celebuzz // Stefani,
I generally can’t sit through the terrible American Idol results shows without the promise of being able to fast-forward through the parts that horrify me (read: 97 percent of it). This is how I ended up stalling for time by watching half of She’s All That last night, and debating with my friend which of the supporting cast members has since become the most famous. Disqualifying Lil’ Kim for just being there on a lark, we got to: Anna Paquin, Dule Hill, and Gabrielle Union in that order, after much debate about the last two. In case you were wondering. Matthew Lillard was also disqualified, on account of Scooby Doo, because DEAR GOD.
Anyway, once we got going on Idol, my itchy trigger finger had to put down the remote so that it could pick up my camera. Because as usual, Gwen Stefani was delivering a hearty dose of shrink-wrapped crazy:
I had thought Gwen passed Harajuku Fever like a particularly gargantuan kidney stone, but if Kimono, Interrupted up there is any indication, she’s still got some residual symptoms.
At first, I couldn’t fathom why she would turn her obi into a garish rosette after using it to tie her skirt into what resembles a very roomy, overly formal adult diaper. But then I caught a glimpse of who showed up at the finale on the red carpet,… and I realized Gwen must have just fallen and hit her head on the toilet earlier today, and instead of introducing her to the flux capacitor like it should have, it merely caused her to take style tips from the Miss America organization’s official court jester.
Yes: Bobby Trendy.
If Charo ever needs a footman for a horse-drawn carriage, this is what the uniform would look like.
And if America were ever invited into the Eurovision Song Contest on some sort of honorary visa — like, say, if Luxembourg were to just give up and admit it kind of needs to mow the lawn that night anyway, deferring its spot to us — I would send over Bobby Trendy. It doesn’t even matter if he can sing. Between the tulle and the stripper boots and the choker and the little bow befitting only the most spoiled poodle at the dog show, he would be COMPLETELY underdressed, and half the acts would look over at him and snort, “Oh, please, who invited Laura Ingalls Wilder?”
At which point Bobby would have to move over there to lock himself in a Tulle Shed and hone his craft in the presence of the real masters, and people like Gwen Stefani would never be in danger of walking up to him in a post-bathroom-accident delirium to ask, “Hey, will you tie this thing for me? I can’t reach.” Everybody wins.
Anyway, once we got going on Idol, my itchy trigger finger had to put down the remote so that it could pick up my camera. Because as usual, Gwen Stefani was delivering a hearty dose of shrink-wrapped crazy:
I had thought Gwen passed Harajuku Fever like a particularly gargantuan kidney stone, but if Kimono, Interrupted up there is any indication, she’s still got some residual symptoms.
At first, I couldn’t fathom why she would turn her obi into a garish rosette after using it to tie her skirt into what resembles a very roomy, overly formal adult diaper. But then I caught a glimpse of who showed up at the finale on the red carpet,… and I realized Gwen must have just fallen and hit her head on the toilet earlier today, and instead of introducing her to the flux capacitor like it should have, it merely caused her to take style tips from the Miss America organization’s official court jester.
Yes: Bobby Trendy.
If Charo ever needs a footman for a horse-drawn carriage, this is what the uniform would look like.
And if America were ever invited into the Eurovision Song Contest on some sort of honorary visa — like, say, if Luxembourg were to just give up and admit it kind of needs to mow the lawn that night anyway, deferring its spot to us — I would send over Bobby Trendy. It doesn’t even matter if he can sing. Between the tulle and the stripper boots and the choker and the little bow befitting only the most spoiled poodle at the dog show, he would be COMPLETELY underdressed, and half the acts would look over at him and snort, “Oh, please, who invited Laura Ingalls Wilder?”
At which point Bobby would have to move over there to lock himself in a Tulle Shed and hone his craft in the presence of the real masters, and people like Gwen Stefani would never be in danger of walking up to him in a post-bathroom-accident delirium to ask, “Hey, will you tie this thing for me? I can’t reach.” Everybody wins.
