We're already into February, and my typing talons feel the need to scrape over a few choice pictures of so-called celebrities wearing clothes that were selected under chemical enhancement or via a stylist who is still miffed at not being given the dregs out of the Sundance goody bag.
For once, let's forget about Paris and what she's wearing, doing or - come on, use your imagination - thinking.Today the glare of the Attrocious Attire (AA) spotlight is on Tara Reid. Poster Girl for being Paraletically Pissed and known for her sterling acting work in which she runs the gamut of emotions from tipsy to rat-arsed. Let's start from the top and work our way down shall we? Tara's hair - sweat soaked from dancin', prancin' and drinkin' clearly shows us that her roots need doing. Surprisingly the eyeliner has stayed in place even if her actual eyes look as though they've been rolled in raspberry topping and quickly shoved back in again. Does she actually work these days? Who pays her bar bills - the Oliver Reed trust fund?
The spaghetti-like hair extensions are eclipsed only by Tara's tortured ta-tas. Poor love: perhaps her inability to focus clearly means that she always ends up buying a super-small instead of a mammary-minimising medium size. The too-tiny top makes her boozies resemble two balls of playdough unceremoniously squashed into burger buns. No wonder she's sozzled.
Miss Serena Williams! Your expert eye/hand coordination has resulted in thousands of expert smashes, lobs and volleys but when it comes to shopping.....!!! Those pants must have been painted on and it's rather awful to think that she might have forgone any underwear to fit into them (gulp).
And - oh look! It's a double full moon with a verandah for small ball boys to shelter under during rain breaks
......Not that Pamela Anderson's fun bags are any smaller than Serena's butt buns, but couldn't she at least have bought a bra in the right size to wear under her jumper?Surely she doesn't like the feeling of having one's chest sliced in half like a saveloy that split its skin after being boiled for too long? I can hear the threads of lace and spandex screaming in agony from here as they struggle to hold in a fraction of Pammy's talents.
What about those haggardly thin, old croney, witchy poo hands (shudder). Who'd want those bones scratching at you - that's if you're physically able to move beyond the Four-breasted Frontage that's previously only been popular with Freisian moo cows queueing at the shed during milking time....
Here we have Jordan, Pamela's younger, tackier British version who has also, unfortunately, given birth to two children who'll be profoundly in need of psychotherapy in future. J's the proud owner of Barbie hair that's about as natural as My Little Pony's tail, boobs you could rest a cup of tea on, a belly she feels compelled to display always and clothes so slutty it is impossible to imagine how she'd know how to spell words like 'taste', 'mystery' and 'style', let alone write a book.
I'm afraid to call the thing below her waist a 'skirt' because it's more like a belt that's been savaged by a dingo and is oh-so subtlely at its shortest right in front of her map of Tassie. Classy stuff that I'm sure makes her nanna very proud.The tan is so fake it's become a wood stain and the boots not only look like bargain basement sex shop discards but show her emaciated knees. Like Pamela, if she didn't have her huge breasts alternately fascinating and repulsing us, we might instead notice just how starved these stupid women really are.
Isn't it nice to see that even 'stars' like Gwen Stefani can economise by wearing their Grandad's old army blanket as a coat. It does look rather incongrous, however, with Gwenny gal's fully made-up face - does she ever scrape that gunk off? You know, like just pop down to the corner deli with a slap of nivea and some chapstick on? She'd better try it soon, or she'll scare the s**t out of her baby.
The handbag has no redeeming features whatsoever - it just shouts out BUTT UGLY BUTT UGLY BUTT UGLY so that we can prepare ourselves for the shoes. These were obviously made by a Scottish mental patient with a fixation for strait jackets and podiatry bills. Why am I surprised - it should be expected from someone who gave us 'Hollaback Girl' and dared to call it a 'song'........