There’s a club that’s popular these days with the kiddies in Hollywood called Trousdale, and EVERY SINGLE TIME I read it as “Trouserdale.” In the case of Rumer Willis, I wish it HAD been Trouserdale:
I imagine Trouserdale to be the pants equivalent of taking your pet to a giant field and letting it run around, frolicking free, maybe snacking on some plants or hot dog scraps that somebody left behind from a picnic. Like, you show up to Trouserdale, and everywhere there are people handing you trousers that magically fit, just like those traveling pants except you don’t have to share them or make up any disgusting rules about not running them through the washing machine.
This might be what my face looked like if I ever went to Trouserdale:
Unfortunately, in Rumer’s case, I think the dazed and delighted expression is due to her shorts cutting off the blood circulation to her brain (and possibly alcohol, but who am I to speculate?). Girl, when you not only inspire me to invent a club based entirely on the acquisition of pants and THEN make me wonder whether you broke into Mischa Barton’s house to borrow some clothes, you know things have taken a woeful turn.