VMAs

So it appears the Solange Knowles Reign of TERROR continues:



What has she got on under there, I ask you? IT COULD BE ANYTHING. You know my theory that, as the Lesser Knowles, Solange is a loose cannon -- obsessed with stealing the spotlight from Beyonce -- and not to be trusted. This coat/dress/coatdress could be concealing any number of lethal weapons. A blowgun full of wee poison arrows just longing to bury their tip in Beyonce's tender arteries, for instance. Several vials of iocane powder to be slipped into Beyonce's latte as the occasion warrants. Maybe even the errant accent that you know she's just plotting to add to the "e" at the end of HER name. And where will we be when that happens, I ask you? (Emotionally, I mean. Physically, I hope to be in Hawaii.) WHERE? 

Okay, so this is a bit belated, but after it slipped past us once we couldn't allow Lil' Mama to escape again. 

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Of course, now that I've caught her, I'm not sure what to do with her. She might respond to being confined to her playpen for the afternoon, or merely forced to sit in the corner and reflect on the dangers of walking around unsupervised with something in her mouth. What if she fell? Imagine the dental bills THEN, Lil' Mama. You'd better hope your record company has a good insurance plan for you. Also, don't run with scissors, play with matches, take candy from strangers, or read Judy Blume's Forever until you're totally sure you're going to understand what a penis is and what mysterious things it likes to do.

Although I guess, in some ways, I have to give it up to her -- obviously she feels very strongly that this is an important statement to make. But I just can't figure out what that statement IS exactly. What the hell is this even saying?

We're still at Fashion Week, but nothing can keep us from eye-balling the VMAs.

And topping the short list of People You Want to Spy Out of the Corner of Your Eye Wearing a Belly Shirt at the VMAs is TOTALLY Kid Rock:

Right?

Honey, we get it: You're grown up now. No need to style yourself like an extra in the Key West Reperatory Theater and Steak Den production of Guys and Dolls. You're a man; you're in Indiana Jones. We know. Now grab a Mach-3 at your local drugstore and raze the reedy pubic 'stache before the old lady at Table Four tries to pay you a shiny quarter to mow her lawn.

Dear Diary,

What? Just because my sister Nicky had a big fashion show in New York City, and my parents were there, and her boyfriend was there, and it was really important to her, you expect me to just DROP EVERYTHING and GO? This is the VMAs, beeyotch, and I don't know if you HEARD me when I was writing sensitive things about homeless people, Diary, but I was in PRISON FOR A LONG LONG TIME. What's a cougar to do?

What, I can't be a cougar now? Who cares if I'm not old enough? Since when am I not allowed to be fashionable? Demi Moore and Kim Cattrall are, like, all up in the young ass right now and everyone LOVES IT. So I figure, if I dress like a desperate matron, I'm IN. I can look 40! For real! See? Dina Lohan WISHES she looked this old and Up For Anything! That Shia Le Boeuf seems like he's in the market for an older woman to teach him the ways of a lady. He doesn't have to know I'm not that much further along than he is.

God, you're such a spoil-sport, Diary. Did Nicky put you up to this? She's so boring. I'm totally throwing you away.

BOOO,
Paris

Behold Paige Davis -- or, to use her legal name, Mindy Paige Davis Page:

Leaving aside the perplexing fact that the former host of Trading Spaces is going to VMA parties -- please tell me that they're bringing her back for a special celebrity season, and, like, Ludacris and Axl Rose are going to trade spaces -- can we talk about this dress? Who puts this on and thinks, "shiny...shapeless...sold!" I don't think she's pregnant (the side view seemed very bump-free), and I subscribe to the theory that, unless there's a bun toasting in your oven, you probably should shun the poncho-dress, or, as I like to call it, the droncho. Let's trade the droncho for something more flattering,  shall we?

Welcome back to the world, Lil'. We're thrilled to see that doing hard time in the pokey hasn't blunted your erogenous zones' need for unimpeded ventilation. I mean, without the constant threat of being exposed to your fabric-averse ladyparts, where would the fun be?

Dear Rat-Faced Pipsqueak Jesse McCartney,

You want to know if I'm pregnant, you Howard Stern-blabbing poster boy for runny-nosed puberty accidents? You want to tell everyone I quit Dallas because my Mark ate a sandwich one night and had the strength for two minutes of egg-scrambling ecstasy before he passed out in his coffin again? FINE. Take a look up my uterine pipe YOURSELF, squirrel! Mira! Here it is! Do I LOOK like I caught a raging case of incurable Violet Affleck in my woman-sauna? Could a PREGNANT LADY pull off dressing like the star of Gloria Swanson On Ice? If I was slinging around a bag of womb-fruit, tonto, do you think a hundred Hollywood writers would be sitting around my photo RIGHT NOW falling all over themselves to create a movie for me about a future in which society is populated with a robot race of synchronized swimmers who are not only the most respected citizens of the world, but who double as the intergalactic military, and whose captain -- ME, acne brute! -- saves the world with a specialized blend of sass, leg splits, and choreographed aquatic gymnastics... while also learning to have her cold metal heart feel things deeply in a deep, deep way? NO! I THINK NOT. (Matt Damon, you want the lead? Llamame! Don't tell your oaf friend!)

So, Jesse McCartney, stick your THUMB back in your BLABBY MOUTH, pathetic peach-fuzzed wussy child, and RUN AWAY, before I flap my puffed sleeves down to the Dallas set and cut off all your girlfriend's Lucy Ewing hair. Then she will have to copy my turbanesque head scarf and WHO WILL HAVE THE LAST LAUGH THEN, EH, TOOTHPICK CHILD? HAHAHAHAH!

Also, catch me on LL Cool J's new single, in stores now!

Kisses, runt,

J.Ant

I never would have figured that Big Brother's Chicken George and MTV's Vanessa Minnillo would have anything in common. And yet, here it is, proof of common ground between beauty queen and buffoon: Both enjoy wearing scrunched-up aluminum foil. How sweet.

Paris Hilton, in her continuing attempt to become a singer, shows up at the VMAs in an homage to Bjork's infamous Trumpet of the Swan:

I especially enjoy the expression on the man sitting behind her. It's as though he started applauding for her, and then, actually catching a glimpse of her, has stopped mid-clap to think, "Sweet cracker sandwiches, what is she wearing?"

Good question, Perplexed Clapping Man. What IS she wearing? Let's take a closer look:

1. Bangs sculpted into a careful homage to Conan O'Brien
2. Wee little bows tried around her wrists like the world's twee-est handcuffs
3. De riguer giant belt
4. A skirt composed of equal parts duck feathers and the rejected scraps from Madonna's "Like A Virgin" costume. When Madonna and Bjork discover this fact, they will put on matching purple leotards and cartwheel over to Paris's house, where they will beat her severely with a sock full of quarters.
5. Black ankle boots, of course. Because what else do you wear with your fluffy white party dress? She's so ROCK AND ROLL! But what else would you expect from a songstress whose album includes the hardcore lines, "Girls and boys are looking at me/I can't blame them cause I'm sexy," or "I'm hot to death and I'm so, so, so sex-ee." I mean, the girls has CHOPS, am I right?

Is it wrong that I sort of just indulged in a fantasy wherein she walked right off the end of the stage, cracked her head, gave herself amnesia, forgot that she was supposed to be busy destroying the very fabric of our nation, and disappeared forever? That's what we're all hoping for, really, right?