My dumplings, I have to get down to business this week, because things are happening and I have more opinions than usual. Can you imagine?
So, the enlightened people over at the Grammy Awards decided to issue a press release last Thursday about what could not be worn to the awards last weekend.
The release goes on to explain that "buttocks and female breasts are adequately covered. Thong type costumes are problemic."
Well, you certainly don't have to tell Liza about the myriad of problems surrounding thong costumes, but I do have a few issues with the Grammy people, so I pulled out my feather pen and rose scented stationary and wrote them a correspondence:
Dear Grammy,
First of all, how dare.
Don't you realize that you are no longer the relevant music award that you once held?
The fact that Taylor Swift has one should be indication enough.
Your press release says to "please avoid exposing bare fleshy under curves of the buttocks and buttock crack. Bare sides or under curvature of the breasts is also problematic. Please avoid sheer see-through clothing that could possibly expose female breast nipples. Please be sure the genital region is adequately covered so that there is no visible "puffy" bare skin exposure." Puffy bare skin? What does even mean? If you have that problem, you should get a tincture or perhaps an ointment. Certainly you don't belong outside the house or off the commode.
Also Grammy people, you were the ones that went on and on about Chris Brown and how fabulous he is. You know, except for that whole punchy thing. But in his defense, I bet Rhianna was dressed to code before he beat the bejezus out of her.
Sincerely, Liza.
Everyone remembers meth-faced Fergie, right? To quote my BFF Adele, rumour has it that she's knocked up.
It seems her cheater of a husband has had relations with her at least once. I wonder how many half-siblings the new babe will have?
So sweet. Mazel Tov.
The mother of the Queen of all Voices, Cissy Houston is still reeling from the death of Whit-Whit, either that or she is just a sour ol' broad.
She sat down for an interview with Ms. O a few weeks ago and said that if she ever found out that Whitney's love songs were geared towards the ladies - she would have been none too pleased.
Now the old crank is mad at Clive Davis. He had the audacity to invite her to his Grammy pre-party. The nerve.
I know. my crumpets, that we should respect our elders, but she is just a cow.
God forbid Davis extends an olive branch, but writing a book about your child's tumultuous life and ultimately death, that's totally within the Emily Post guidelines.
You can all put down your Torahs, my loves, because the Jewish princess, Mayim Bialik, has managed to wean her son Fred (her four-year-old son Fred) from breastfeeding. It's so uncouth, to say the least.
She said that she will miss being able to latch him on and make it all better. We have other ways to soothe Fred now. Umm, did anyone else hear "EWWWWW" in that phrase?
As a proud Canadian, I'm compelled to speak out against the literary tomfoolery that took place this week. There was a new front cover of the Anne of Green Gables books put on sale and instead of the adorable and precocious red-headed orphan, there is this dollar-store version of Jessica Simpson posing as Anne. What is going on here?
Whoever is responsible for this should have to speak to Rachel Lynde from Avonlea because that lady doesn't play around and would straighten this whole debacle out.
Mindy McCready, one of the original female empowerment singers with the pseudo-hit I Shaved My Legs for this, has found herself in quite a pickle.
Again.
The dear has been having quite a time of late.
If you combined the lifestyle choices of BritBrit, Lindsay and Amanda Bynes with a dash of Kurt Cobain - you'd end up with Minds.
Mindy's ex-boyfriend tried to kill her, she's attempted suicide more than once, including once when she had a bun in the oven. She has overdosed three times, been on Celebrity Rehab, she kidnaped her kid and the baby-daddy of her second child died from a gunshot wound last month.
Oy. What a mess.
She has been committed to a treatment program for 21 days for a time out. 21 days though? Please. She needs years, nay decades.
Until next time, my lovelies...
