Kourtney here is dating Travis Barker, of Blink 182. And I had to look that up, because — I am sure I’ve mentioned this before — I have a strange mental block against the name of that band that means I CANNOT remember, ever, whether it’s Blink 182 or Blink 183. And they’re from my era! This isn’t just me being a crotchety lady who can’t keep up with the kids; it just… never landed in my brain somehow, but now that he’s joined the House of Kards, apparently I have to learn this. Thank you, Google.
These two have decided to step back into the light of the paparazzi flashes, going out to dinner on successive nights this weekend on which Kourtney deployed some good old fashioned pantalunacy. I have studied these for as long as I’m willing to try and sort out where the pants stop and the shoes start. If these are baggy leather demi-short bootaloons, my brain will leak out my ear, so I’m just going to assume those are boots or booties that are hiding up underneath the leg bags.
Her other outfit is even worse:
The pants are a strange step forward from her other ones. These seem to be ACTUAL shorts, and actual pant legs, but with nylons holding them together…? If it were simply nylons underneath, then the leg parts would be falling off, because there is no way those are stiff enough to be boots, right? Who woke up one morning and thought, “It’s pants, but make it CONFUSING”?
As for the shirt, the blurring is mine. Other websites have varied with how much they are obscuring the shirt print — some just do the bottom, some did more — but they’re lyrics to a 1994 punk song that are Not Safe For Work, and which generally might be triggering to some people, so I decided better safe than sorry and I wiped all of them. If you’re curious, Page Six printed the quote. It feels like a very artificial attempt to be controversial on her part, so I’m not going to give much other air to it, other than to say: Why do you need to wear that shirt when you’re already going to get attention for idiotic pants? You only need ONE terrible item of clothing to achieve this, Kourt. You don’t need to show up at Nobu in a shirt that demands in print, among other things, that you be drizzled with a man’s private aioli. I’m sure the staff was just… thrilled.
