeswoman.
It also apparently missed the memo about formal shorts -- perhaps because it was too busy looking inward to try and find the inner confidence that inspires sexiness, or the inner sexiness that inspires confidence, and trying to decide when in that equation is the right time to just give up and flash more boob. Yes indeed, it's hard out there for a Doll -- which I believe is the logline for Hustle & Flow II: ***** Crazy.
I would like very much to comment on Emma Watson's dress, and how it looks like a set of mischievous Weasley Twins fireworks went haywire and blew up a bird sanctuary.
But, I'm afraid to say anything. Hermione Granger is the best wizard in her class, see, and Emma looks like she'd enjoy nothing more than to summon the wits of her alter-ego and blast me with some sort of disfiguring charm that makes me grow Alec Baldwin's body hair, Owen Wilson's nose, and Paula Abdul's brain. All of which I could cope with, except for the part where I'd be telling people their talent smelled like the perfume of a pegasus on the wind. Nobody should have to live like that.
But, I'm afraid to say anything. Hermione Granger is the best wizard in her class, see, and Emma looks like she'd enjoy nothing more than to summon the wits of her alter-ego and blast me with some sort of disfiguring charm that makes me grow Alec Baldwin's body hair, Owen Wilson's nose, and Paula Abdul's brain. All of which I could cope with, except for the part where I'd be telling people their talent smelled like the perfume of a pegasus on the wind. Nobody should have to live like that.
Oh, Posh. Truly, you are magic.
A Hooker With An Animal Fetish costume is one thing, but now she's prancing around in something that looks like it was never intended to see the light of day unless she has windows in her dressing room. It's just such an unnecessary bid for attention. How many other people as famous as she is -- with as many designer connections -- would feel the need to show up at a "Woman of the Year" event wearing a repurposed body-shaper? Oh, Posh. "Victoria's Secret" does not refer to you. On so many levels. You are a pretty bad secret-keeper.
She has let slip here, for example, the fact that she loves her waxer. And that she got a manicure so that those fingerless Michael Jackson Goes Golfing gloves would show off her nails to their best advantage. And that you will be able to figure out which chairs her derrière has graced by the bum-shaped trail of sequins left behind.
We don't know why there is pocket detailing on something that is so clearly not intended to be worn on the outside (to hold her business cards? Her housekeys? Pictures of the kids? Seat liners?), so maybe that is Posh's last great mystery. She needed one, too, now that she's deprived us of the many hours we would sit around pondering the question of what Posh's underass cleavage would look like.
Maybe I'm not thinking broadly enough -- maybe this is actually a costume. Maybe, in order to provide more interesting footage for her upcoming reality show, Lady Becks is prepping to star as Roxie Hart in a dinner-theater version of Chicago in which she actually has to serve the food as part of the choreography. If that's true, I hope she at least asked the maitre d' before hacking up his uniform jacket.
Seriously, this is so crazy it almost comes back around to being amazing, just like Posh herself. What would Karl Lagerfeld say? Actually, never mind. We fear he'd say something like, "Pants are for the sensible, darling. BE UNHINGED." In which case, mission somewhat accomplished.
A Hooker With An Animal Fetish costume is one thing, but now she's prancing around in something that looks like it was never intended to see the light of day unless she has windows in her dressing room. It's just such an unnecessary bid for attention. How many other people as famous as she is -- with as many designer connections -- would feel the need to show up at a "Woman of the Year" event wearing a repurposed body-shaper? Oh, Posh. "Victoria's Secret" does not refer to you. On so many levels. You are a pretty bad secret-keeper.
She has let slip here, for example, the fact that she loves her waxer. And that she got a manicure so that those fingerless Michael Jackson Goes Golfing gloves would show off her nails to their best advantage. And that you will be able to figure out which chairs her derrière has graced by the bum-shaped trail of sequins left behind.
We don't know why there is pocket detailing on something that is so clearly not intended to be worn on the outside (to hold her business cards? Her housekeys? Pictures of the kids? Seat liners?), so maybe that is Posh's last great mystery. She needed one, too, now that she's deprived us of the many hours we would sit around pondering the question of what Posh's underass cleavage would look like.
Maybe I'm not thinking broadly enough -- maybe this is actually a costume. Maybe, in order to provide more interesting footage for her upcoming reality show, Lady Becks is prepping to star as Roxie Hart in a dinner-theater version of Chicago in which she actually has to serve the food as part of the choreography. If that's true, I hope she at least asked the maitre d' before hacking up his uniform jacket.
Seriously, this is so crazy it almost comes back around to being amazing, just like Posh herself. What would Karl Lagerfeld say? Actually, never mind. We fear he'd say something like, "Pants are for the sensible, darling. BE UNHINGED." In which case, mission somewhat accomplished.
Oh, Posh Spice. There are so many things I love about you! I love that you said you'd never read a book, even though you ostensibly wrote one. I love how you were arguably the worst singer in the Spice Girls, which was just packed full of girls who couldn't sing. I love your marriage to that adorable high-talker, David Beckham, and I wish the two of you would do a reality show, even though if you did, I don't know if I could bear to watch it due to the aforementioned high-talking.
But do I love you enough to overlook the fact that you're going out with Geri "Ginger Spice" Halliwell wearing em-effing chaps?
I don't know. I think I kind of do. There are few people in the world who can get away with wearing actual chaps -- cowboys being primary among them -- but just look at you. You're fierce, even in full-on, ridiculous, leather chaps. CHAPS. I don't know who you're looking at, but I'm pretty sure the evening is going to end with you having washed down his brains with a nice glass of champers. So, chaps on, Posh. Chaps on. I'm too scared to say anything about them.
But do I love you enough to overlook the fact that you're going out with Geri "Ginger Spice" Halliwell wearing em-effing chaps?
I don't know. I think I kind of do. There are few people in the world who can get away with wearing actual chaps -- cowboys being primary among them -- but just look at you. You're fierce, even in full-on, ridiculous, leather chaps. CHAPS. I don't know who you're looking at, but I'm pretty sure the evening is going to end with you having washed down his brains with a nice glass of champers. So, chaps on, Posh. Chaps on. I'm too scared to say anything about them.
POSH: So, er, Kat(i)e... is that what you're wearing to the Chanel show?
KAT(I)E: Yes. Tom picked it out. It's amazing. He said it made me look extraordinary.
POSH: That's lovely and all but don't you think it's a bit... much?
KAT(I)E: Tom told me that now that I'm an extraordinary childbearing woman, I should dress like one.
POSH: Well, you look like an extraordinary childbearing curtain in Chaka Khan's brothel, sweets, I'm just being honest here.
KAT(I)E: Is it not amazing? Really?
POSH: It's not that bad. It just doesn't work for this occasion, babes. I mean, look at me -- aren't we going around together so that you can study me? You want to look chic and sleek, not bleak.
KAT(I)E: You're so smart. This is so exciting.
POSH: I was in the Spice Girls. We did a lot of rhyming.
KAT(I)E: I am a thrilling woman.
POSH: Look, I'm going to level with you, Kat(i)e. It's great that you're trying to prop up your boobs, really-- I have made a career out of that -- but the bloody gown looks like it's weighing you down, it's way too much for a daytime event, and Kat(i)e, love, you're not to wear closed-toed shoes with something that aggressive, okay? You might as well be wearing loafers, babes. Frumpalicious.
KAT(I)E: This is so amazing. I can't wait to be a mother. Tom and I are really thrilled.
POSH: Er...what?
KAT(I)E: I am enjoying my courses in Extraordinary and I can't wait to be a Tom Scientology baby.
POSH: Bloody hell, this girl's malfunctioning. I can't work with this, people. Hello? Can any of her minders fix her?
KAT(I)E: The wedding is in two Suris but she's doing thrilled! I am excited to be Scientolmazing! Leah Remini amazatology!
POSH: Oh, bollocks to THIS. I need a drink.
Sure, the focus of this past weekend's Italian production of I Know Mothers Cry At Weddings, But Should Mrs. Holmes Be Wailing? was probably supposed to be Kat(i)e's dress. But you don't invite Victoria Beckham, the glorious spice blend known as Posh, and expect her to be wallpaper. No, much like what we think went through Brooke Shields' head when she accepted her invitation to the TomKat Contract Fulfillment Ceremony, you include Posh at your formal occasion because you say to yourself, "THIS I've got to see." And also possibly because she befriended your comatose bride during several shopping sprees and some Paris fashion shows, but mostly, it's because you want to look at how hot her stilletos are while also wondering what new glories she'll pull from that den of wonder known as Her Wardrobe.
Mercifully for us all, Posh did not disappoint, stringing together a buffet of delights more filling for the fug fan than any solid that's passed her lips in three months.
You have to admire her versatility. In the span of one weekend, she showed up as:
1. A crabby school teacher: This strumpet of academia's affection for lip gloss is matched only by her companion's addiction to raiding his grandfather's closet. Bonus: The sweater at least comes with its own lifetime supply of Werther's Originals, so he can toss them into her mouth at her appointed snack times, since she wouldn't dare eat any of the apples left by her trembling students (too much chewing).
2. A yeti. Fear not, PETA, for the jacket is not yielded from animal cruelty -- it's in fact woven from the silkiest, most bountiful man-fur in the Western world: shavings from Alec Baldwin's chest.
3. A cranky pseudo-royal surprised and a little peeved to learn that she is not, in fact, attending a state funeral. Just the death of a family's hope.
And finally:
4. An insane arts-and-crafts fetishist. This one is fantastic. Now, granted, she didn't wear this to the wedding itself; just to some of the paparazzi-baiting festivities beforehand, whatever those were (the official blessing of the pre-nup, perhaps, or free Scientology classes). But there's something so magical about the fact that she ever even put this on at all. She does know the difference between decolletage and decoupage, right? Not to mention that the dress underneath the I-Had-To-Use-All-My-Paste-Or-Else-Ralph-Wiggum-Would-Eat-It sjirt-jacket appears to be sized more appropriately for the closet of Isabella Kidman-Cruise. From several years ago. When she had a ballet recital.
But maybe Posh can use that to her advantage -- perhaps she could use it to push for a starring role in, say, Center Stage II, in which she would arrive at the stodgy American Ballet Academy as a new teacher and try to shake up the stale air by taking her five pluckiest students on the road as a roving band of dancers -- each with their own personalities, outlandish costumes, and hilarious nicknames -- who bring ballet to truck stops, dive bars, and casinos across the country. Peter Gallagher would of course return as the Academy head: "How do you expect to have 1,000 truckers watch you tell us what you want, what you really, really want, if you Don't. Do it. Without UNDERWEAR?!?" And David could get in on the action as the supportive, shockingly virile costumer who teaches her to use a hot glue gun and so much more.
In all seriousness, though, we can't fathom why Posh hasn't rocketed to larger stardom post-Spice. I mean, if we can allow Jessica Simpson to roam the earth with copious paychecks -- seriously, if I have to see her ONE MORE TIME in that DirecTV ad where her head spends 30 seconds wobbling like a Weeble as she tries to Daisy Duke her way through two insipid lines, I will furiously theaten to cancel my subscription, and then secretly never actually do it because I can't live without the NFL Sunday Ticket -- and if we can anoint Fergie as the comically misspelled Dutchess of the Billboard charts, and if the staff of Studio 60 is actually still getting paid to make that terrible, awful, no-good, very bad program that is snuffing out even Matthew Perry's light, can we not move over and make a little room for Posh? Who cares if she can actually do anything? Outings like this are enough.
Mercifully for us all, Posh did not disappoint, stringing together a buffet of delights more filling for the fug fan than any solid that's passed her lips in three months.
You have to admire her versatility. In the span of one weekend, she showed up as:
1. A crabby school teacher: This strumpet of academia's affection for lip gloss is matched only by her companion's addiction to raiding his grandfather's closet. Bonus: The sweater at least comes with its own lifetime supply of Werther's Originals, so he can toss them into her mouth at her appointed snack times, since she wouldn't dare eat any of the apples left by her trembling students (too much chewing).
2. A yeti. Fear not, PETA, for the jacket is not yielded from animal cruelty -- it's in fact woven from the silkiest, most bountiful man-fur in the Western world: shavings from Alec Baldwin's chest.
3. A cranky pseudo-royal surprised and a little peeved to learn that she is not, in fact, attending a state funeral. Just the death of a family's hope.
And finally:
4. An insane arts-and-crafts fetishist. This one is fantastic. Now, granted, she didn't wear this to the wedding itself; just to some of the paparazzi-baiting festivities beforehand, whatever those were (the official blessing of the pre-nup, perhaps, or free Scientology classes). But there's something so magical about the fact that she ever even put this on at all. She does know the difference between decolletage and decoupage, right? Not to mention that the dress underneath the I-Had-To-Use-All-My-Paste-Or-Else-Ralph-Wiggum-Would-Eat-It sjirt-jacket appears to be sized more appropriately for the closet of Isabella Kidman-Cruise. From several years ago. When she had a ballet recital.
But maybe Posh can use that to her advantage -- perhaps she could use it to push for a starring role in, say, Center Stage II, in which she would arrive at the stodgy American Ballet Academy as a new teacher and try to shake up the stale air by taking her five pluckiest students on the road as a roving band of dancers -- each with their own personalities, outlandish costumes, and hilarious nicknames -- who bring ballet to truck stops, dive bars, and casinos across the country. Peter Gallagher would of course return as the Academy head: "How do you expect to have 1,000 truckers watch you tell us what you want, what you really, really want, if you Don't. Do it. Without UNDERWEAR?!?" And David could get in on the action as the supportive, shockingly virile costumer who teaches her to use a hot glue gun and so much more.
In all seriousness, though, we can't fathom why Posh hasn't rocketed to larger stardom post-Spice. I mean, if we can allow Jessica Simpson to roam the earth with copious paychecks -- seriously, if I have to see her ONE MORE TIME in that DirecTV ad where her head spends 30 seconds wobbling like a Weeble as she tries to Daisy Duke her way through two insipid lines, I will furiously theaten to cancel my subscription, and then secretly never actually do it because I can't live without the NFL Sunday Ticket -- and if we can anoint Fergie as the comically misspelled Dutchess of the Billboard charts, and if the staff of Studio 60 is actually still getting paid to make that terrible, awful, no-good, very bad program that is snuffing out even Matthew Perry's light, can we not move over and make a little room for Posh? Who cares if she can actually do anything? Outings like this are enough.
GIORGIO ARMANI: Boo! It's me! HELLO!
POSH: God, I'm fabulous.
KAT(I)E: Hi Karl! Hi! It's me! Mrs. Cruise!
GIORGIO: KARL? I am not Karl Lagerfeld, runt. What kind of IDIOT would think I am Karl Lagerfeld?
KAT(I)E: Oh, wow. I'm sorry. It's just that you're both so... tan. Ha ha ha... ha.
GIORGIO: Quiet, Scientology Spice. Can you not see that I'm trying to start a conga line with the Queen of America?
POSH: That's f'ing right, darling. Thanks to the football deal for David, we're even MORE filthy, stinking rich.
KAT(I)E: That's great, ha ha! I'm so happy to be here! Kar... er, Giorgio, I just wanted to know...
GIORGIO: BUY A COUNTRY, you delicious pleated diva!
POSH: Too right I will.
GIORGIO: Take the Maldives. No one knows who owns those anyway! Make it Isla Victoria!
KAT(I)E: I think the Maldives...
GIORGIO: LIKE I SAID. Nobody knows.
POSH: I wonder if America will let me have Hawaii. It's closer. I'll pay cash.
GIORGIO: I will make you leis. FABULOUS leis of GLORY. With FEATHERS, just like mama used to make.
POSH: Damn, babes, you're WAY more fun than Karl Lagerfeld. All he does is scowl and glove-slap people. F'ing awkward sometimes if you ask me.
KAT(I)E: Sir, Mr. Armani, if I could just ask you about this dress...
GIORGIO: Or you could buy A SITCOM. We could be in one of those lively half-hour comedy shows! Where we live together and work in a pizza parlor that is also a tanning salon, and have strange neighbors with children who won't stop talking! IT WILL BE HUGE.
KAT(I)E: Yes! And I could play the...
GIORGIO: No, no, I want that Michelle Williams girl -- she's DYNAMITE.
POSH: Tanning and pizza, eh, Giorgio? We could call it Mystic Pizza.
GIORGIO: I've never heard of ANYTHING so divine, my queen. IT WILL CHANGE THE WORLD. Now, CONGA, you vixen!
KAT(I)E: Mr. Armani, if you'd just look at me for a second, I don't think these weird pleats...
GIORGIO: Child, no shop talk -- not when I'm about to break into the macarena. You know the rules.
POSH: Look at that. Giorgio Armani, following ME around. Wanting to ride MY coattails. My life is f'ing amazing.
KAT(I)E: My life is awful. He won't even look at me.
GIORGIO: Actress girl! We need an inanimate object to be the limbo rod. Can they use you?
KAT(I)E: Thank God I had this smile surgically locked in or else I would be SCREAMING at some people right now and then Tom would make me sit in the audit closet for a week.
POSH: Allegedly.
KAT(I)E: Oh, whatever.
Oh, McKenzie Westmore. Listen, I know your alter ego Sheridan has had it tough lately on Passions, what with love of her life, Hot Luis, being in prison facing the death penalty; Hot Luis falling in love with a girl named Fancy (who, I kid you not, apparently has a sister named Pretty); Sheridan trying to win him back by greasing up her hair, slapping on a goatee, and posing as his male cell mate; Luis's brother in the cell across the way (of course) catching those two making out and thinking Luis was exploring men (when, in fact, the bisexual on the show is Chad -- who impregnated a girl he later found out was his sister, except of course after she'd been in a convent for a year they found out they're not related); having to shower with the other inmates while Luis and Miguel sheltered your boobs from the other prisoners; and having to protect poor old blind Father Lonigan from The Mysterious Masked She-Man, who is terrorizing him with a gun and blackmailing half of Harmony while wearing a crazy-bad wig and an outfit that's half girly and half manly, sewn together vertically down the middle.
So yeah, I get it. Times are tough
But not this tough -- not dress-over-pants tough. It's summer! Why not wear that dress as, you know, a dress? Are you jealous of the She-Man's split wardrobe, ham-handedly trying to achieve a similar effect on a horizontal axis? Because it doesn't really work -- much like that whole storyline where you had amnesia and married to Luis's long-lost brother, only to regain your memory back in Harmony just in time for Antonio to go blind from a brain fog that meant you couldn't tell him about your past with Luis or else his head would blow up. Although it was hilarious in theory, it's not good when a story about a cuckolded dying blind man makes me want to punch the aforementioned cuckolded dying blind man in the nose.
Much like wearing a dress over pants is not good. Which brings us right back around on topic. How nice.
So yeah, I get it. Times are tough
But not this tough -- not dress-over-pants tough. It's summer! Why not wear that dress as, you know, a dress? Are you jealous of the She-Man's split wardrobe, ham-handedly trying to achieve a similar effect on a horizontal axis? Because it doesn't really work -- much like that whole storyline where you had amnesia and married to Luis's long-lost brother, only to regain your memory back in Harmony just in time for Antonio to go blind from a brain fog that meant you couldn't tell him about your past with Luis or else his head would blow up. Although it was hilarious in theory, it's not good when a story about a cuckolded dying blind man makes me want to punch the aforementioned cuckolded dying blind man in the nose.
Much like wearing a dress over pants is not good. Which brings us right back around on topic. How nice.
I quite like both the American and British versions of What Not to Wear. But I find it interesting that Trinny Woodall, the former host of the British version, often turns up places in ensembles that I would think she would advise others, you know, Not to Wear:
There is something about this that sort of seems like it stemmed from a Project Runway challenge wherein the contestants were tasked to make evening gowns from items purchased at a store called Primarily Picnics.
There is something about this that sort of seems like it stemmed from a Project Runway challenge wherein the contestants were tasked to make evening gowns from items purchased at a store called Primarily Picnics.
![[[WEE-YiN__XO]]](/data/avatars/m/30/30819.jpg?1192543234){kind=avatar}
Jessica Simpson woke up this morning and took a long hard look at her wardrobe.
"I don't like any of this," she said. "I hate all my designer clothing. I hate all my jeans. I hate everything that fits. I loathe anything in here that looks even vaguely clean." She was silent for a long, long, long, long, long, long moment. Thinking.
At last! "I know what I need to do," she announced to the small, yappy, fluffy dog at her feet.
"I need to go Federline."
Joanna Krupa is sort of... professionally naked. She's one of those girls who shot to fame because her abs and boobs are very popular on the Internet and in magazines like FHM and Maxim, and indeed, she was a "juggy" on The Man Show for a while, which meant (from what I understand) that she spent a lot of time jumping up and down and wiggling around -- er, sorry, "dancing" -- in a bra.
So I should probably not be surprised that she showed up to the Spike TV Guys' Choice awards thingamy dressed in something Jeannie would've had in her honeymoon trousseau when she married Major Anthony Nelson.
Because, really, only someone who practically counts a bikini as her work uniform would look at this and say, "Well, there's netting on it -- really, it's practically PRUDE."
So I should probably not be surprised that she showed up to the Spike TV Guys' Choice awards thingamy dressed in something Jeannie would've had in her honeymoon trousseau when she married Major Anthony Nelson.
Because, really, only someone who practically counts a bikini as her work uniform would look at this and say, "Well, there's netting on it -- really, it's practically PRUDE."
Aw, Lauren Holly looks so happy, with her sassy haircut and her great legs and the plastic Barbie Dream House couch. I guess that's what co-starring with Mark Harmon on one of TV's most successful dramas that nobody you know watches will do to a girl.
But what Lauren Holly doesn't know is that we've switched her regular blue dress with a dumpy satin sack. Let's see if she notices.
Hmm. Well, she probably wouldn't still be smiling if she'd chanced a southward glance. Satin is a friend to nobody. It will beat you up in the parking lot and steal your lunch. It will redo your office walls with poisoned paint so that you are slowly driven insane. It will refuse to die, instead pulling on its eye patch and trying to drown you in an underwater hatch by blowing out a window with a grenade. And it will render you unable to remember to delete your Hidden Palms season pass. Satin is CRUEL.
Especially to someone who longs for the simple pleasure of writhing around on a vinyl couch while basking in the healing glow of paparazzi flashes. Live and learn, Lauren Holly. Live and learn. Also, invest in a travel steamer.
But what Lauren Holly doesn't know is that we've switched her regular blue dress with a dumpy satin sack. Let's see if she notices.
Hmm. Well, she probably wouldn't still be smiling if she'd chanced a southward glance. Satin is a friend to nobody. It will beat you up in the parking lot and steal your lunch. It will redo your office walls with poisoned paint so that you are slowly driven insane. It will refuse to die, instead pulling on its eye patch and trying to drown you in an underwater hatch by blowing out a window with a grenade. And it will render you unable to remember to delete your Hidden Palms season pass. Satin is CRUEL.
Especially to someone who longs for the simple pleasure of writhing around on a vinyl couch while basking in the healing glow of paparazzi flashes. Live and learn, Lauren Holly. Live and learn. Also, invest in a travel steamer.