But today, it’s midmorning and I’m already on my second box o' heart-shaped chocolates, washing it all down with a glass, half full, of l’amour. Disgusting, n’est-ce pas? I know, I think all the Godivas I just chomped on are coming back up.
Maybe I’m just extremely elated that our Britney’s been sportin’ a pair of normal, ass-covering jeans around town with her mama, finally free of her fishnets and hot mess of pink hair. Too bad, since the wig woulda been oh so V-day apropos.
Looks like Lynne hasn’t kicked to the curb the real source of wrong-doing in Brit's slow recovery, her b-f Adnan. The alleged newlyweds are still playing house (or hotel room, rather) this V-Day, despite their rumored wacky Mexican marriage being as authentic as a fake Fendi gifted in Guadalajara.
As if Britters and Badnan are the only counterfeit couples out there. I woulda called bullmerde on Eddie Murphy and Tracey Edmonds' faux-mance, if they hadn’t already saved me the trouble and called it quits themselves.
Amy Winehouse’s bond with hubbie Blake ain’t exactly picture perfect, either, since most of the time they’ve been together—in person, mind you, without a wall of plexiglass betwixt them—they were too high to take their romantic sitch seriously.
And Spencer and Heidi’s on-air love is about as ersatz as The Hills and Heidi’s boobs combined. I’d say they may as well get hitched, on TV during sweeps, ‘natch, but two robots aren’t yet allowed to marry each other in this country. Just like the fagolas. Might be legal in Sweden, though.
—Kathy Hilton to yours truly, when I complimented mama-boss H on a pic of daughter Nicky in the library of the family manse in Bel-Air
My sniffin’ colleague Marc Malkin broke yesterday that Kath 'n' Rick attempting to keep their eldest son in jail overnight to teach him a lesson. Now, I just adore M2 for finding this out—almost as much as I love Kathy for actually thinking this will do one bit of good. Darling girl’s a little late with the scolding lesson, but nice try.
Come on: This is a family that, much like Lynne Spears, raises its offspring to be commodities. A simple pic taken of Nicky (who designs bags no one buys) is provided by a...fan? A fan of what? Overindulgence and privileged destruction? Is Barron going to start going through cars and mechanics the way Pare-poo goes through men, canines, hair extensions and BFFs?
Point being, Kathy raises her kids to be what she missed out on becoming: a carefree star. Rick talks tough to the media before he does his own errant boy. These are folks, much like 'rents of other high-profile disasters right now, who are so busy defending themselves in the maelstrom that is celebrity reportage, their own flesh and blood are becoming even further discombobulated messes.
And, yes, it pains moi to write this as, ironically, I adore Kathy Hilton. She’s ballsy, stacked and always good for a bitchy quote (“dumb like a fox,” is how she first described P.H. to me, impressive décolletage heaving with every vowel). But this new Mother Earth phase is beyond the pale.
I mean, come on. This is a family that has garage sales and is forever “refurbishing” the Bel-Air digs. Not is all as it appears.
I’d be paying the dude not to move into my hood, were it me, but it’s not.
Merde. This new near-beer leaf is prolly just until the next prez gets elected, would be my guess (even dumbo Bush knows anything he blunders through, at this precarious time, will have the most consequences not on him but on McCain). Oh, and for whatever it’s politically worth, or not, Bush Sr., I’m told by those who hang with him, loves to show off his personal pics taken with Bill Clinton much more so than snapshots of his own son—why do I not find that surprising?
But that’s just nasty goss. The best kind!