Statistics indicate you’re more likely to encounter an Asian Crested Ibis on your way to work than see Lindsay Lohan in a bra, but lo and behold, she’s actually wearing one in these pictures. That probably means odds are good that one of us is getting struck by lightning this afternoon.

In L.A. on Friday afternoon:

My recent foray into bitterness and crappy Moscato got me to thinking: how could I possibly make myself feel even worse today than I did yesterday, even though I’m out of wine and lighter fluid? And then I thought, “Oh, yeah! How about some pictures of an airbrushed-beyond-perfection lingerie model who’s ten years younger than me and the very manifestation of idealized and unattainable Western beauty?” Yep, that does the trick alright. Like my mom always said, if I’m going down, then I’m taking all you fuckers with me.

Candice Swanepoel in next month’s British GQ:

According to the cover of next month’s Maxim, Jennifer Love Hewitt has a naughty secret! And that secret is clearly photoshop. P.S. it’s no fucking secret, either. We all know what you look like in real life.

The first ads for Bar Refeali’s new lingerie line Under Me are out, featuring the Victoria’s Secret model playing tennis in nothing but her bra and panties, and let me be the first to give them a big thumbs up. I always knew that clothes were really hampering my backhand, but nobody at my grandparents country club seemed to understand my lament. Mace is their answer to everything over there.

Jennifer Aniston and Paul Rudd’s new movie “Wanderlust” comes out February 24th, so Jen strips down to her bra and the two of them playfully wrestle (and no doubt playfully banter) in next month’s GQ. I don’t know… everything Jennifer Aniston does just seems so rehearsed. It’s almost like she had already acted it out with her dolls beforehand.

Let’s be honest — there’s really no point in me even typing words here. It’s not like you’re gonna be looking at anything other than Kelly Brook’s rack for the next fifteen minutes.

How come in Hollywood, lesbians look like Amber Heard, but every dyke I know look like this?

I’d like to give Rihanna’s latest Armani ads a big thumbs up, but I can’t, on account of the cuffs and everything. I sure hope somebody’s writing an outraged letter to a Congressman or staging a protest on my behalf, because I wasn’t “charging toward Rihanna wielding a knife” — it was the Dagger of Heccabees forged by a coven of dwarf-witches long extinct — and I wasn’t trying to “stab” anybody, I was trying to harvest a lock of her hair with the Blade of the Dwarf-Witch Queen so I could properly cast a protective spell around her. Honestly, I don’t see what’s so hard about this.

All I know is I passed out in 2011, and when I woke up this morning, it was already three days into 2012. So Happy New Year, boys and girls! A fortune cookie I found under the seat of my aunt’s Chrysler LeBaron told me 2012 is supposedly the Year of the Dragon, which I know is just a secret code meaning “The Year the Chinese Finally Take Over the World.” Don’t worry, I’ve already started stock-piling weapons and I dug out a bomb shelter under the foundation of my aunt’s house, so when the Asian apocalypse is nigh, you can bet I’m gonna be the last white girl standing. That goes double for zombie attacks and alien invasions. Believe me, I’ve covered all my bases.

And when I get a chance to wallpaper inside my bunker, I’m gonna do it with these pics of Victoria’s Secret model Lily Aldridge:

I’ve always found Carey Mulligan very refined and lady-like and intelligent, by which I of course mean “inescapably boring.” However, that was before I saw this W Magazine cover with her in her bra. Now I might have to re-think everything. I’m like the Aristotle of boobs.

The tags on these photos of Candice Swanepoel said they were new, but I could neither confirm nor deny this, mostly because finding out would have involved me not looking at the pictures. I just figured I couldn’t run the risk of them not being new, because it wouldn’t be fair to you if they were. That’s just how much I care. Better to err on the side of of caution, I always say.

It’s exactly thirty-seven days, eleven hours and forty-three minutes until Christmas, so I thought that pics of Adriana Lima in Victoria’s Secret’s Christmas catalog would help get us in the holiday spirit. And for the record, I was almost ten before I learned that “getting in the holiday spirit” didn’t mean “stumbling around drunk in a red velvet suit with a visible erection and vomit in your beard.” Yeah, my dad made a pretty shitty Santa. You don’t even wanna know what I though “decking the halls” was.