Oh, Girl Paris, welcome back to the blog:
And what better triumphant return to the fug than this chartreuse shiny bandeau dress, complete with billowing bodice, slits, and a tennis skirt? It's all so very white-trash St. Tropez, seen at all the yachting parties of peasants whose boats are only a pathetic fifty-feet long.
However, I am vexed by the continued absence of Man Paris. Are they fighting? Has he been brainwashed by his Hilton-horrified parents, who keep insisting their children are getting hitched on the tenth of Never, and not a day sooner, even though Kathy Hilton has already pretty much planned the wedding and monogrammed some towels? Or are her slits accidental -- left over from the knife fight she got into with Mr. Man Paris's hired goons, who want to scare some jilting into her?
I love the idea that they're a billionaire sandbox version of Romeo and Juliet, but without the innocence. Or the vocabulary. It's going to be so tragic when Girl Paris drinks Red Bull laced with arsenic and passes out, only to wake up and find out that Man Paris drank a lethal dose in his grief, which will force her to impale herself upon a cocktail toothpick she ganked from the Tropicana Bar the other night.
Hopefully she'll change first.
