Ever wonder what your favorite celebs are thinking as they walk the red carpet? Molly Dimick imagines what these stars were thinking as they posed for the paps this week, and adds some of her own snark, too.
I know I’ll probably have some serious regrets about what’s about to transpire here—like the time I housed a vat of boxed brownie batter, washed it down with a fancy Pinot from the CVS wine cellar and passed out watching Soloflex informercials. Mom’s proud. Now back to Jessica. Aside from the Smurf infantry combat boots and repurposed Gap flannel (circa 1992), I don’t hate this look. I know, I know, but girlfriend shaved about 60 years off her age since we last saw her sporting a catatonic bouffant and Limoncello potato sack.
“My assistant is so getting canned. I specifically instructed that half-wit to fetch me a Valentino. Instead, I’m stuck wearing a homemade valentine from J.T.’s supervised craft time. A box of rumpled Kleenex Ultra Soft dip-dyed in cinnamon red hots? It’s an insult to my sinewy lady form.”
“Don’t believe this smile for a second. I just came face to face with the wrath of Kirstie Alley’s chompers. I’ve never known that kind of fear, even when I was doing crazy ninja stunts on Alias. How was I to know she’d be lurking in the bushes, waiting to douse my leather and lace in A-1?”
Say goodbye to Froot Loops, my friends. Without his rainbow-striped beak, Toucan Sam can’t follow his nose to the flavor of fruit, wherever it grows. Captain Crunch will get his, just you wait.
“Mini protégé, you will hold your pee-pee pose as long as I say so. Do you have any idea who I am? I am an actress. I can make you believe that I have a bladder the size of Guam because I’m that good. If I see even the slightest hint of Number 1 dribbling down your tween chicken thighs, you will be the death of me. You will hold it longer and smile BIGGER if you want to be a star like Aunt Julia. P.S. Don’t forget who chose that perfectly age-appropriate ensem you’re wearing that will have critics shouting ‘chic’ to the high-heavens. You’re welcome.”
Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore
Ashton is so getting put in the makeout corner with Rumer tonight. How dare he detract attention from Demi’s prized pigeons as she proves once again that she’s an age-proof wonder. If those birds so much as flutter a wing, Bruce will make him so very sorry. At least mama dressed him like a big boy in a camel overcoat. He’s all grows up!
Katie has never struck me as the flasher type. But I presume sleeping in an alien pod beside Crazy Eyes Cruise every night would cause you to unravel right quick. If Robo-Wife were allowed to hike up that hem and lose the man trousers to expose a whisper of knee cap, this trench would be killa. Unfortch, that would violate the terms of her double-secret-probation-Scientology agreement. On the plus side, the surplus volume creates the perfect billboard to not-so-subtly stitch HELP! into the lining.
I cannot express how cruel and unkind
It was for me to make you go blind
Between the Pepto hue and day-glo veneers
I’m sure this very moment, you’ve dissolved into tears
For if Melissa Rycroft were a candy message heart,
She’d shriek: “YOU AND MY 15 MINUTES NEVER SHALL PART!”
Happy (belated) Valentine’s Day and cheers to Glaucoma!
Now that Mumbles has vacated her post as awkward backstage commentator of Dancing With The Stars (“You really sucked out there tonight, Kelley. How will you look yourself in the mirror tomorrow, you pitiful sloth of a dancer?”), she must be shopping on the budget of a T.G.I.Friday’s hostess. That would be my best explanation for her forever-too-small clearance couture. I can smell the cotton/spandex/elastane blend on that cowl neck tunic from the eastern seaboard. I wonder how many 8th graders she had to fight for the last XXS.
And now Kate will perform the principal role from America, F*ck Yeah, the Ballet. Her costume is a made from a vintage flag once honorably used as a dog blanket for the 1987 Westminster Herding Champion. She traded a dreamcatcher, a half a bag of Ruffles and a ceramic flip flop magnet for it. Truly a one-of-a-kind.
In high school, one of my first jobs was working as a sales slave at Victoria’s Secret. I was fascinated by the never-ending world of flotation devices that promised to make my miniscule ta-tas mimic those of Jenna Jameson. I was also disturbed by the clueless boyfriends/husbands/pervs who practically ransacked the place, working up a sweaty brow and beer gut in search of crotchless lace bodysuits and pretty much anything see-through and trimmed with “fur”…kind of like what Johnny Depp‘s lady is rocking here. On their own, I could potentially heart the sheerness of the top or the sneeze-inducing maribou trim, but for heaven sakes, put them together, bind your boobs and scatter packets of pansy seeds to and fro, and I’m back on an express train to crotchless nightmaresville.
Yay to Chloe for shedding her jellyfish costume from the Golden Globes and sprouting real legs in place of tentacles. But perhaps next time she can meet in the middle between Disney frothcake and The Dude.
“Maybe if I stand here and pose REALLY hard, looking extra British, nobody will notice that Benicio went all Russell Crowe on me because I beat him down the red carpet. I’m sorry his ego is too big for the both of us, but he really didn’t have to tear my dress to shreds. Now I look as lopsided as Tara Reid‘s boobs.”
(Benicio’s poster): “I heard that. I’ll turn the whole thing into a ShamWow if you don’t shut your royal pie hole.”
In my world, Michelle falls into the same camp as Rachel Bilson. I want to carry them around in my pocket all day, airing them out now and then to flit about my shoulders, sprinkle my hair with fairy dust and rap the top 10 gossip headlines from the land of nymphs. But this seatbelt dress gives me pause. And if I see another Elvira Spears smokescreen hem, I might have to take up DNA cloning or watch The Bachelor to disinfect my brain.
Molly Dimick is a writer based in Chicago.
(Photos by WENN)