Imagine my glee this weekend, dear readers, when I had a real-life run-in with one of Go Fug Yourself's repeat offenders: Kirsten Dunst, or, as the clever wordsmiths on Fametracker's late, much lamented "Celebrity Anagrams" thread dubbed her, "Dr. Sunken Tits."
Heather and I attended the Rilo Kiley show this weekend at the Wiltern, and it was a veritable Fug Fest: ever so many misguided capri-length leggings and unfortunate tunic-like items. [The band, however, rocked out.] As I waited to get into the theatre, La Dunst strolled past me, wearing what I can only interpret as a gift. A gift TO ME: baggy, rolled up navy blue shorts, a man's button down shirt, an oversized blazer, shaggy, uncombed hair, a ginorous rucksack, a pashmina wrapped around her neck and, yes, cowboy boots. In the interest of full disclosure, I must add that her skin is gorgeous.
I assumed La Dunst and her small blonde friend would be whisked past me and into some sort of VIP area, so imagine my surprise when I found myself standing directly next to her during one of the opening acts -- a rather underwhelming performance by a woman who called herself "Feist."
When "Feist" asked the crowd how they were doing, I turned to my friend and said, "eh, I'm all right." And, my friends, this innocuous comment drew the wrath of La Dunst! She turned, she glared, she glowered. Friends, I came close to fisticuffs with La Dunst.
Instead, I decided to ignore her, and she managed to scramble her way down to the front of the house for Rilo Kiley. And fisticuffs were not had. Except in my mind. And, yes, the gauntlet has been thrown down. Dr. Sunken Tits, as revenge for those death rays, I vow here and now to never, never rest in my quest to find ever more grotesque and unflattering photos of you, which I will then post here for the world to see. To see, and to mock. Stay fugly, Sunken Tits: I will find you!