Phoebe Price astounds me, and not just because I can’t figure out what the hell she’s famous for aside from her constant campaign to be named the world’s most tastelessly unfashionable attention whore.  What really fascinates me about ol’ Phoebe is just where she finds the energy.  It must be so exhausting when every goddamn day of your life is like Halloween, only blind and retarded.  Today’s costume: Special Needs Flapper.

At the Cannes Film Festival (how she got invited is anybody’s guess):

The only thing I know about Phoebe Price is that she loves having her picture taken and that she seems to be famous for nothing other than gallivanting around wearing the fugliest outfits. That, and her weird joker grin makes me think she may have sex with you, and then kill you. Or kill you and then have sex with you. Oh but that’s nothing. Just wait until she lays her eggs inside your body to act as a food source for her larvae, until the little buggers are mature enough to pop out, don tacky outfits and start posing for pictures of their own. I saw it on National Geographic before. It was called, The Reproduction of Attention Whores. True story.

Good morning, malcontents!  It’s Sarah today.  Abby’s in her lab with some male models and I’m not too sure what’s going on in there but there’s a lot of screaming and a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.  She’ll be back on Monday, likely with a bowlegged gait but otherwise good as new.

In other news, professional famewhore Phoebe Price did some stuff someplace in LA yesterday.  It should shock absolutely no one that she did it dressed like an escaped geriatric sanitarium patient.  Why she has yet to be struck by lightning is an infinite mystery to me, and I consider it evidence that regardless which gods you believe in, they are less than benevolent.