I’m not even vaguely sure of what’s going on in these Harper’s Bazaar photos. It looks like she’s just come in from playing in that corner of the garage that the spiders claimed as their own back in ’05, or is perhaps being sprayed by an an industrial jism dispenser. (The latter being impossible, since my penis was with me the day of the shoot.) Either way, I’m confused, and since I’m a good American and don’t like things that confuse me, I hate it.
Please note a brief list of other things I hate: electricity, internal combustion engines, dark matter, Domino’s Bread Bowls, girls I dated in high school named Maureen, all languages other than igpay atinlay, and my own sexuality.
Nothing called a "trench dress" should be worn by anyone, ever. Sounds like the protective clothing an ER nurse would wear while fumigating an old hooker's vag.
Also, I think I kinda hate Cheryl Cole. I mean, she’s supposed to be a member of Girls Aloud, a Brit pop group spawned from a reality show that no one with proper dental care watches. But most of the mentions of her in the press seem to dwell on her dissolving marriage and faltering solo career. I could research it more, but my confused hatred is only exceeded by my soul-numbing apathy.
Don’t cry, though. I’ll make it up to you with this ass shot of Cheryl in a bikini, highlighting her seriously unfortuate –and probably drunken– choices in tattoo placement.
(hat tip: djmick)
Recent Comments