Good Lord. I'm beginning to feel like the SuperNanny to the
young-and-outta-control celeb set. Apparently, some of you are in desperate need of a mama moment. Especially you, Lindsey, so please, take a turn in the Naughty Seat. While
your own mama adamantly defends (a-
enable-hems) your actions over a double tall Red Bull and Grey Goose and Egg Beaters breakfast sandwich,
please please please take a break from the snorting and taking sneaky peeks in a water bottle to listen up.
First of all, no, I will not call you LiLo. No matter how tempting it is. No matter how much I love it-girl pet names. It is just too close to J-Lo, who has handled her own media bumbles with grace and a fabulous handbag. In fact, you should get used to people not calling you LiLo. Or calling you at all. I think it is a safe assumption that your AIM name and cell number have been deleted by casting agents everywhere. Your incessant stunts may eventually lead to a huge PR comeback at some point, but believe you me, you are heading quickly toward Anna Nicole status. That's right, muffin, famous for nothing. Well, nothing other than slurred speech, natural looking extensions, and a glistening bosom.
Second, seriously?
Passing out, puking, crashing your car and then running? It actually pains me to see these pictures. Hopefully, it will get to you too. Otherwise, you will just keep on keeping on as the Booze-onic Woman, hurling your vehicle at innocent trees and (God forbid) bystanders and then sprinting past the paparazzi to the next bar that honors your "ID" or "friend" who doesn't mind you heaving and passing out in their Beemer.
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