(1) RIHANNA v. (6) MISCHA BARTON
Rihanna easily dispatched Ryan Cabrera to get here, ending his unexpected reign of hair-terror (hairror?), but Mischa Barton ended up beating the Family Smith by only the barest of margins, eventually squeaking to a win by approximately 100 votes after days of back-and-forth drama. If she were a basketball team, this is where the play-by-play dudes would note that she is probably EXHAUSTED.
She might be exhausted, honestly. I don’t know her life:
But how could that skirt not perk a girl up a bit? I feel peppier just looking at it.
It’s a mark of how cracked out this look is that I only just now noticed that Mischa’s companion is basically dressed like Axl Rose. And, if I may paraphrase “November Rain,” thank god nothing lasts forever and we all know clothes can change:
…although that’s not to say said change is necessarily for the best. God. It is hard to hold a candle in the cold November Rain, if by “hold a candle,” you mean, “dress yourself,” and “in the cold November Rain,” you mean, “when your name is Mischa Barton.” And although I have to say, “it’s hard to dress yourself/when your name is Mischa Barton” doesn’t really have the same poetic ring to it, it’s perhaps somewhat less metaphorically obtuse.
In other words, it’s clearly true:
I’m serious. That’s totally the uniform at Islands, right? Because if it is, a) why is Mischa working at Islands? Are things really that bad? and b) If so, girl, I could really use a mango margarita right around now. Yes, I know it’s only 10am. How else do you propose I deal with THIS?
Whoever did her make-up for that event must have really hated Marissa Cooper, because the poor girl’s face is the color of Wonder Bread while her legs are Eggo waffles.
At least Rihanna generally seems to be having a good time. Which is more than I would be able to say for myself if I had a job that required me to be constantly vigilant with bikini waxes:
Although that seems to be a theme in this year’s Fug Madness. Everyone, tip your waxer extra, because they’re working overtime in Hollywood lately.
Speaking of ladybits — when are we not, recently? — I also appreciate Rihanna for recognizing that occasionally there comes a time when a girl’s crotch needs its own proscenium:
Parenthetical: CROTCH PROSCENIUM sounds like a truly terrible and yet possibly awesome band. In fact, I suspect RiRi’s greatest sartorial hits may inspire many a faux band:
Like THE BILLOWING CAPE, which would be a sort of poor man’s Arcade Fire and would involve a lot of songs with obscure instruments like the didgeridoo and the mandolin.
Or BUM RUFFLE, which would be a really obnoxious Limp Bizkit-type group. I guess that would have to be spelled BUM RUFL. Regardless, they would NOT open for Rihanna. Instead, Rihanna would complain privately to her friends about how, if she heard that one horrifying BUM RUFL song one more time, she was going to lose her nuts.
She might, however, allow WACKY PANTS to go on tour with her, simply because I don’t think it’s possible to resist the lure of a poster that reads TONIGHT AT THE GREEK: RIHANNA WITH SPECIAL GUEST WACKY PANTS.
And, of course, no one can resist MADONNA SYMPATHIZER. Oooh, or MADONNA SYNTHESIZER, which is obviously just a dude with a synthesizer playing Madonna songs over and over and over again until his neighbors have him kidnapped.
I need to turn this over to the vote before I start day-dreaming about what happens when MADONNA SYNTHESIZER gets into a slap-fight with BUM RUFL.