Let's get a couple things straight...I have no idea who you are. I know you're famous, I know you're on "Lost" (?) right? Okay, so I don't even know that for sure. What I do know for sure is that you're pretty and you're making out with a Hobbit. I'm serious. A midget knows a midget and that guy you're kissing is a Hobbit! Straight up. So now I am left here to wonder why Evangeline? Why are you letting a failed genetic experiment play tongue hockey with you? So maybe he has a great personality and maybe he has to swing it over his shoulder to get around, but surely you can find those traits in a normal person who doesn't have clubbed feet and hair coming out of his neck. Even if you DO have a kinky fetish for the pointy eared Hobbits, lets keep all that Hobbit lovin' behind the boulder of his cave in Middle Earth shall we? Its disturbing to look at, almost as disturbing as Fergie coming untucked and having an accident. But not quite. Because lets face it, nothing is as disturbing as the she-man that is Fergie. Not even Hobbits licking a hot chick.
Are you just playing dead in those pictures so he doesn't eat you?
Because that would make more sense.
I try Mariah. I try so hard to avoid calling you out because you're way too easy. If I feel the urge, I usually write about Nicole Ritchie. I can understand being chubby because fried chicken with a side of cinnamon rolls are damn good, so eat on fatty. Eat on. Refusing food to the point where we can see your heart beating inside your chest at about 3:00 pm, when the sun is hitting you just right, THAT I don't understand. So I lay off of you Mariah. I usually turn the other way when you're big boned ass comes around and make fun of Hollywood's exposed clavicles instead. Because dammit, you're eating and I commend that! But you're making it hard. Real hard. Especially when you come prancing out of a airplane in a velour sweatsuit WITH HEELS that can barely contain your Fred Flintstone feet. Seriously.
First, lets figure out your foot size k? I'm guessing it's one number up from your IQ. Second, TRY SNEAKERS. They're comfy and they'll take the pressure off those poor ankles that have obviously been working overtime to keep you upright. And maybe consider some bangs..that fivehead you're sporting could be dangerous at airports as it could easily be mistaken as a runway.
I guess the only saving grace in this picture is that you don't have any gravy dribblins on the corner of your mouth. Dontcha hate when that happens?
The briefest glimpse of your stomach made me want to spray Windex in my eyes. While its honorable that you're finally admitting that you got a botched boob job and lipo, why don't you go a step further and cover that shit up. Next time you want to try and rock a six pack, here's an idea. Sit ups. It takes a little longer and real hard to do after downing two bottles of Vodka in the morning, but rest assured that with enough dedication, you'll get a six pack and NOT a stomach that looks like it got ran over with a weedwacker.
And you wanted bigger boobs. Its okay to want bigger boobs, I'm fine with that. But it amazes me that in Hollywood, the main consumer of fine plastic products, you couldn't get a decent referral to Dr. 90210. Instead, you decided to put your boobs on a monthly payment plan with a "Doctor" from Tijuana, who's "clinic" doubled as his auto parts store. Oh and FYI:, when his medical certificates are written in Sharpee and tacked on the wall with a push pin...I'm guessing he's not to legit. So please, don't complain when you come out of the surgery with 20 bucks missing from your wallet, a sore ass and nipples that look like you were nursing a baby hyena.
So, in summary, Sit ups and a push up bra from Victoria's Secret. A safe bet.
Plastic surgery in a third world country after three bottles of Vodka?
Not a good idea.
Thanks for the Good Luck vibes last Friday guys! It worked! Much apologies for the lackluster Fan Letter Friday...I'm not mentally here right now because I'm off to Palm Springs this weekend! WOOT WOOT!
Have a great weekend everyone!!!