Well, I've gone back and forth and around in circles on this Fergie outfit. I am just about ready to pull out all my hair and move to Alaska, where
Geo Beach can do a whole episode of his show on how blogging there is way harder than anywhere else because -- oh, I don't know, my fingers will be too cold to type, or something.
So I'm going to turn it over to the professionals and let you be the jury.
The prosecution is ready, having been gagging over the giant dried-out-looking braid for about three hours now, noting that they haven't seen a rope that unappealing since the one their seventh-grade gym teacher made them climb in class. Since the defense momentarily passes out from the potency of its rope-burn flashbacks and subsequent lifelong inadequacy issues, the prosecution charges forth with the suggestion that this is not Fergie at all -- that the Fergie WE know would never stick a disco belt over a clashing caftan and call it genius, which therefore forces them to conclude that Fergie skipped this event entirely in favor of making lasagna with Josh Duhamel, and sent her waxwork in her place.
The defense stands up and congratulates Fergie on that choice, because really, given the choice, we would all rather spend the evening making lasagna with Josh Duhamel; the prosecution objects, claiming the defense is simply trying to woo the jury by tweaking its hormones. Forced to make an actual statement, the defense decides to point out that the red parts of the fabric are really pretty; that the hot pink, while maybe a little overly bold, does at least add some drama;, and that it's all light-years better than when Fergie wore cropped ties and shirts tucked up into her bra. Confident in a victory, the prosecution shotguns a case of Diet Coke and breaks into a rousing rendition of "My Humps," until the defense -- misinterpreting "a rousing" as "arousing," hops on You Tube to look for some of Duhamel's greatest hits from his days on
All My Children, forcing the judge to send the jury out to deliberate.
