Old News Never Changes

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you'd better sit down. The Simple Life starring Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie has been canceled.

In case you have been living under a rock or are one of those intellectual types who can't be bothered, The Simple Life is a quasi-reality show where two Hollywood rich girls descend on real America. Presumably comic mayhem ensues.

In light of recent news events--entertainment news, that is— the old "fish out of water" premise just wasn't playing in Peoria anymore. Maybe the producers could simply change the title to Twenty-to-Life and keep on filming.

It was only a suggestion.

So it is shaping up to be The Summer of Screwed-Up Celebs. Who would have guessed? If there weren't small children involved and impressionable youth watching, the whole crash-and-burn spectacle would be highly entertaining in a high school sort of way. Which is ok by me.

And I, a person who could never manage to weasel out of traffic school even five minutes early, cheered the loudest when Paris got her butt thrown unceremoniously back into jail. Fair is fair, no matter how bad she needed that mani-pedi.

Thank God and the American justice system that not every judge is swayed by an exclusive guest spot on The View nor blinded by the flashing strobes of the paparazzi.

When we get our fill of Paris and Nicole and their various DUIs, addictions, and boy toys, there is always Britney and Lindsay to take up the slack. Add those two to the party mix and things get more explosive than a suicide bomber. Unbelievably, Britney is the only one who hasn’t yet been arrested if you don’t count calling in Child Protective Services.

My prediction is the girl is closer to the clinker than a stripper to a pole. Last week the tabloids plastered photos of her lewd conduct with a civilian into a hotel Jacuzzi. Then there was a dent-and-run in a drugstore parking lot, vomiting on designer dresses at a photo shoot, and we haven't even got to the hair fiasco.

Britney, next time things go bad, do your worst to a quart of Ben & Jerry’s. Trust me on this. You won’t need a wig to cover up the lapse. You may need a muumuu, but you won’t need a wig. There ought to be a law against bad hair extensions.
You know things have gone seriously downhill when Kevin Federline starts looking like the poster boy for Reader’s Digest.

Lindsay, however, did get her close up. It was called a mug shot. I'm not sure what the actual charges were, but she was chasing her assistant's mother in an SUV. Illegal drugs were confiscated from her pants pocket. She says--through her publicist I'm sure--that the drugs belonged to someone else and she was just holding them. It was a favor.

Yeah, right.

If that were really the case, she should be locked up for being terminally stupid. Everyone knows you aren't supposed to hold other people's suspicious items. Hasn't Lindsay ever been in an airport? Geez, it's on the announcements every three minutes.

The other story was she was wearing someone else’s pants. That one is slightly more believable since I’ve seen photos of Britney and Paris swapping fishnets. And Britney will wear anyone’s clothes, or Not wear anyone’s clothes, depending on the proximity of a digital camera.

So in theory, Lindsay could have been wearing anyone’s pants the night she was arrested for stalking her assistant’s mom. Yes, I said ANYONE.

I believe now is a good time to categorically deny that those weren’t my jeans.

First of all, Lindsay might do illegal drugs, play with sharp knives, drive under the influence, and make bad movies. But she would never, never, never be caught dead in “mom jeans.”

My jeans do not require a Brazilian bikini wax to wear them. They are not plastered to my leg from hip to heel. They cover everything I want covered, even when I am sitting. They do not cost several hundred dollars. Perfectly good jeans as far as I am concerned.

Lindsay would be horrified.

One other thing proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the jeans aren’t mine.
Although we both wear jeans sized in the double-digits, hers are “00” and mine…umm…aren’t. The girl might be hallucinating, but she’s not confused.
So there you have it, a summer round-up of sizzling trouble. I can’t wait for autumn.