This
is the worst travesty since Hilary Duff got a Birkin. Tory, what in the actual
hell
were
you thinking releasing a pattern like this? Spare me. Now follow my advice: go
straight to your shrink and have him prescribe you a bottle of two milligram
Xanax. Drop off your scrip, pick up your scrip, and take one xanny. Light up a
Marlboro Smooth, and brace yourself for what I am about to say to you. This
“Robinson” print thing: has. Got. To. Go. Everyone has his or her fugly moment,
and I must be the one to tell you the truth - you’ve hit yours. When I first
laid my heavily Le Volume De Chanel mascaraed eyes on Mrs. Robinson, I instantly
fainted. I realized, upon awakening, that I had written you this sort of poem
about this atrocity:
Burch.
Bag.
Bug.
BUG.
I
so hate bugs.
Not.
Chic.
After
I read my “poem,” I immediately had Walter, my cook, call the exterminator. He
didn’t get it.
I
don’t get it.
Leave
Simon and Pumba their grub. These bags look like something crawling across my
penthouse kitchen counter in Charleston. It’s horrible and it really scared me.
Another move like this, and trust me, you will
be put in a straightjacket. Love you, bye.
