A mere five minutes after we reached our seats at the Baby Phat show — and, it must be said, just four minutes after two lads costumed in Russian garb pressed pocket-size bottles of vodka into our hands, and therefore three minutes after we realized we were drunk — the audience lit up with the greatest rumor since that whole Suri Cruise–is–actually–Chris Klein’s–baby theory: that our very favorite disheveled damsel in perpetual distress, Britney Spears, was in the house.
Our minds raced. Our pulses sped. Our scalps were overcome with empathy and began itching furiously. But mostly, our minds bubbled over with questions. Where would we start? How many furtive sprays of ill-gotten Lysol would it take to blind her, get her to let us take her to the ladies room, and scrub off some of the germs? Where would we find the three hours that might take?
Unfortunately, we never got to find out. On a night we expected to be full of crazy celebrities jonesing for the kind of skank-chic party only Kimora Lee Simmons can throw, the front rows were depressingly barren. Oh, sure, Ice-T showed up, but his habitually naked wife, Coco, couldn’t even muster up the energy to wear so much as a partially see-through shirt. Vivica A. Fox breezed past in a split second, we caught quick sight of a still-brunette Nicky Hilton mercifully separated from her insipid sibling, and hip-hop mogul Russell Simmons cruised in to support his ex-wife. But, by and large, that was it. The flashbulbs remained almost entirely dim, betraying no sign of Spears, or her cleavage.
It wasn’t until the photos poured in that we realized the crushing, soul-devouring truth of the matter: Our girl Britney had indeed been there. She had sneaked in somewhere near the top of the runway, perched next to an equally invisible Alicia Keys. But like Britney’s post–K-Fed “comeback,” the show started out promising but quickly transformed into a flashy, fleshy fiasco.
We’re really rather crushed. Not only did Britney somehow manage to slip through our clutches, but now we’re pretty worried that the show might have given her some bad, bad ideas. That gold minidress wrapped so tightly around a model’s buttocks that it practically mummified her? Once upon a time, it would’ve worked, but not on the current B Train to Bloatville. The skirt so short that model Omahyra repeatedly tried to tug it down mid-strut, only to hook her thumb through her thong by accident and yank that south instead? That’s precisely the type of outfit Our Lady of the Liberated Labia would abuse in the worst, most retinal-scarring ways.
So listen up, Spears: Get thee to a less fabulously trashy runway show. Beg your way into Rodarte. Plead for seats at Marni. Prostrate yourself at Diane von Furstenberg or Michael Kors’s feet. Do something, anything, to get in front of some truly chic clothing.
And then, please, wear them with panties. —The Fug Girls