Celebrity fashion lines

Lindsay Lohan recently collaborated with Ungaro for a train wreck of a fashion show. Why would a venerable Paris fashion house trust its reputation and scissors to a girl whose nickname is “Firecrotch?” She certainly hasn’t set the world on fire with her style, which lately has involved a lot of leggings. They weren’t a good idea in the 80s and they aren’t now.

But LiLo isn’t the only celeb I have a beef with. I pretty much loathe every actress or singer who thinks that, because she got a thumbs-up on the red carpet from the TV Guide Channel, she should develop a clothing line. Hilary Duff and Lauren Conrad (who sort of went to school for fashion) have had lines at Kohl’s. Amanda Bynes had one at the now-defunct Steve & Barry’s. These chicks are hardly out of their teens and yet they are dictating style to middle America middle-schoolers.

Of course it’s easy for a celebutard to look good but it doesn’t mean that they should start designing sequined leotards or introducing a line of hair extensions. Plus, by and large, they aren’t designing a single sorry thing. They just lend their name and favorite color and, poof, poop is being shipped to Wal-Mart.

Like the dude in The Crucible said, in the end, all you have is your reputation and your name. Well, these rag hags will go to the grave knowing they exploited children in Southeast Asia, expended the world’s resources and for what? Snagged, damaged thneeds that are going to wind up at Goodwill next to collection of abandoned Cosby sweaters.

In a word, Firebotch.

Chai

Is it tea? Is it coffee? Is it just plain woo woo pretentious? What the fuck are you, chai?

If you’re not living in or touring India, chances are you are drinking a powdered version of this spiced milk tea, or even a bastardized chai/coffee hybrid. For instance, I just discovered that a dirty chai doesn’t involve extra olive juice, but a shot of espresso. Uh...

But it’s not just the chai itself. It’s the knobs who drink it. Somehow sipping on this strange brew, these exotic creatures feel enlightened and superior, much like I imagine Tom Cruise and his Scientology cronies feel after a good L. Ron Hubbard jamboree. Doctoring up their chai with a dollop of soy milk and a soupçon of cardamom, these wannabe Siddharthas eat, pray, and love throwing the stinkeye at my mocha choca latte and silently judging, all the while saying crap like “namaste, my friend” to my face while reaching for their heart center.

I want to punch these nirvana in a coffee cup-seeking sultans of swill in their third eye, until they're blind.

(I must admit that I do love this DIY chai recipe, if only for the illustration).

(photo: bodhileaftrading.com)

Talking about oneself in the third person

“I’m bored of Bono and I am him—I’m sick of me. I felt it was a little limiting to be in the first person,” Bono has said. I’m sad that I’m limited in the ways that I can punch him in his pompous face.

TIWTPITF’s shit is royally irked when someone starts talking about him or herself in the third person. Politicians like Bob Dole and Joe Biden, and athletes like Shaq and the Rock have been serving up illeisms for a long time. Yeah, I can smell what the Rock is cooking and it smells like dumbass. Remember that dude Suede on Project Runway? Even Michael Kors couldn’t deal with his hubris. Are you royalty? A dead celebrity?

TIWTPITF thinks the only people allowed to refer to themselves in the third person are Steven Hawking, Mr. T, and the Hulk. And oh yeah, Jesus, Buddha, and their pals. That’s it, and even then they are walking a fine line between acceptable and my fist. I have found what I'm looking for, Bono, and it's your face.

(photo: www.bigdogcomic.co.uk)

Rachel Zoe's chest

Every time I get a glimpse of stylist Rachel Zoe’s bony chest beneath a giant yeti pelt vest, I literally—or “litrally,” as she says—have to look away. I avert my eyes quickly, much like I do when that starving children commercial with Laurie Metcalf pops up during my late-night cable trolling. I have to look away like Perseus did when he took on Medusa. I too fear turning to stone, but not because of Zoe’s snake-like locks.

It’s her sternum. I’m afraid that it’s going to poke and kill a random passerby. I could play the xylophone on her breast bone and ribs. She doesn’t need to wear one of her giant-ass necklaces; she’s already sporting a bone collar. Like a cross-section of wood, you can add up the rings to determine her age. And by the number of rings jutting out of her chest, she should stop saying, “I die,” because, by my count, she should already be dead.

Zero isn’t a size, it’s a sickness. Desiccate & Emaciate is not a new design label; it's an apt description of your dried-up husk. Stop saying “bananas” and start eating them…literally.

(Photo: evilbeetgossip.film.com)

Man caves

You man, me woman. I get it. It’s not that hard to figure out our differences. You shave, I wax. You like Red Dawn, we dig Dirty Dancing. But when it comes to portioning off areas of the house, I don’t see why you XYs need your own space to watch sports or porn or whatever it is you do in there. You don’t need a separate hole to crawl into when you are discovering fire or sharpening tools. That’s what the garage is for, Encino Man.

And your male room shouldn’t be where the wagon wheel coffee table goes to die; that’s what craigslist is for, duh. Lose the threadbare recliner and put your collection of baseball caps or hockey jerseys in storage. Call me crazy, but clothing is meant to be put on the body, not hung on a wall.

I hate to break it to you, but you’re not a cave man. You’re a guy who hasn’t shaved in three days. Wash off your Pleistocene funk, turn on the light, and for god’s sake, stop grunting. If not, I'll have no choice but to whack you with a woolly mammoth bone, which is going to leave a mark, no matter how you try to cover it up with your loincloth.

(photo: www.slothcentral.com)