Sometimes my job is too easy.
Really, it is. The jokes, they just write themselves. On days like this,
it’s like I don’t even need to bother showing up. In fact, I’m
going to grab a sandwich during this post. And while I’m out, I’ll
have to pick up a thank-you card for Victoria Beckham
for facilitating my mini-vacation.
OK, I’ve finished my sandwich.
Has Posh finished screaming “Take me to your leader!” through the
streets of Paris? No? Well, then I’ll pop out for dessert while
she tells you about the brutal, bloody fight she had with Big Bird
over who was wearing what to the Chanel show. As you can see, she hasn’t
had a chance to clean up and is still clutching her war wounds. On the
plus side, I think she won.
Space Spice and Koosh Ball
Spice come courtesy of Victoria’s photo shoot for her upcoming cover spread in Elle magazine. I’ll admit to being strangely fascinated by Posh, mostly
because I could never — not in a kabillion jillion years — look like
her. I couldn’t even wear her shoes. Though, judging from her recent blog post, neither can she. But at least she
brave enough to try. The agility needed crazy
to walk in stilettos and pick up a tired toddler boggles the mind.
And then there is her cleavage,
which kind of scares the bejesus out of me. Also, I’m pretty sure
it could kick my butt in a bar fight. I mean it, those girls are fierce.
Plus, they seem to have a high tolerance for pain.
I guess what I like about Posh,
while I don’t approve of her human-coat-rack figure, is that she seems
to be in on the joke when it comes to herself. I mean, you can’t wear
these kinds of outfits on a regular basis and not relish the campy diva
fabulousness you’re projecting.
And while there is nothing
even remotely lesbianish about Posh, her hair sometimes displays tendencies,
as do her occasional “You’re looking very Shane today” clothing
choices. Plus, she is friends with Sporty, and she might slip you
Melanie Chisholm’s number if you ask nicely.