Hello adoring public.
Karl and I were having a delightful lunch with Julia (the one Karl loves, you know, at that other magazine) and someone brought up Carine again. And by lunch, I mean a bottle of Evian. I snuck a slice of lime into mine.
Oh, Carine.
Do I have to show all of the other Vogue editors demode faces again? Do we really have to talk about this little French demon? She looks like she needs a weekend at a Swiss medi-spa. And by 'weekend at a Swiss medi-spa,' I mean intensive plastic surgery. Karl even offered to pay for it (Karl doesn't pay for things as money is demode, and I just get everything for free), and she told him:
"Ay am French, sankyouverymach."
What does that mean?
GET ME A TRANSLATOR IMMEDIATELY BEFORE I THROW NEXT SEASONS BALENCIAGA STILETTOS AT YOUR MAKEUP-CAKED VISAGE.
Anyway, Carine is demode. She wanders the streets of Paris, trying to look bourgeois and hip. Karl and I often drive around looking for her so Karl can yell out,
"HOW MUCH?"
Anyway, devoted peons, I must be going. Andre Leon Talley is trying to get back into the Vogue offices, and not only has he broken the lift, but his demode outfit has actually blinded twelve of my assistants.
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1 comment:
She really needs plastic surgery. Specially the nose.
Nobody will talk about her if she has not stolen your name, like many people stealing Karl's thing.
Police! Police!
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