Um...Donnie? Tellie? D-Tel? Pssst.
Over here. Hi.
How's it hanging?
How's it shaking?
How are you? Ciao, bella strega. What do you say we throw on a sarong or a caftan and a big straw hat and find a couple bar stools IN THE SHADE and order two or twelve Campari and tonics?
So here's the deal. Ever since your famous brother lost a game of "I bet I can shoot you in your face" against an unbalanced spree-killing porn star (and well-armed fashion critic), you have done a bang-up job of continuing his legacy, marketing spectacularly hideous clothes to taste-impaired label whores worldwide. But...
We're sorry, would you like some aloe vera? Some SPF 800? Perhaps that ship has sailed. 'Cause although we've spared our readership the technicolor dazzle of your day-glo orange skin, even in black and white your epidermis has the eerie hue of a Mount Etna eruption. But D-Tel, you're starting to get some nasty blisters. Oh. Those are your breasts. Our bad. Where were we?
Oh yes. See, when a bitch reaches a certain age, she should mothball her micro-kinis and opt instead for a tasteful one-piece. A burka would suffice.* We're not hating on your paleolithic date of birth, nor are we ridiculing your girlish post-nuclear figure. We're thinking only of the children who may be scampering gaily along the pristine St. Barts beach only to have their impressionable eyeballs ass-raped by the sight of the Cloverfield monster in a skimpy two-piece.
Also, between you me and the lamp-post, you're making it difficult to overcome our unseemly preoccupation with celebrity crotchular regions. There's something going on between your withered thighs that reminds us of that burping sand monster from Return of the Jedi, into which screaming men were hurled never to be seen again. And is the blazing sun playing a cruel trick on our eyes, or has your belly-button sprouted an auxiliary vagina?
You look like (pick one):
- A post-op Rutger Hauer starring in the avant-garde transsexual holocaust romp "Beach Blanket Auschwitz"
- A yam, microwaved on "high" for 45 minutes
- A photo still from the swimsuit competition at the Miss Senior Irradiated Pygmy Pageant
- You're taking a break on the set of "Gidget Goes Senile"
- Cheryl Ladd took an eventful vacation on the Island of Dr. Moreau, during which she found herself genetically spliced with a lobster
- A Castle Bravo "after" picture
- A bulimic oompa-loompa lap dancer
- Bloody hell.
xox
WAM
* we stole this joke from mongoliangirl. see comments.
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I never thought I would say I think women should bear burkas but...
Posted by: mongoliangirl | January 07, 2009 at 05:33 PM
OMG, mongolian girl...we're going to steal that joke.
xox
WAM
Posted by: Whup-Ass Master | January 07, 2009 at 05:44 PM
She looks like a garment bag for the new spring collection.
Posted by: rambosf | January 07, 2009 at 10:17 PM
Indeed, Rambo...and her unitard wants ironing.
xox
WAM
Posted by: Whup-Ass Master | January 08, 2009 at 05:08 AM
Yikes. Nasty blisters indeed. That's just scary.
Posted by: Jeffrey Ellis | January 08, 2009 at 08:26 AM
JE! stinkman! yeah we're terrified they might burst.
xox
WAM
Posted by: Whup-Ass Master | January 08, 2009 at 10:08 AM
The years and the sun have been unkind to D-tel. Well, let's face facts, D-tel has just let herself go and a light wrap would help protect the public from the horror show.
Posted by: augusto | January 08, 2009 at 06:03 PM
hello augusto...the fact is, d-tel has come to look the way she does overdoing NOT letting herself go. The implants, the starvation, the sun tan. sheesh.
xox
WAM
Posted by: Whup-Ass Master | January 08, 2009 at 06:06 PM
post-apocalyptic carp corpse... the lips... what the fuck is that?
Posted by: daisyfae | January 09, 2009 at 12:30 PM