Over the weekend I had a dream about Spencer Pratt. He owned a rat named Spencer II, and he put it in my hair. And I could feel it clawing down my scalp and down the back of my neck and into my dress and then I woke up and I was all scrunched up and shuddering because it was so gross. And then I laughed, because the idea of Spencer Pratt owning a rat and naming it Spencer II is kind of awesome. Way to go, subconscious! Thanks for the good times.
But the thing is, I think Spencer would be happier if he had a little rodent to carry around in his pocket and tell us his troubles to. Look how sad he seems:
This is seriously the first time I’ve ever seen Spencer not giving the paparazzi his shit-eating Guy Smiley grin. Is he depressed? Did he just realize that he and Heidi totally can’t afford the 12 million dollar house they’re allegedly looking to buy in Malibu? Has he just figured out that if he and Heidi can afford a 12 million dollar house, the rest of us are going to commit mass suicide just so we don’t have to live in a world in which Spencer and Heidi have a 12 million dollar house? Did he just finally look down and see that Heidi’s wearing the ugliest boots in the world, and it’s only August, and therefore he has no idea what fresh boot hell she will be inflicting upon us all when it’s actually cold out? Because this might then be the first time Spencer and I are in agreement about something.