What a Girl Wants? Booze. What a girl needs? To be locked up like a genie in a bottle, baby.
You know I really hate to dish out all the "Dirrty" details about people, but come on! If you are too trashed to walk, don't show up at my playground -- even if you are Christina Aguilera.
Saturday night, after enjoying some fantabulously delicious P.I.N.K. -- a new, snazzy caffeine and guarana-infused vodka -- at the Dodge Mansion in Georgetown, "Ms. Couture" and I headed to Dupont to see our friends at Dragonfly.
A few text messages and a bottle of champagne later, I found myself at Play Lounge ... next to Christina Aguilera.
Now, I know I didn't see her earlier that night at the P.I.N.K. party. And she probably wasn't there since she'd been performing in Baltimore at the 1st Mariner Arena all evening. But she sure was seesawing around like she'd been there, chugged that. That being a bottle of P.I.N.K. vodka ...
Miss Thang couldn't talk clearly enough to say "take me drunk, I'm home." And she couldn't walk any better than a kid who'd just been hit in the head with a kickball. In fact, she was stumbling around like she'd just hopped off a wild merry-go-round. Luckily, she brought along her crutch, er, I mean, husband, Jordan Bratman.
The duo didn't stay very long ... and it was probably a good thing. I mean, not even I can get that hopscotched up in an hour.
Oh, Hugh. You're so hot. That's why I hate to spill the beans on your latest stunt. But what you did to that photog ... not cool beans. So, how was jail? Oh, I guess it was not a big deal for you ... since you've bean there, done that!
One of my favorite partners in party crime, Mr. Van Wylder, thought I needed to be grounded.
"KAC! It's time to stop FLYing and come back to Earth, where the real people live," he said just a few hours after stepping off the jet.
"Real people? You mean beer drinkers? Ergh!" That did sound like punishment.
I really didn't wanna leave the mile-high protection of Plastic Land, but I got my camo on, pulled on some boots (pedi protection!) and took off on the D.C. Dive Bar Tour: Destination - Chief Ike's Mambo Room.
As I cleaned off the old, crusty bar stool with one of my emergency Wet-Nap towelettes and ordered a drink, I really did feel as if I'd jumped outta 1st class sans parachute and landed right, smack-dab in a urine-soaked puke pit run by the devil.
Thank God for Napoleon -- within screaming distance of Chief Ikes. The bartenders there nursed us back to our reality (OK, well, me).
They people are really nice at Napoleon. They clean their basement - and stock it with champagne!
So unless you're big and strong like a Gold Cup Navy Seal parajumper (they drink beer, I've seen them do it), you might wanna skip that Ike-y icky Adams Morgan hub.
Apparently, it's where the anti-posh have landed.
Chief Ike's Mambo Room: Not for germophobes outta Purell, docs lacking latex, pilots sans O2 masks or plastic girls in Prada. And nothing like a pow pow!
Who names their bouncing baby girl Friday, anyway? Nobody.
If parents did, their poor teen-aged daughters would be living one hell of a high school nightmare. I can hear the jokes echoing through the steel locker-laden hallways as I type ...
"Thank God It's Friday!" "Yo, Girl Friday! Bring me some coffee!" "So where'd he take you on your date ... TGIFriday's?! Ha, ha, ha!"
Who created this God-awful name?
It's actually a variation on Man Friday, which was one of the main characters of Daniel Defoe's novel Robinson Crusoe. The name later become an expression used to describe a male personal assistant -- or servant -- especially one who is particularly competent or loyal, says Wikipedia.
So why don't we ever hear this Man Friday term? Maybe it's because Man tossed it out and made Girl his servant.
A true gentleman would have (at the very least) called her Woman Friday ...
Here is the gal (Jaime Wright) that Paris picked to be the 2007 Bondi Blonde Beer babe on Jan 1 at Bondi Beach in Oz.
I think Bondi Blonde Beer should've picked a guy as its new face ... Mr. Bondi Blonde Bond '007. Just sayin'.
Oh, and did you know that Ms. Hilton skipped out on her hamburger tab at a cafe in Sydney? Yep. She did. Can someone say "clueless?"
Since that $9.80 fax pas, staffers at the restaurant have been joking that they could make a fortune by putting the leftover hamburger up for auction on ebay. I wouldn't pay 8 cents for it.
Wait ... is Paris hiding her beer in that pic? And ... are that girl's boobs fake or not? They look a little melon-ish.
I'm an online (yet totally offline) gal that doesn't deny being a deeply shallow extroverted introvert who is addicted to sleep, champagne, iced soy caramel macchiatos, high heels ... and the euphoric feeling that only a true adrenal rush can elicit.
