Where Do I Begin?

You know shit is an extra kind of busted when the hottest piece in a picture is knee-length denim skirt, suede boots and a facial expression that says: “I am so not fucked up enough to deal with this mess in front of me.” It’s okay if Lindsay Lohan insists on looking like a 50-something worn out lot lizard circa 1981 who trades handjobs for Camel Cash and knows which gas station bathrooms in a 10-mile radius still have working locks on their doors, but why is she styling Steven Tyler 17-year-old Ali Lohan the same way? I know they’re at Coachella, but it’s really not right that Ali thinks she has the stuff to work a pair of Mexican abuelo moccasins. Not today. Not ever.

Furtherwhore, LiLo really needs to turn that camera around and get an up-close picture of the top of her head which looks like it was just the scene of a battle between peroxide, weave glue and meth lab sparks. I didn’t know “meth part” actually existed until now. When LiLo goes to court on Friday to possibly plead GUILTY (she won’t), the judge better throw the book at her. The book being “The Weavemaster’s Bible,” of course.