Kristin Cavallari is appearing in a new movie (apparently direct-to-DVD, 'cause I've never heard of it) called Fingerprints, in which she comes as close as humanly possible to being topless... but cock-blocks us all at the last moment. For an actress with no discernable talent, and whose greatest resume booster is the still Laguna Beach, you'd figure she would've employed her only redeemable trait: her tantalizing breasts. But alas, she was fine with going topless enough to not be considered classy... yet not enough to be considered nudity.
I'm calm. I'm not going to rant. I've been way to chauvenistic lately, and I'm gonna do my best to control myself.... *twitch*... I mean, its her decision after all *twitch*.... and its not like---*twitch* FUCK IT! I can't take it anymore. What's wrong with you?! The only reason I've deigned your name important enough to remember is because of the prospect of possibly seeing you naked one day. And now you have the unmitigated gaul to tease me like this!
For those of you who have lost the ability to tell when I'm fake indignant and actually mad, don't worry... I can't tell anymore either.
Ah, the Sunday of July 4th weekend. A time for repose and reflection. A time to celebrate the warm memories (read: haunting nightmares) of joyous Americana (read: supersaturated fats, no-carb beers and pretty explosives from China) with those family and friends you treasure most (read: drunks). Or.. for me, a time to kill several tedious hours at work by blitzkrieging this blog with a series of catchup posts... mostly relating to breasts.... and the confusing organisms that carry them around on their chests. With that in mind, lets take a moment to appreciate some new pics of one of our favorite, underappreciated (and talentless) faux-celebrities: Ms. Kristin Cavallari. Frankly, I don't care if the only talent this girl has is being photographed in a bikini. You might as well call her Henry Kissenger in my book. And no, I'm not taking anything away from the famed diplomat.... I'm taking EVERYTHING away. After all, I've been storing his corpse in my basement for two years, and haven't seen a penny from his family yet for my trouble. Sure, you could argue that graverobbing a famous American ambassador isn't a very good kidnapping ploy. But I could argue that your mom is a pickadilly whore. And between you and me, the corpse of Kissenger and I talk about it every night at tea. Don't even get me started about what Stalin thinks. 
