Intern George never runs his girlfriends past us. No, he just rolls into work in the mornings, all, "Hark, you'll never guess what downtrodden princess I met in Las Vegas after she served me a gin spritzer." He never comes over and sits us down on our chaise longues and says, "Fair dames, I think love has a name, and that name is Girl Who Was In Those Soft-Core Emmanuelle TV Movies And Also Starred On Days of our Lives. Should I take her to Lake Como for the holidays and make her my own?"
So, of course, we don't have any great insights on Intern George's latest flame, Elisabetta Canalis. All we know is what we see, now that she's enjoying all of his current press tours.
I'm sure this dress looked gorgeous on the hanger. And it looks very nice on this lady-hanger, too. But that's really all she is here: a glorified, bronzed, flesh hanger. If she were WEARING the dress, as opposed to just letting it be on her, then wouldn't it look better on her bust? I just want to walk up to her and yank up the bodice a few inches and hand her some boob tape, and then tell her to ask George to make her his signature fugtini sometime, and that she shouldn't let him drink too much because he has a lot of work to do in the morning.
But to be honest, the dress itself doesn't get me as hacked off as this does:
So, of course, we don't have any great insights on Intern George's latest flame, Elisabetta Canalis. All we know is what we see, now that she's enjoying all of his current press tours.
I'm sure this dress looked gorgeous on the hanger. And it looks very nice on this lady-hanger, too. But that's really all she is here: a glorified, bronzed, flesh hanger. If she were WEARING the dress, as opposed to just letting it be on her, then wouldn't it look better on her bust? I just want to walk up to her and yank up the bodice a few inches and hand her some boob tape, and then tell her to ask George to make her his signature fugtini sometime, and that she shouldn't let him drink too much because he has a lot of work to do in the morning.
But to be honest, the dress itself doesn't get me as hacked off as this does:
Sweetpea, if Intern George has his face there, YOU GO FOR IT. No air kisses. No chaste pecks on the cheek. No looking down your nose at him with aloof majesty. This is INTERN GEORGE. And you are just one of many previously anonymous brunettes. So when presented with a snuggly Intern George looking for a little canoodling, by God, woman, YOU CANOODLE THE HELL OUT OF IT. Understand?
