The plastic flowers from Big Lots you keep on your desk (because you’re elegant like that) just shriveled up, turned black and died. Every kitten on the expired 2011 kitten calendar that hangs on your cubicle wall let out a final meow of sadness before turning into a pile of grey dust. That delicious hot cinnamon roll next to you just morphed into a pile of dried dog shit covered in frosting. And all of that happened because Gloom and fucking Doom here sucked all the joy out of the room through your screen.
Michael Pitt and Kristen Stewart sat next to each other in the front row at the Chanel couture show in Paris today and they tried hard to out-sour face each other. If they talked at all, they probably only communicated through grunts, moans and Morrissey lyrics.
Black hair dye is not Michael Pitt’s friend. He looks like a strung out impersonator who is struggling over whether he should be a Criss Angel look-alike, a Michael Jackson look-alike or a Roy Horn look-alike. He’s going to be a little of all three before he makes a final decision. Little boys AND tigers are running away from his ass. And KStew…. I know that jacket she’s wearing is worth more than my life, but I swear you can get the same thing in the old ladies section at Palais Royal. Short-sleeved blazers only look good on 60-something church ladies passing out the donation basket on a hot Sunday morning.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and try to lure the sun back with a picture of Prince Hot Ginge since these two glum bitches scared it away.