What do you say we slink off to the nearest astro-lounge and order a pitcher or three of harvey wallbangers? We can get stoopid and laugh at the ugly people. Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? We KNOW!
Listen, it's not like we don't sort of sympathize; these days you're famous mostly for being smacked around by yo man. We know you'd prefer to be that bitch who likes to sing about umbrellas (howev, you will forgive us if Catherine Deneuve will always be our favoritest umbrella-singer-abouter).
We own the fact that most of today's R&B makes our ears feel like they're being raped in the butt. To our mind, R&B means Stevie, Aretha, Marvin, and pre-Jehovah's Witness Prince. Since then, it all sounds like the same bass-heavy whisper-sung crapola. Of course, we're old enough to be your father and that's precisely the sort of thing we're expected/allowed to say. But that's neither here nor there, is it?
Anywho, here's the deal. It's nice to be noticed. And uni-nom'd divas are required by law to wear things that push the boundaries of good taste, decency laws and feminine hygiene. There was a time B.C. (before Cher) when all a bitch had to do was stitch a few sequins to her frock and hoist the girls skyward. Since the advent of Madonna's conic boobulars, Lady Gaga regularly forgets to put on pants, Beyonce appears to have a Buick emerging from her batcave, and Britney seems doomed forever to be dressed for a date with her gynecologist. But you've convinced us, with these two get-ups, that an intervention is in order, stat.
Let's start with your first look. Sigh. Well, it certainly looks like it cost an arm and a leg. That aside, did you actually tell your stylist you wanted to look like a pole-dancing Cruella DeVille? Were your left boob and right thigh cast in a dinner theatre production of Chicago? If so, why did your right boob and left thigh accept a role in Catwoman 2: A Very Catty Christmas? Additionally, while having forgotten only half of your pants is a step up from Lady Gaga, the resulting crotchular effect makes it appear as if your camel toe has a hang-nail. It's unfortunate.
And the hair. You look like Kate Gosselin's been hired to front the Flock of Seagulls reunion tour.
Finally, what's with the ill-fitting O.J. gloves? Did you seriously look into the mirror as you were about to leave the house and decide this look requires accessories (other than the chrome hula hoop destroying your earlobe)? Oops, we just answered our own question.
All in all, this outfit makes us long for alcoholism's sweet embrace. So let's move on, shall we?
Why, Rihanna...why do you hate our ability to see? You ruined a perfectly decent French maid costume by stuffing a futon into your brassiere.
Did you fracture your shoulder, spine, and ribcage? Why the crotch bib? Whence the fluffy bunny tail? You look like the third runner up in the Miss Elephantitis pageant. It's all so confusing.
Wait. Hold on! We got it! You've rigged your wardrobe with passenger-side air bags! That way, the next time yo man gets tired of your sass and decides to show you wassup, your dress will deploy.
Unfortch, it seems to have deployed on the red carpet, and now you're obliged to hastily concoct the unlikely story that you took a jaunt through a teleportation device and were disastrously fused at the molecular level with the Michelin Man. Or a tempurpedic mattress.
Come to think of it, a tempurpedic gown might come in useful; should Chris Brown ever decide to jump up and down on your breasts, at least you won't spill your merlot.
Chris Brown sez: "I caught my last bitch subscribing to this blog's feed, so I showed her wassup"