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Fashion/Style
by
Liza Van Horne
August 5, 2008
Dear readers, have you ever been told to "follow
your bliss"? Does that phrase even have any meaning?
Gosh, I'd love to "follow my bliss" but I'm not
entirely sure what constitutes my "bliss" in the
first place. Perhaps I should consult an annoying
12-year-old soap character who could explain it to
me, since Oprah told her all about it -and in her
own words, "You do NOT want to be dissing Oprah."
Oh, is that so? Frankly, I DO want to be dissing
Oprah at every possible opportunity. Hello, Oprah?
You're a sanctimonious egomaniac whose philanthropic
efforts are so transparently linked to the muddled,
cavernous abyss known as "your self-esteem" that I
sincerely doubt you've ever given away a pack of GUM
without fully expecting the recipient to fall down
flat on her face and worship you in front of the
cameras. Your oft-touted "favorite things" are
nearly always frivolous, self-indulgent items that
I'm sure 95% of your audience can't afford, and
which I'm also sure are cast aside and forgotten
once the next thousand-dollar bit of shiny bupkis
comes along. You thrive on grief porn and other
people's tragedies and though you were once a common
person making your way in the world, your
meticulously coiffed head is now lodged so far up
your ass that your false eyelashes are poking out
between your teeth. So fuck you, Oprah.
See? Lightning didn't strike me. OH SHIT CRACKLE
bzzzzzzzzzzzz
Seriously though, what is the deal with this
obnoxious prepubescent font of wisdom they call Ana?
It's been said that she's 12 years old, but she
follows the Cult of Oprah? Shouldn't she be more
interested in High School Musical or Hannah Freaking
Montana or something? I love the deep-seated bond
she shares with 20-something Devon. Yeah, that seems
likely. On Monday, Devon decided that his "bliss"
was writing music and singing - declaring
that"...when [he] got up and sang with Ana, [he]
can't tell [us] how it made [him] feel." Oh really?
Did it make you feel like a crashing bore with a
dull-ass beard named Roxanne and an inexplicable
pussy on your chin? 'Cause that's what you are,
Music Man.
Over at the God Have Mercy Medical Center, Victor
unbuttoned his white shirt down to his navel to
viciously lay into his ex-wife Nikki, as she rather
pitifully attempted to reach out to him while his
young European bride of about fifteen minutes lay on
her stretcher developing rigor mortis. I have to say
that as far as Nikki was concerned, this was not a
wise course of action. While it's completely untrue
that Nikki was the one who brought David Chow to
town - if we're going to blame anyone, why don't we
blame the Cliff Diver herself, Dru? It was because
of Dru that David began Operation Gaslight and then
went on to work for Victor as Jack's campaign
manager! So pretty much, Victor can shut his preachy
pie hole and quit playing the role of the tough
Russian judge at the 2008 Summer Blame Olympics.
Regardless, Nikki should have known to steer clear
of Grieving Grambo. But this is a woman who felt
comfortable leaving the house with her hair falling
out of its cheap black plastic clip and who didn't
see the need to spend thirty seconds in front of a
mirror fixing it.
In other news of big fat mouths that desperately
need a good shutting, Phyllis was sniping at Jack
and Sharon at the Useless Style warehouse while
wearing a tight black backless dress with a
plunging, notched V-neck. Say, that almost looks
like a... cocktail dress. Almost like something
someone would wear to a GODDAMNED GALA instead of
the red cap-sleeved number she actually wore.
Phyllis can get the hell over herself any minute
now. Everyone who didn't fudge a paternity test in
order to trick a man into believing your baby was
his so he would marry you, raise your hand! And...
Phyllis appears to be very busy staring into the
middle distance and twirling her hair at the moment.
Nope, no hand in the air from Little Miss Husband
Stealer. I for one am shocked.
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