Persiflage

I Can Fly, I Can Fly!

Newsflash!  In the as-yet-unannounced Broadway extravaganza in which Nicole Richie will appear as Tinkerbell, Paris Hilton will be co-starring as Peter Pan!

Is there anyone left out there who doesn't believe that these two crazy kids can make it work?

[Link via The Superficial]

Tastes Like Chicken

It seems the only question remaining is: did he, or didn't he?

I am profoundly disturbed by this.  Even more disturbed than by the dream I had last night, wherein I chose to wear a pair of orange running shorts- which I actually own- with black leggings.  And few things, my friends, disturb me more than evidence of a potential subconscious desire to couple bad 80's flashback trends with activewear.

Pondering Life's Mysteries

I spent much of yesterday considering- considering HARD, to the extent that the effort caused me to make all kinds of frowny faces- how it was within the realm of earthly possibility that Gwyneth Paltrow, who was with child for all of fifteen minutes, has already given birth to her baby.  This while Katie Holmes, who has been pregnant now for something in the vicinity of eleventy billion months and twelveteen weeks, has not yet produced her piece of living, breathing evidence of Tom Cruise's "heterosexuality" and "virility."  Someone who understands?  Would you mind explaining this to me?  Please?  Is this yet another instance of Catholic school sex ed leaving out all the good parts?  I feel so confused and left out.

Clap If You Love Fairies!

Who's going to be the one to tell Nicole Richie that she's past the stage where the role of Tinkerbell is a viable career option?

I don't think the world is ready for the consequences of setting Nicole up with a whole tribe of Lost Boys.

You Eeediot

This morning, several people are in desperate need of a smackdown.  And I'm just the girl to deal them out.

First on the agenda: This fan, who alleged that Joe Pesci punched him in the mouth after said fan snapped an unauthorized photo of the actor.  Read that again: Joe Pesci.  Punched.  Mouth.  What, did he pull out a library stool in the middle of the parking lot?  A word of advice, buddy: next time, try something along the lines of, "My GOD!  Joe Pesci just punched me in the gall bladder!"

Next!  Sienna Miller informs her adoring public that, despite their near-incessant demands, she will never design her own line of clothing.  Why?  Because, as she reminds us, she is an actress.  An actress.  A serious actress, damn it!  Let's get Sienna to ink this pledge before she starts trying to remember the names of any actual, tangible movies in which she appears.  Every time Sienna's permitted to assume the responsibility of dressing herself, she goes out looking like an Upper East Side crackwhore; the type who's sleeping on a park bench outside the Guggenheim, yet has access to the castoffs of hundreds of society matrons, which she layers for warmth without regard for her personal appearance.  This troubled world does not need Crackwhore Chic foisted on hordes of vulnerable, unsuspecting young women.   

Next!  Kevin Federline, who was photographed with his arm around a young lady who is not Britney.  Let me rephrase that: a young lady who is not Britney who appears to be wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt dress over denim leggings.  And seems to have incorporated an actual bird's nest into her hairstyle.  Listen up, Kevin.  You wrote your meal ticket.  Don't be trying to take your tray to a new cafeteria.

Black and White and....

Britney only wore this dress because she intended to perform a heartfelt modern interpretive dance.  Sadly, the paparazzi were so focused on her driving, and on ensuring that she properly secured her beverage in the appropriate plastic cupholder restraining device, that no one paid any attention to her art.

"I'm a zebra!  I'm a zebra!  I'm a zebra, frolicking in a meadow of poppies!"

How To Talk To A Housewife (If You Must)

Attention!   Attention!   Red alert!   RED ALERT!

The disease against which Ann Coulter has been struggling so valiantly these many years, previously believed to be non-communicable, has infected Teri Hatcher.

Be vigilant!  Symptoms may include: The appearance of an infestation of snakes and vermin beneath the skin, feasting on one's reserves of body fat at a truly alarming rate, leading to an unmistakable, beady-eyed, Vulcan death stare and resulting, inexplicably, in the belligerent spouting of vicious and toxic political positions, coupled with an insatiable desire to flaunt one's noodle-esque physique.

Awareness is the best defense.  Lured by their diet staples of cigarettes, Pinot, and smack, these monsters are easily repelled by the mere presence of greasy fats or refined sugars.  The safest bet is to keep a large fries and a frosty shake close at hand at all times, in the interest of self-protection.

Tempest in a Teacup

During my first year of law school, I went through an unfortunate stage now referenced as the "Angel of Death period."  Over the course of about nine months, I was nailed by a line drive at a baseball game, had surgery to remove my gallbladder, fell in the law school cafeteria (lacerating my hand on a shard of glass and requiring medical attention so I could be glued back together a la Humpty Dumpty, albeit more successfully and without the involvement of either the king's horses OR his men), and was hit by a car while running.

And yet, even during my darkest days, I saw the inside of the ER less frequently than Lindsay Lohan.  This time, the story is that La Lohan sliced her leg open on a shattered teacup after a shower at Brian Adams' mansion.  Someone seems to have advised Dina Lohan that detailed fabrications explanations are the most credible.  And while we might have bought the allegation that a "shower" was involved and that there was "lotion" present, I don't think any of us are ready to make the enormous mental leaps required to envision Lindsay sipping tea, at any time of day.

Please Pass The Nachos

...because I need something to sop up all this cheese.  Based on this interview, it's a snap to imagine the personal ad Nick Lachey will be writing a few weeks from now:

Let Me Be Your Prince Charming

Sensitive, soulful, caring 32-y-o DWM seeks zaftig yet svelte (DD cups and a 22 inch waist are pluses!) young, naive, and virginal SWF for deeply intense and meaningful relationship.  I like to work hard and play harder!  I'm a true romantic who hates games.  I have rock-hard abs and a soft, soft heart, and, most importantly, I'm not afraid to cry when your beauty overwhelms me.  My best-kept secret is that I'm a shy, subdued gentleman who's craving a woman I can shower with love, adoration, and affection.  And rose petals!  In our fairy tale of love, I'll guarantee that you'll feel like Cinderella during your every waking hour ... just as long as you let me try on the glass slippers after the lights are out.

Separated At Birth

Mischa Barton and Dr. Evil (scroll down to the second picture on the left.)

I can't look at this picture without thinking she's on the verge of letting loose with the type of evil "MWAHAHAHAHA" of which only one mulling over a pernicious plan of world domination is capable.

Remember, Mischa: I know you're hungry.  You must be.  But, "we don't gnaw on our kitty...no!  No!"