Have you ever stopped to think how crazy the fashion industry is? Some mincing fop in Paris decides that males would look a lot hipper in bilious green terry cloth safari suits and fire engine-red propeller caps, so every guy who doesn’t want to be labeled a dork races out and buys a bilious green terry cloth safari suit and a fire engine-red propeller cap and parades proudly about in his new ensemble, smug in the knowledge that no one can point at him and say “Look at the dork!” That is until the mincing fop decides some months later that bilious green terry cloth safari suits and fire engine-red propeller caps don’t look hip, they look ridiculous, and pronounces them out of style. Then the guy has to mothball his safari suit and propeller cap lest somebody (probably the fop) points at him and says “Look at the dork!”
If that wasn’t crazy enough, there’s the gobsmacking phenomenon of fashion critics who couldn’t dress their way into a nudist colony, bitching about what other people wear. Talk about hypocrites! It’s like Hugh Hefner scolding you for not being monogamous. People who look like a thrift shop that’s been put through a blender are in no position to tell anybody what he or she should or should not wear. But these hoity-toity ratbags do, anyway. It’s time methinks to give them a taste of their own bitter medicine.
I’ve included this delicate flower, even though she’s something of a retired fashion critic now, since she no longer does those red carpet excoriations of celebrity attire for which she is notorious. I appreciate that physical appearance shouldn’t factor into this discussion, but Joan has a face like a large blob of Play-Doh that’s gone for a ride in NASA’s 20-g centrifuge. I don’t know about you, but I have a hell of a time telling the difference between her and Mason from Hannibal.
As for Joan’s dress sense, here she is wearing a flock of black geese and a Morticia Adams knock off she doubtless snapped up from eBay. Fashion critic, her dermabrased hiney!
My goodness, gracious me! Will you get a load of this broad? Menkes, a British fashion reporter looks as if she’s shampooed her hair with Viagra. And what’s that she’s wearing around her neck? I’m thinking a Slinky that was backed over by an SUV. I have to give her full points for being environmentally conscious, though, because clearly that jacket is a recycled shower curtain she exported from a cheap Guatemalan hotel.
Kressley, who has more gayosity than a gerbil in gold lamé, was one of the hosts of the mercifully short-lived TV series Queer Eye. Here he is flouncing about in what looks like a vest he cannibalized from a sleeping bag and jeans savaged by a hydrophobic shih tzu. You would imagine that being a fashion critic—though he never completed his degree—he would’ve said “no” to that striped tie and checked shirt combo. As Confucius once said: always dress sober.
It seems to me that fashion critics become fashion critics so they can get away with wearing outfits that not even a corpse would be seen dead in. Maybe it’s their way of giving normal people the finger for crossing the road to avoid them. Let’s be honest, who would want to be seen on the same sidewalk as Ms. Pernet? Why she donned this ridiculous get up is anybody’s guess. Mine is she was planning to rob a bank but discovered her nylons were in the wash so had to wear fishnets instead. And dig those funky sunnies! Area 51 called and wants its experimental jet’s wings back. Then there’s all that frippery adorning her. She must’ve gone to the local flea market and bought one of everything.
I’m not sure whether that’s Kelly or her famous old man post-op. At any rate, she co-hosts a TV show called the Fashion Police with that desiccated cacophony Joan Rivers. Fashion police indeed. They should have arrested her and insisted on the death penalty for looking like that. Clothes by Wallmart. Face and hair by head-on collision.