Posh & Becks

[Source.]

BECKS: Just keep your head down, babes.

POSH: Look, I really can't figure out why you suddenly have a cracking great rod up your bum, David. It was YOUR idea.

BECKS: It was not.

POSH: It was TOO.

BECKS: I was being SARCASTIC. When a person says, "Oh, I don't give a rat's bollocks what you wear -- wrap a garbage sack around your waist for all I care," they are not ACTUALLY hoping you'll do it. Get it?

POSH: Well how am I supposed to know that? I thought you meant, "You'd look gorgeous in a trash bag, honey."

BECKS: Certainly not. I'm not your mum.

POSH: Don't be a prat.

BECKS: Look, I was getting sick of waiting. It took you two hours to pick your shoes. Who spends two hours picking out shoes to go with pants that don't even SHOW them, Vic?

POSH: Oh, well, fine, if you don't CARE about the details. Although coming from someone who couldn't be arsed to tuck in his shirt before throwing on grandpa's cardigan...

BECKS: Pipe down, Simon Le Bon. I'm not ALLOWED to have closet time while you're still deciding, remember?

POSH: And I expect you're going to blame that hat on me, too, now.

BECKS: It's the only thing I could find that might help me hide.

POSH: Our reality show is going to be bloody brilliant.

[Source.]

"I don't know what that bloody smirk on David's face is for. I'm going to rip off his bollocks and he knows it. I can't believe he told me my hair looks like I'm wearing a bloody old man's combover. It's TRENDY, you slag-shagging bastard! I don't CARE if the last person with hair like this was a member of Duran Duran. America is going to go PIG WILD for me and THEN who'll be smirking at the person down the row? And THEN who'll have people lining up to have a fling with me, eh, David? THEN who'll be so jealous he's having rage blackouts? ... Oh, don't be cross, David, I'm just taking the piss. I love you and I miss the mad passionate love we make when we're together, because we're in mad and passionate love. In fact, maybe that's what I'll call my show. Me & My Golden Balls: Mad, Passionate Love. Right, David? Right? We're okay, right? ... Dammit. Fine. I'll book myself in for some extentions tomorrow. Want to have another baby? Think about it, okay? Because we're in love. Love!"

[Photo Source.]

GIORGIO ARMANI: Boo! It's me! HELLO!

POSH: God, I'm fabulous.

KAT(I)E: Hi Karl! Hi! It's me! Mrs. Cruise!

GIORGIO: KARL? I am not Karl Lagerfeld, runt. What kind of IDIOT would think I am Karl Lagerfeld?

KAT(I)E: Oh, wow. I'm sorry. It's just that you're both so... tan. Ha ha ha... ha.

GIORGIO: Quiet, Scientology Spice. Can you not see that I'm trying to start a conga line with the Queen of America?

POSH: That's f'ing right, darling. Thanks to the football deal for David, we're even MORE filthy, stinking rich.

KAT(I)E: That's great, ha ha!  I'm so happy to be here! Kar... er, Giorgio, I just wanted to know...

GIORGIO: BUY A COUNTRY, you delicious pleated diva!

POSH: Too right I will.

GIORGIO: Take the Maldives. No one knows who owns those anyway! Make it Isla Victoria!

KAT(I)E: I think the Maldives...

GIORGIO: LIKE I SAID. Nobody knows.

POSH: I wonder if America will let me have Hawaii. It's closer. I'll pay cash.

GIORGIO: I will make you leis. FABULOUS leis of GLORY. With FEATHERS, just like mama used to make.

POSH: Damn, babes, you're WAY more fun than Karl Lagerfeld. All he does is scowl and glove-slap people. F'ing awkward sometimes if you ask me.

KAT(I)E: Sir, Mr. Armani, if I could just ask you about this dress...

GIORGIO: Or you could buy A SITCOM. We could be in one of those lively half-hour comedy shows! Where we live together and work in a pizza parlor that is also a tanning salon, and have strange neighbors with children who won't stop talking! IT WILL BE HUGE.

KAT(I)E: Yes! And I could play the...

GIORGIO: No, no, I want that Michelle Williams girl -- she's DYNAMITE.

POSH: Tanning and pizza, eh, Giorgio? We could call it Mystic Pizza.

GIORGIO: I've never heard of ANYTHING so divine, my queen. IT WILL CHANGE THE WORLD. Now, CONGA, you vixen! 

KAT(I)E: Mr. Armani, if you'd just look at me for a second, I don't think these weird pleats...

GIORGIO: Child, no shop talk -- not when I'm about to break into the macarena. You know the rules.

POSH: Look at that. Giorgio Armani, following ME around. Wanting to ride MY coattails. My life is f'ing amazing.

KAT(I)E: My life is awful. He won't even look at me.

GIORGIO: Actress girl! We need an inanimate object to be the limbo rod. Can they use you?

KAT(I)E: Thank God I had this smile surgically locked in or else I would be SCREAMING at some people right now and then Tom would make me sit in the audit closet for a week.

POSH: Allegedly.

KAT(I)E: Oh, whatever.

POSH: Er, Karl... Karl, don't tell anyone, but... I'm having second thoughts.

KARL LAGERFELD: Thoughts are for the DULL, darling. BE AMAZING.

POSH: Fine, babes, but my problem is just that I don't think I should have worn this after all. I think I look a bit stupid, actually.

KARL: RIDICULOUS! You are a DIVINE dish served cold. I would eat you with caviar if I could and then polish my glove with the CRUMBS of your GLAMOUR.

POSH: See, David said this looks like a bad rug that the royal family rolled up and stuck in a closet in Windsor Castle. But my sister disagreed -- she thought this belonged in Camilla Parker-Bowles' nightie drawer.

KARL: David is a PRECOCIOUS flesh nugget INDEED. Dip him in mustard. HE IS A DELIGHT. But kill your sister.

POSH: Look, I just sort of feel like a 19th century prostitute, Karl. And I'm not sure it's the look I should be going for now.

KARL: It's like I told that delightful Lindsay Lohan -- "To look like a freak is to be ALIVE WITH FASHION, and also, WASH YOUR FACE IN CHAMPAGNE."

POSH: You're mad as pants, aren't you? You're more bonkers than a shed in a limousine.

KARL: I've grown tired of your complaining. You're just AFRAID TO BE FABULOUS. Now leave me unless your breasts make martinis.

Sure, the focus of this past weekend's Italian production of I Know Mothers Cry At Weddings, But Should Mrs. Holmes Be Wailing? was probably supposed to be Kat(i)e's dress. But you don't invite Victoria Beckham, the glorious spice blend known as Posh, and expect her to be wallpaper. No, much like what we think went through Brooke Shields' head when she accepted her invitation to the TomKat Contract Fulfillment Ceremony, you include Posh at your formal occasion because you say to yourself, "THIS I've got to see." And also possibly because she befriended your comatose bride during several shopping sprees and some Paris fashion shows, but mostly, it's because you want to look at how hot her stilletos are while also wondering what new glories she'll pull from that den of wonder known as Her Wardrobe.

Mercifully for us all, Posh did not disappoint, stringing together a buffet of delights more filling for the fug fan than any solid that's passed her lips in three months.

You have to admire her versatility. In the span of one weekend, she showed up as:

1. A crabby school teacher: This strumpet of academia's affection for lip gloss is matched only by her companion's addiction to raiding his grandfather's closet. Bonus: The sweater at least comes with its own lifetime supply of Werther's Originals, so he can toss them into her mouth at her appointed snack times, since she wouldn't dare eat any of the apples left by her trembling students (too much chewing).

POSH: So, er, Kat(i)e... is that what you're wearing to the Chanel show?

KAT(I)E: Yes. Tom picked it out. It's amazing. He said it made me look extraordinary.

POSH: That's lovely and all but don't you think it's a bit... much?

KAT(I)E: Tom told me that now that I'm an extraordinary childbearing woman, I should dress like one.

POSH: Well, you look like an extraordinary childbearing curtain in Chaka Khan's brothel, sweets, I'm just being honest here.

KAT(I)E: Is it not amazing? Really?

POSH: It's not that bad. It just doesn't work for this occasion, babes. I mean, look at me -- aren't we going around together so that you can study me? You want to look chic and sleek, not bleak.

KAT(I)E: You're so smart. This is so exciting.

POSH: I was in the Spice Girls. We did a lot of rhyming.

KAT(I)E: I am a thrilling woman.

POSH: Look, I'm going to level with you, Kat(i)e. It's great that you're trying to prop up your boobs, really-- I have made a career out of that -- but the bloody gown looks like it's weighing you down, it's way too much for a daytime event, and Kat(i)e, love, you're not to wear closed-toed shoes with something that aggressive, okay? You might as well be wearing loafers, babes. Frumpalicious.

KAT(I)E: This is so amazing. I can't wait to be a mother. Tom and I are really thrilled.

POSH: Er...what?

KAT(I)E: I am enjoying my courses in Extraordinary and I can't wait to be a Tom Scientology baby.

POSH: Bloody hell, this girl's malfunctioning. I can't work with this, people. Hello? Can any of her minders fix her?

KAT(I)E: The wedding is in two Suris but she's doing thrilled! I am excited to be Scientolmazing! Leah Remini amazatology!

POSH: Oh, bollocks to THIS. I need a drink.

Okay. True confessions time: I love Posh. When I read her fantastic autobiography, Learning to Fly, I found myself, against all odds, deeply enchanted by her. There is something about her that is so deliciously over the top and tacky -- yet the book is also very self-deprecating and charming. When I finished it -- it was like 1,500 pages and yet it only covers her life up until she had Brooklyn -- I realized that I want these two to make it work, against all odds. I know that's probably a pipe dream, but I can't help it. I secretly lurve them!

What I don't lurve, tragically, is her outfit here:

And do you know why?

BECAUSE THESE ARE POSH AND BECKS IMPERSONATORS.  Thank God. Prior to confirming this, Heather and I had a frenzied conversation in which we decided if it actually was Posh, she must really be pregnant again -- and god, I hope she is, and god, I hope it's a girl. Can you imagine what they would name a girl? I vote for Versace. Versace Victoria Beckham -- but that if the man involved actually was Becks, then something had gone TRAGICALLY AWRY with his face. I may have used the sentence, "Why would he DO SOMETHING to his BEAUTIFUL FACE?!" Which might have been followed by some gnashing of teeth.

But, thank God, David Beckham has not had a tragic run in with a nefarious plastic surgeon, and Posh has not ACTUALLY left the house in an off-the-shoulder tunic with a tiger drawn on it. I mean, she dresses crazy sometimes, but there is no way she's actually go somewhere dressed in something I owned in 6th grade.

I wish I were a fly on the wall in the Beckham household right now, though, just to hear her scream about this. Heads, I suspect, may roll. No one sends out her impersonator dressed like a model from the Lillian Vernon catalog! No one!*

*Okay, fine. Our sources tell me that Posh actually HAS worn some kind of terrible tiger outfit out and about. So, to sum up: these people are impersonators, but the shirt may in fact by an accurate representation of an actual shirt that the actual Posh has actually worn OH MY GOD WHY IS THIS SO COMPLICATED?

Oh, Posh Spice.  There are so many things I love about you! I love that you said you'd never read a book, even though you ostensibly wrote one. I love how you were arguably the worst singer in the Spice Girls, which was just packed full of girls who couldn't sing.  I love your marriage to that adorable high-talker, David Beckham, and I wish the two of you would do a reality show, even though if you did, I don't know if I could bear to watch it due to the aforementioned high-talking.

But do I love you enough to overlook the fact that you're going out with Geri "Ginger Spice" Halliwell wearing em-effing chaps?

I don't know. I think I kind of do. There are few people in the world who can get away with wearing actual chaps -- cowboys being primary among them -- but just look at you. You're fierce, even in full-on, ridiculous, leather chaps. CHAPS.  I don't know who you're looking at, but I'm pretty sure the evening is going to end with you having washed down his brains with a nice glass of champers. So, chaps on, Posh. Chaps on. I'm too scared to say anything about them.

Here's the thing: I love Posh and Becks. She's so deliciously tacky and he's so...you know, extremely hot in that No, No, Don't Speak sort of way.

Said dichotomy is well illustrated below:

He looks luscious. She looks like her stage name is Luscious.

That being said, I hear her autobiography is really rather brilliant.*

* No. I've actually seriously heard that.