Remember how bummed Nicky Hilton seemed about her breakup while hosting the opening of the Baccarat store in the OC last week? Well, now I've got even sadder news about the youngest Hilton. Seems she's been leaning on beastly Brandon Davis for comforting support. What, Mel Gibson wasn't available?
I mean, if Kevin Connolly cheated as claimed, then he's a downright dirty dawg, but really, heading over to the Mr. Firecrotch fella himself for solace? He's such a downgrade to be seen with compared to the cute and talented Kev.
Anyhow, Nicky hit swanky Fred Segal in Santa Monica on Saturday for some much needed retail therapy with Brandon in tow, sorta like having a smirking greaseball on a chain, really, but i digress (per usual.) Plastic always helps in these unfortunate sitches, right, honey-babes? Indeed, Nick-doll picked up a pair of earrings for a cool 200 bucks. And get this: The salesgal didn't even recognize the forlorn former fashionista, who was dressed down in a denim skirt, tee and flip-flops. She asked Nicky for ID to authorize her credit card purchase—quelle horreur!
Ouch. The hurting heiress did not like such common-folk treatment, but she provided said request without bitch-slapping anybody in the process, so I guess girlfriend gets points for that one.
Desk Faux Pas had further reports. "She looked like white trash," blabbed some of the well-heeled and very bitchy bystanders.
Oh, and to top off all this terrible to-do, I must tell all you gossipcakes that the bloated Brandon kept telling our darling Nick to hurry up as she shopped. The nerve! What, got a rehab with 24/7 room service to get to, B.?
Poor thing. Where's Paris when you need her?
"They're a tad upset."
—A member of Nicole Kidman's tight-knit posse Down Under, regarding Nic's family's opinion of hub-unit Keith Urban in rehab
Irony is alive and well in Australia (even more so than in frosty England, and, bro, that is sayin' somethin'). Jeez, degreewise, the only thing that seems to be pissing folks off more than the fact that Keith might hurt Nicole—should he, perchance, not be able to clean up his hard-charmin' ass after all—is the redesign of this very column.
A number of Awful Truth-ites have expressed unhappiness with the new, microscopic size of the column (should I rename it the Awful Ant, I wonder?). Oh, hell, I've been through more of these re-re-redesigns than Kidman has had to wear flats with her first and second husbands combined. Give us a chance, everybody, is all I have to say. Stick around while we iron out the kinks, 'kay?
And I would have to advise the same to Ms. K.'s family members, who seem to think that because this isn't exactly Keith's first trip down De-Partying Lane he's going to be a sinner for life. Bulls--t.
"They have no faith in him," sassed a veddy close amiga to Ms. K, regarding her family's opinion of La Husband's chances at living a drug-free, faithful life with Nicole, 38. "They assume this is how he'll always be."
Look, you hideously intolerant relatives of my darling Nic: As a recovering alcoholic and addict myself, I can tell ya Keith's chances of continued recovery are excellente, just as long as Mr. U. is determined that's the very kinda life he wants. The latter point, 'course, is absolutely paramount to the success of this whole drug-free shebang of his. Has to do it for himself, not herself. Without that portion of the newlywed's planned recipe for success, Keith—and the union—are toast.
Just hope the country crooner, 37, decides that all those jitters his pals told me he was having right before the wedding ceremony are gone. Ya remember that naughty gab, doncha? That's back when I told all you nasty goss-folk that K.U. sometimes felt a tad—how shall I say?—eclipsed by Nic's height.
Or fame, can't remember which. I swear, I'm such an old formerly drug-addled queen myself that it's amazing I can type a sentence, much less recall something I wrote less than 10 secs ago!
Of course, once readers finish complaining about this new, redone Website in all of those glorious (and myriad) emails, they almost always add the old-bitching post. You know the one. It's all about how I can't write worth crap. Let's just all regroup tomorrow, shall we?
My recovering-addict neuro-whatevers are screaming, so I have to go down a few gallons of ice cream along with a fab batch of brownies Paris sent me.
Think they're safe for me to eat? I'm talking about my figure, natch.