Here’s the thing I don’t understand about myself: when Heidi Montag throws a party for herself and puts on a show for the press, I fear for the future of my nation… but when AnnaLynne does it, I fear only for the future of my pants.

Sure, part of it is that Ms. McCord oozes sex the way Jabba oozed slime. (That’s a compliment. I swear.) She could sit on a tree limb in a public park and fling shit at passers-by and I’d find a way to call it “cute”. And probably applaud her aim.

But somehow that just doesn’t feel fair. Heidi can’t help that, in playing herself on TV and marrying someone whose childhood playhouse was a Summer’s Eve box, she inevitably irritates me. I mean, if someone had given Heidi a shot –as they did AnnaLynne– at playing smokin’ hot jailbaity-ish goodness on Nip/Tuck, I’m sure she would have given it what passes for her all.

In the end, I guess whatever is, is. I’ll have to accept that the universe isn’t a just realm, and forgive myself for my part in a rigged game. That, and my dry-cleaning bill.