Fun With Art

“OMG, so I went to this like, artist’s place ’cause he said he was, like, looking for a model and he was offering like, serious cash. So I get there and he says I have to pose like, nude OMG, but he says he saw my nude pic on the Internet because that bastard ex-bf of mine, like, took those nudies of me with his iPhone? and this artist is all like, it’s Art, not just a boob pic, you know? And he offers me like, double the money and I’ve got these student loans? so I think WTF and I strip off. He starts painting me, and then he’s, like, all OMG you’re so beautiful and he starts looking at me LIKE THAT and I’m just about to get up and leave when he, like starts kissing me and I’m like ewww ewww ewww because he’s like, older than my Dad, you know? I was so grossed out, it was like, sexual harassment? but he gave me $500 for the session so I guess it’s like, okay?”

“OMG that’s exactly what happened to me? only I didn’t go nude and the artist was like kinda sexy, like Brad Pitt kinda, so I didn’t mind too much? Just promise me you won’t like, tell my bf, kay?”

More Doubles

Back in The Englishman’s Castle, his missus is occasionally of the TV-watching persuasion, chief among which is a show about people dancing (called “Strictly Come Dancing”, or among the TV dance-show aficionados, just “Strictly”). I of course can’t watch much popular TV because I have concerns about brain rot, so ordinarily the “personalities” involved with such shows would be as unknown to me as a random Laplander.

However, while trying to overcome jet lag upon my arrival back in Britishland a few weeks back, I found myself watching some BBC morning TV show, hosted by some woman named Holly Willoughby. A short, pretty blonde creature of some thirty-something summers, she has a very distinctive set to her mouth when she smiles, thus:

Anyway, last week I happened to be walking past Mrs. Englishman as she sat watching Strictly, when I suddenly saw this Holly Willoughby judging the contestants. I was about to make a comment about why the BBC or whoever used the same talent for two shows, when I realized that it wasn’t Holly, but some other creature (later named for me by Mrs. Englishman as “Tess Daly”), but I think you can see why I was confused:

Certainly, at a quick glance they seem like twins, and with my fuddled brain I’m sure you’ll understand my situation: marginal interest (at best) + unfamiliar TV shows + similar blondes = Kim’s Confusion.

Anyway, that’s all cleared up now (not that I care, and I’ll probably still get them confused forever), but there’s a sad story attached to Holly.

You see, Miss Willoughby’s nickname was once “Willough-boobies” because, well:

…and in her yoot before she became all Mumsy, she was something of a model:

Of late, however, Holly has tragically fallen prey to Nigella Lawson Syndrome, i.e. she’s lost a whole lot of weight (especially in the superstructure), and is therefore of less interest to Yer Humble Narrator: 

Still pretty, but not sexy. I wish these women would stop doing this nonsense.

Anyway, I’m happy to say that the other subject of this post, Tess Daly, does not have that problem — at least, not as far as I can tell:

…and apparently Tess too was once a model:

So regarding these two lookalike TV personalities, I hope this has cleared the air somewhat.

 

 

 

 

Balance

It occurs to me that of late I may have been giving women a hard time on this here website, and I’ve also been discussing various examples of female pulchritude in my usual drooling Male Bastard fashion, so my Lady Readers may be getting a little ticked off.

Here then, in the interests of balance, is something for said Lady Readers:

I have no idea who he is (British, to judge from the label — “What label?” I hear you ask), so go ahead and just look at him like a sex object.

I owe you all one.

Comments, on this post, are restricted to the Ladies.

The Midi

No time to post anything cultural today; I’m off to the south of France, e.g.:

…and tonight I should be dining somewhere like this:

Yeah, I’ve had enough cold weather for a while, although apparently a cold front has swept through the place, making the weather more like Hardy Country than the Midi. (I know, I know: First World Problems.)

Tomorrow: Monaco, or maybe Provence. (I’m in the hands of Longtime Friend & Drummer Knob, so I have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing. Pics to follow, if I can get decent wi-fi access on the road.)

Livin’ The Dream

So this guy inherited a bank, had no interest in running it, and sold it for three quarters of a billion dollars. Then he set out to do what any super-wealthy Formula 1 enthusiast would do: he built his own racetrack in his backyard where he can race his $5-million collection of sports cars whenever he feels like it.

And just to add to y’all’s jealousy, the 52-year old guy’s racing companion is his 23-year-old girlfriend, the wonderfully-named Clemence Lepeyre:

I know: he’s ugly, she’s young and gorgeous; he has lots of money, she has… well, you know.

Sounds like everyone’s happy except the Usual Suspects (in this case, the envious socialists because he dares to be rich and enjoys spending his money, and the envious harpies who whine about the couple’s age difference, like he’s going to settle for some old frump about his own age lol).

To all us guys, though, this man is a god. (What else would you do with $726 million and no charitable instincts?) All he needs to make this thing perfect is an air-conditioned 500-yard indoor range somewhere. (By the way, I love the track layout: it has something for everyone and every kind of sports car.)

As I’ve often said before: money doesn’t buy you happiness, but it sure as hell buys you a better class of unhappiness. Now all I need is to buy that winning PowerBall ticket so I can test that hypothesis for myself…