The shimmering, carefree days of summer have drawn to a close, the three-day weekend has reached its end, we all have profound hangovers and the Crocodile Hunter is dead. Just when we thought things couldn't sink any lower or get any bleaker, along comes stupid Harry Morton and his stupid shiny teeth and his stupid stupid fat wallet and his stupid grabby hands to gently dig a deeper nadir and smilingly nudge us into it. To wit:
Hey, jerk. Thanks for reminding us that we'll never be allowed to lay our paws on the smooshy bits attached to Lohan. Unless we somehow manage to get adopted by a billionaire entrepeneur willing to finance our foray into the lucrative world of vagina-themed Mexican eateries as well as our new veneers. Which might be soon, if that sweet Craigslist ad we just placed pans out.
We are not even gonna try to touch the genius that is ananova.com's headline:
But God, would you look at those two? Taking a much-deserved breather from their hectic life of relaxing at Harry's private beach house in designer swimwear by relaxing on the beach in Maui donning designer swimwear. And playing Tune in Tokyo. All these pictures of Lindsay and Harry canoodling sure are "touching". Ouch! Feel that? It's the sharp sting of our rapier wit!
If you still need more Lindsay–and you do–go to MrSkin.com
