Your financial prospects are so wretched you could only afford the new George Foreman heavyweight grill on a time-sharing arrangement with a family that’s overly fond of road-kill. Later in the month a threee-hundred-pound canary named Junior will raise the specter of duality, adjectives, and the Hegelian dialectic in your mind.
(Editor's note: Postcards from the Pug Bus is happy to present the first in an occasional series of guest lectures. Today's visiting professor is DistressedJeans, "a glorious fashionista with a penchant for all things celebrity!" This engaging writer aims to "dive into Hollywood wearing nothing but a pair of Jimmy Choos and oversized sunglasses." She has been known to "live off nothing but Venti lattes and the E! channel for weeks at a time." Her daily blog can be found at Conversations about Famous People.)
What's cuter than Lindsay Lohan doing blow off her own clavicle in the bathroom of a nightclub? Why, her middle-aged mother taking it off for Playboy magazine, of course. You were going to totally say that weren't you?
Tired of whoring her daughters out for fame, Dina Lohan is taking matters into her own hands. She hopes to lay spread eagle on a bed of pink feathers while being totally naked. It would be only too cool to have an anorexic, strung out daughter and be working on your own career, fine-tuning yourself for a stint at the Midnight Bunny Ranch in another few years.
When I hung out in the grotto over at Hef's house, I got really tired of C-list actors trying to come on to me all the time. I couldn't even sit in the hot tub without a flesh kabob being offered to me. Finally even the lure of free drinks and viewing incredibly fake implants wasn't enough to tear me away from my four-poster bed and a good book with a large bottle of vodka.
I just checked in my magical crystal ball and you would not believe what I saw. Charlie Sheen and Dina Lohan. Yes. Can't you see it now? It's only a matter of time. While Lindsay continues her spiral into the abyss of being a drug addicted mess with no one to take care of her, her own mother will be waking up in a Charlie Sheen's condo with her underwear on inside out.
Your financial prospects are so wretched you could only afford the new George Foreman heavyweight grill on a time-sharing arrangement with a family that’s overly fond of road-kill. Later in the month a threee-hundred-pound canary named Junior will raise the specter of duality, adjectives, and the Hegelian dialectic in your mind.
