Simple snaps to make you feel superior
I just don't understand the fascination or admiration for 'ol Lolly Legs, Lindsay Lohan. The turban, dyed brown hair (as if she can ever escape the Fire Crotch christening), stripey pajama t-shirt, evian bottle full of vodka, a weird half-glove on her right hand and boots normally worn by the sheltered workshop employees.
Nup. No Beauty, No Innate Sense of Style, No Outward Signs of Intelligence. LL's not exactly known for adopting orphans, throwing away chunks of cash to the less fortunate (unless you count the red bulls her one-night stands get) or furthering her education. May we one day get sick of seeing her in stupid get-ups and put her back on the K-Mart check out where she belongs.
Good 'ol UFO-face is about to go to Yoga-Kabbalah-Book Reading-Non Orphan Adoption-Macro Biotic food shopping here and this is about as normal as we get from Mads these days.
The pale, pointy face is still a puzzle though, especially if we're still meant to believe that it's all thanks to Mother Nature, Excessive Exercise and the ability to Bend Back And Gaze Up at One's Own Arsehole. Methinks her Life Coach (plastic surgeon and scratch'n'dent buffer) has inserted a tiny screw right under her chin that he periodically tightens whenever a wrinkle or emotion threatens to appear. Otherwise, her three kids won't recognise her during her fortnightly visits.
Heaven help the luvvie on the left if she dares to let her right arm slip from her hip and the over-eager mammary pops out..... Why does Beyonce remind me of those kewpie dolls that old ladies crochet onto toilet roll covers? Our local lawn bowls club still sell them every year during their annual fete, but at least theirs are silent.
Beyonce's singing (I'm trying to be kind) just sounds like the muted tantrum of a three year who was sent to bed an hour ago and is now starting to whine quietly out of sheer exhaustion instead of rage. Hell for me would involve being trapped in a lift with Beyonce on loudspeaker and having to share that tiny space with Nicolas Cage, Adam Sandler and Chevy Chase. All of whom are also force-feeding me offal, pumpkin and broad beans.
And would the week be complete without examining at least one of Britney's stylishly timeless and classic wardrobe offerings?
Having drop-kicked her kids - erm, what are their names again - Warning Lesson and Faded Jeans - straight into their velcroed straitjackets, she's decided to go for the see-through white top and hack off a foot of her skirt to try and divert attention from the wee stain to be found there.
Nothing says, "Elegance" like a pair of overripe-yet-unused maternity knockers squished under a braless, lacy top that forces the nipples unflatteringly southward like a pair of depressed basset hounds. Ten bucks says she ends up with another guy who makes FedEx look like Hugh Jackman with a doctorate.....
"Parishhh?, Hey, Parissh, will you look at me instead of waggling your bony little shoulder bladesh in my facesh? We haven't finished our discusshion on why the liberal leftist side of the socio-political ssshpectrum need to more fully embracshe the global warming issshues that truly conshern our generation...."
Finally we have some truly good news; the stuff that really warms the heart of my bottom.
As you can clearly see here, LaToya/Janet/Michael (who the hell really knows) has sworn off all forms of surgery and is now just taking a really 'well earned break'. There's a lesson in there for all of us.