I don’t feel sorry for you, girls like Anne Hathaway who can’t get out of a car without showing the whole world their whosie-whatsits.
It made me sad when I saw a picture of Anne Hathaway’s crotch as she arrived at the Les Miserables premiere. Because before she even got out of the car to promote and be lauded for what I hear is a very terrific performance in a very moving story, Anne had already made headlines for something so pedestrian as flashing her privates.
This is, of course, not a new problem. It’s been encountered by all the greats and not-so-greats. Lindsay, Britney, Miley. And also the greats. The point is, ladies, I don’t feel sorry for you because this is SO PREVENTABLE!
First off, I will mention something called underwear. Say it with me. Underwear. It goes where it sounds like it would go. Under your clothes. A great thing about it is that it’s a barrier between the world and your downstairs friend. Think of them like sunglasses for your crotch.
Look, I get the whole panty line thing. Sometimes you celebs are forced/choose on your own volition to wear something so tight or low or made out of thin material that you think underwear would be visible and ruin the look. I challenge you to look further. We have landed on the moon. We have figured out wind energy. We can iMessage without incurring charges. There has to be an answer to panty lines other than “Eff-it! I’m going commando!”
As a celebrity, you should especially be wearing undergarments. You fight for privacy so hard! Do your part! Cover your privacy! Going to an event without underwear is like Carrie Mathison looking for Abu Nazir without a gun. It’s an unfair fight and it’s just plain irresponsible!
Especially you, Anne. I hold you to a higher standard. Mostly because you seem to hold yourself to a higher standard. You cut your hair. You sing in public. You wore a dress to the Les Mis premiere that has so much extra stuff going on. You couldn’t fit a pair of Hanky Pankies between those dominatrix boots and under that satin all-weather hoodie?
If you girls are going to continue to ignore my advice to purchase some… I’ll say it. I’m not afraid. No, really. I’m woman enough to say this word. Just give me a minute… panties… then we need to go to plan B.
Plan B is figuring out how to get out of a car without doing Number 17, the Spread Eagle. Okay, so you aren’t exactly doing a spread eagle and that was just an egregious excuse to reference Chicago: The Musical (Anne should have at least appreciated that). You are still doing something wrong.
Have you tried exiting the car butt first? I know this sounds odd, but if you are wearing something long enough to cover your butt… yeah, no that’s not going to work.
Okay, how about just pushing your thighs together really hard as you swivel to get out of the car, and keep them pushed together as you stand – what’s that? Your thighs don’t ever touch when you put your legs together? Right. Silly me.
A car apron. That’s what I’ve landed on. Part Snuggie, part lap-bib, wear the Car Apron over your lap as you get out of the car. It doesn’t exist yet, but once I get it on Shark Tank, it will. The Car Apron will come in designs appropriate for any occasion. Red carpet red, Grammy glitter, even “natural,” which will have a fake whosie-whatsit embroidered on the front if flashing the paparazzi really is your thing. Retailing at $19.99 this is a deal your privates can’t afford not to take! Wear a Car Apron and cover your bacon!
Think about it, Anne. It’s what Fantine would have wanted.
Man. My fingers still hurt from typing the word “panties.”