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--

Dear Morally Bankrupt Fatties,

You are terrible people and you should all be ashamed of yourselves. How on Earth do you sleep at night, you two-bit hacks? Do you have families to feed, hmm? How do your children feel, knowing that what you do is email glorious people such as myself with your worthless fodder? How do you live? Don't you feel soul-crushingly depressed when click the "send" button on your pre-written email? Don't you just want to jump out the window like your former and late colleagues have done? You are horrible, dreadful, unsavoury people. Unsavoury! Please, quit your job and become a taxi driver or accountant or stylist while you still can. I implore you! The life you're living is useless!

Good day to you, sirs,
Karl Otto Lagerfeld

This Plus-Sized Business

Goodness me, I woke up this morning to a deluge of mail regarding comments of mine that were published all over the world, even in Cat Lovers Daily, Cat Lovers Weekly, Cat Lovers Digest, Feline Fanciers Fortnightly and so on. I was talking about overweight women, not normal women. In other words, I was talking about the fatties. We know about those types, hm? And I was talking about the fatties in context of the runway, and you know, one time we had a "dry run" of a Chanel show with fatties and the runway collapsed! It's a health and safety risk, frankly.
Of course, you gannets- meaning the press- take my words out of context and think I'm talking about everybody! I am talking about models. I am not saying the fat mummy from Ohio who eats potato chips all night and watches "Project Runway", saying to her husband "These girls are just too damn skinny" (of course, Project Runway girls aren't proper models anyway.)

That's all. You may all proceed to continue eating your potato chips in front of your television-computer screen, or feeling superior to the rest of the readers of this blog because you aren't eating potato chips.

Letter to Karl

Mr. Lagerfeld,

Do you sell your DEMODE shirts in size x-large?

T

--

Dear Trevor,

Because of the high quality fabric we use, an extra large shirt would cost 5 more pounds more than the regular shirts- as we use more fabric, and it takes longer for the seamstresses to sew. We find the higher price acts as an incentive to lose weight, too.

Love,
Karl

Bonjour from Heaven (out of the black, and into the blue)

Bonjour, it is Yves! Yes, heaven is well past divine. The angels wear made to measure wings, everyone is so well dressed and well mannered. I made God a suit, it fits comme une reve. It’s a Prince of Wales check, horn buttons, and slim cut, with him name sewn in. Oh, going to mass here is so beautiful, it makes me weep, and the communion wafers are little sables from Boulangerie du Ranelagh. We have Faberge eggs for breakfast, and for lunch today I had truite aux duxelles, it was Julia Childs turn to cook. More about that row between her and James Beard later.

Oh, oh, so, I called Karl the other day, “Ich mochter mit Karl sprechen bitte,” because I loooove to pretend his French is so thickly accented I can’t understand a word he says, so I treat him like a German tourist trying to find a Metro stop. Of course he was, comme habitude, barking about being busy designing collections. Which of course means he is on his way to hide at a fat farm. Sometimes it’s the one in Arizona where it is all wheat grass colonics and yoga for a week, sometimes it’s that place near Lausanne where he tries to dress all the rock stars. The neighboring clinic is for anorexics, and they make them go group walks everyday, all pale and self conscious, so so so funny as they parade past the fat farm, eating the UNICEF diet, a bit of tea and lentils.

Oh, but in Lausanne, the high school girls wear furs and hangout at the Beau Rivage and in the cafes, sooo chic, the way it should be. Oh, the cream for the coffee comes in little chocolate cups. Glossy hair, jewels, nice legs and voices, ohhh. That silly American television show, chattering cows, or whatever, oh they look like amateurs.

But I was thinking, ooooh, kaftans would be a good look for the angels. So I think if Karl can go en congee, to his fat farm, I might en vacance to my beloved Morocco for the summer. I do get so inspired by nature, and God likes it, as this reflects well on him. Ooh ohh, then I was admiring some gardens, and I looked down and saw this plaque, on a boulder near some bearded iris:

Tall gladiola and feathered poppy

Fill the yard with purple and red

Colors God put together off the top of his head

A Frenchman too loved purple with red

YSL is in the garden, he’s not so dead.

It reminded me of a window I did for Dior, so long ago. It was ciel et ble, sky and wheat. It was a wheat colored pencil skirt, with a sky blue silk blouse. It was so beautiful, a young lady stood in front of it and wept. I saw her and went and wept with her. To be honest, it was after I had left Dior, but I went and wept with her. Weeping over beauty is a form of communion. I like to think of people looking over wheat fields and high deserts in, on clear days saying, “oh, that is so Dior”, or seeing moi in their gardens and tulip fields. Of course, when Karl looks at a pink shimmering sunset, he sees underdone roast beef.

Night, II

I sit out here, and I am waiting for something. I can feel it. The wind whips my face, and the newspaper I was carrying is starting to get hit by drops of rain. Yet I still sit here, undaunted. I'm waiting for someone, I believe.

Rei: Oh, silly man. Who are you waiting for?

I have no idea, I tell her. But I know that I have to wait. Desire pangs my heart like the way an old truck feels being left at the junkyard; the junkheap. Left on the junkheap in search of another cup of Coffee.

Rei: Really now.

To be honest, I'm just sitting here because I have nowhere else to go. In this meta-universe, there is no houses, because houses are demode. Instead there's simply I on a bench, and Rei standing over there wi..

Rei: I can hear you, you know.
Colonel: Oh god, just stop it at once man! You're showing personal feelings! This isn't even funny! Who cares if you miss someone! I DO NOT. Now go write another book, there's a good fellow. Do you think anybody will care about your entry if you're all weepy like that? Where's the mention of fatties???
Audience member: Yes! Bring in the fatties! Bring in the fatties!

I tell him I have no idea what he's on about. What does he mean by "entry"? What does he mean by fatties? Japanese Women do not get fat. It's a fact. It's the title of a book. So it's fact.

Audience members: FATTIE RUMBLE! FATTIE RUMBLE! FATTIE RUMBLE!!

I see large, fat people come in. They have fat and grease dripping from their flesh, and in their hands are whole chickens, who have been deep fried.

Karl: STOP THIS AT ONCE!
Rei: Karl?!
Audience members: Karl!!!! [swoon]
Karl: This is getting to be like some vulgar American reality show. It is vulgar! It is vulgar!
Audience member 1: She started it!
Audience member 2: No, SHE started it!
Audience member 3: He started it! Him! Over there! The fellow dressed like a bat!

INTERMISSION WHILST YOHJI RUNS AWAY. PLEASE DANCE LIKE A BAT.

Prince - Batdance

A man dressed all in black, flapping his arms and shouting in Japanese, runs his way past the audience and out into a bat shaped plane. As Prince plays, the audience grooves along to the music.

INTERMISSION OVER. PLEASE FINISH YOUR GROOVE.

Audience member 1: He's gone!
Audience member 2: Is it a bird? Is it a plane?
Audience member 4: It's a plane.
Audience member 2: Oh.

Unspecified Villian: That darn Yohji. If it wasn't for you crazy kids...
Audience member 5: Excuse me, we are fashionistas.
Audience member 6: Excuse me, I am also a brain surgeon/photographer/creative director/designer/bongo player AND a fashion de-zine-er.
Audience member 7: Well excuse me! But I'm an Artiste/ipod nanny/computer designer/composer/coffee maker/song-and-dance man AND a wanker!
Audience member 8: Well I'm a bitch!
[audience gasp]

I sigh, walking off into the sunset. Heart burnin', still yearin'. How am I meant to be melodramatic and emotional when all this is around me?

Rei: You can't. Just, don't worry about it. You're wonderful anyway.

Yeah, I'm wonderful anyway. I'm a wonderful person! I AM A WON-DER-FUL PERSON.

Anna: Thahhst's the spirrrt. Youuu wannt a drinwnkkk??

"Your Blog is Getting Boring"

"Your Blog is Getting Boring" read a comment on one of my blog posts, earlier today.
I do say read because you must remember that this blog is, like fashion, a totalitarian dictatorship. I do not tolerate dissenters.

I imagine the person is a teen fashionista. She probably has a Marc Jacobs bag that her mommy paid $2000 for, and a Juicy Couture sweatsuit and a Versace jacket with "VERSACE" written in large print on the back, just so you know it's Versace. She probably keeps the price tags on everything, just so she can remember exactly how much mommy paid for this piece of "tacky" fashion. In short, this person is a fashion victim, 1st class.

I should be applauding her, of course. Because along with her Marc Jacobs bag I'm sure she owns a Chanel bag; one of the ones I designed badly on purpose to see what stupid sort of people would buy them. She's given me money! So, thankyou; ugly and demode fashionista for giving Uncle Karl some money.

She has a blog, of course. Where she posts pictures of herself in a blazer and leggings everyday. EVERY SINGLE DAY she posts pictures of herself in leggings and a blazer; saying "oh, how original I am." She then tries to emulate my daughter Jane and buys some shoes; apart from her shoes are tacky and bright pink and made in China. She then looks at Jane's blog and says "WHY DON'T I GET ALL THOSE HITS", goes and complains to mommy and mommy buys her some Louis Vuitton flip flops.

Worst of all, this person enjoys McDonald's.

Un-Birthday

It was Anna's birthday the other day. We don't know when it is, to be honest; thought the newspapers claim to do. We don't have birthdays here, anyway; because as gods we are ageless.
But apparently it was her birthday, the other day. Assuming she was born. Which is a pretty big assumption to make. So it's really all rumor. Rumors. Made by the fatties and enimies of fashion: the uglies. The uglies have created this rumor that Anna had a birthday.
So anyway. Happy un-birthday to you, Anna.

FATTY: Let's create a new concept!
UGLY: Of...birthdays for gods.
FATTY: Oh Karl smite us! Smite us!
KARL: As you wish. [SMITES with KARL FASHION POWER]

AFTER:

FATTY: Is this hell?
UGLY: Noo..it's Walmart!
FATTY: Thank god.

The Dream

Well hello there, chic ones.
Hello to the vacuum cleaner, the telephone beret-maker, the king of the united group of monocles, the dogs barking down the street (please shut up), the man takes out my old telephones that have evaporated, the doll maker--

Dolls.

Last night I had a dream about dolls. I was there, in the closet that we had in the 70's. Flowers everywhere. Terrible glasses. Hairy chests. That's enough to make a man lose his mind.
But then, in the dream, plastic dolls of the fashion crowd came out- they surrounded me. Little shiny human dolls; with cartoon voices. "Hello darhling" one squeaks.
And then.....and then the DEMODE dolls start to come out--

Fat dolls, ugly dolls, poor dolls. Fatties! Obese dolls! And they come to get me...walk into the closest and...and....and...they melt into a big pile of demode plastic.

And then the big Andre Leon Talley comes in; life sized, but plastic. And he's wearing this hideous Hawaiian shirt.

Fake people

See this.
I'm going to give these people who criticize me in the comments the privilege of my criticism. Lucky people, hm?

One person writes: "I don't get these. And, why are the magnets available in 100 packs? Who wants 100 of these things?"
Darling, you are obviously poor and bourgeois. We rich people prefer to buy things as little as magnets in 100 packs because our houses (and we have multiple ones) are so big that one or two simply will not do. It is beyond.

"Poptart" writes: "I must be turly elegant---I can indeed refuse all of this stuff !!!"
Has nobody told this women that being a tart is so 70's? No dear, you are not elegant. You cannot afford all of this stuff, or any of it.
(And it's "truly", rather than the fairground-ride-sounding "turly".)

"revolution9" who I assume to be a Beatles fan, and one of the tacky t-shirt wearing ones at that who weren't chic enough for the mosh pit and had to stay and home making brownies with their mother writes:
"So a blind guy is supposed to make you consume less?... by purchasing this product?"
Dewdrop, I am not blind. If you do not get the Margiela reference you're obviously..below the audience I design for.
If we revealed my eyes though, even on a mere 2D picture, you would be burnt. Remember this.

"J", who is obviously not as chic as "little J" off Gossip Girl says:
"Either the producers of such crap are stupid, or they think we are."
No my little toilet cubicle, we just assume you're rich. I did an H&M line for people like you-- the poor, the homeless.

Finally, "amiencc" writes:
"A photograph, a little bit of fiddling in Photoshop, and I can recreate this same image, on the same product, for 1/3 of what this person wants. A $25 mug? $40 for magnets? With an image that no one would get? BWAH HA HA HA!!! Who would buy this??"
My minuscule glass of Diet Coke, I would not dare to do that. I have these people called "Lawyers".

What I think is that these women are all lonely housewives; middle-aged; with bad stringy hair and bags under their eyes. It figures.

I am Karl Lagerfeld and you are not.

Lots of Love to myself, hm?
xoxox

Full of Mirth

This is hilarious.

I was trying very hard to not laugh.  I guess everyone must have thought I was bipolar, because I kept alternating between glaring at the fat black man I fired ages ago and laughing at the models falling all over themselves.

I particularly enjoy the comments at the link above.  My assistant kept reading them out loud and I was laughing so hard I fell out of my chair twice.  I may have also been the gin and tonics, but I am pretty sure it was the comments.  And since I've been so mirthful lately, I need to make it up by eviscerating a few of the commenters.

'I was SHOCKED at the skinniness of some of the models (Yulia Carmack) at the Prada show.  Those girls look ill and designers should not be encouraging sick models.  Such an outrage.  - Katie'

Katie - 

Kindly lose twelve pounds immediately.  I can feel your fat face staring at my assistant who is reading your comment to me.  And I would like to define comment in your case as misguided and uninformed idiocy.  Who cares if Miuccia likes them skinny?  This reeks of bitterness - were you not picked to walk at your Barbi... Barblizon... Babizone...  (you know, that fake money-laundering 'modeling school') graduation in 5th grade?  Poor dear.

'Hey Prada - why no black women or Asian women or Hispanic women? Is the entire world full of white, blonde size zero women?  I didn't think so. - Chicagoexhile'

Chicagoexhile (spell 'exile' right for Karl's sake) -

Really?  I had no idea.  My world is full of size zero women.  White and blonde notwithstanding - there are plenty of tan brunettes around Vogue.  Miuccia is a former Communist, dear.  She loves uniformity.  And it's not chic to be politically correct all the time.  It's called stirring the pot, I believe.

And with that, I must get back to stirring my gin and tonic.  I do love Tanqueray - it brings out my viper tongue.

Hissssssssssss.

Diet Coke is Such Fun

Hello Children!

I think Anna spiked my Diet Coke, because I do not feel the same. There's a tingling in Uncle Karl's pants and I feel the urge to dance. All the lights, the lights are so pretty, aren't they, children?

When I was just a little boy I used to sit at home with my 6 bikes and look at them and say to them: "You bikes, you are so lucky to have me as your owner! Do you know who I am? Why, I'm Uncle Karl Lagerfeld" even though I was only six.
Because children, I am a pretty important guy. I design clothes, and I bet you're wearing clothes, hmmm? Unless you are a nudist, or are naked. I am never naked. I shower in my suit. I bathe in my suit. Nobody sees me naked because I am Karl. (Everybody's seen Yves naked, hmm? What a whore).
No, all you see is me in my suit and ponytail and sunglasses. How dignified. Tres chic, no?

Some person had the guts to say to me "you know, Yves is dead, Karl". They are obviously not in the loop. Am I dead? Are you, my dear reader, dead? I hope not, because being dead is demode.

Oh yes, demode: It seems to have become the word to say around the fashion people. They say "oh, this is demode. oh, you are demode. oh, these clothes are demode. this tampon is demode".
Do any of them know what it means? For them it is another trend to buy into, like leggings and little plastic Prada sacks. Chanel really should manufacture some sacks. We could give them to homeless people, so when the Prada women comes a-knockin' to steal the homeless people's possessions, she sees the Chanel logo staring right at her face.

Actually, I have a right mind to ambush the Prada women and spraypaint her or something. Can you get edible spraypaint yet? Think of the calories one could induce on someone!

You models still aren't the right weight. Very disappointing. It is not hard. There is a book, called "The Karl Lagerfeld diet". Please buy it, and read it. Not eating is not hard. Just drink Diet Coke. Here, have some of mine you wretched girls. How do you live with yourselves, at the wrong weight??? Isn't it so demode?
(No question mark there. It is.)

These designers using- let's be frank- fat people- are just attention whores, hmmm? They're laughing at the fat people behind their backs. "hahahhaa, you demode fat people!"

Gosh, so many designers are so bad. At least Martin Margiela- at least he has class. There's few honourable people in fashion anymore, and I'm one of the last:
KARL LAGERFELD: the last gentleman of fashion.

Now Brad, I need to attend to him. I need to take photos of him.

Karl in the street

I was walking down the street today... the street is very dirty, I was thinking perhaps they should make disposable covers for the bottoms of shoes, so that they do not get filthy, hmm? (They could make them out of torn up Gucci, or recycled paper or something, its all the same, yeah?) .

As I was walking, I spotted someone who looked, and dressed, rather similar to me... only, not. Still I thought, "No one looks like me, I am unique, no?". In the blink of an eye, they were gone, but I did see someone, and after much thought as to how this was possible, I have concluded that it must have been a robot. A robot created by one of the other fashion houses to impersonate me (the idea that those incompetent "designers" would go to such lengths to steal my designs is almost humorous. They probably think they're clever).

So I called up one of my assistants (it seems I go through them quickly, perhaps they do not like the way I deal with unsatisfactory beverages?). I tried telling him about my robot discovery, but he was being difficult, and didn't believe me.

"wait, sir, are you that saying someone made a robot version of you?"

"Yes, and it was ugly, I want you to have this impostor, this... fake Karl, quickly apprehended, and then thrown off a cliff."

"but... robots don't exist, they're not ...". At that point, I hung up the phone. This robot problem will be taken care of quickly I hope, I can't have a robot pretending to be me, robots are slow, like fatties, mmm?

Come to think of it, I don't think it looked anything like me. But maybe it did. The maybe part is important, hmm?

Love, Karl.

Karl is not happy

Jezebel said my Chanel dress that I designed specifically for Anna is "ugly".
If you don't know, my assistant for paper prints out all the new content relating to fashion from the internet every day. I read it all. I see all. I am like God, hmmm? I am the god of fashion.

Jezebel will be hearing about this. The fatties. Sitting at their computers all day...probably don't even get dressed! I imagine them going round their tiny houses naked and dirty, maybe a sweatsuit (this makes me want to vomit) covering their pasty bodies.

If they, on the off chance, happen to be thin. Well, they are the stupid people. Thank God, Buddha and all the rest that there's few of those in fashion.

Karl is not happy.

Louis Vuitton

Louis Vuitton is tacky, hmm?
I see awful fatties carrying around Louis Vuitton bags on the streets, and people who obviously can't afford Chanel trying to see fake Louis Vuitton on the sidewalks.
There goes the fatties, I think as they walk past me (and supress my vommit). There's a few fatties in the fashion industry too, you know. At least they're intelligent. But these fatties who are walking past me are stupid fatties because they think that buying a bag that says "LV" makes them fabulous. It's actually become a joke for us designers, hm? Whenever we see someone with a Vuitton bag we have to supress a snicker.

Louis Vuitton is fashion McDonalds, non?

Even Marc Jacobs- the man responsible for these bags at Vuitton laughs at his customers behind their backs. Well. When I say "responsible" I mean he draws a colour, fabric, and pattern randomly out of a hat. It's a very nice hat, mind you. This is the Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton design process at work. He calls it the "sorting hat".

So here is the lesson: Do not come in with a Louis Vuitton bag to a Chanel store (I have instructed security to bounce anyone who tries to), a Fendi store, or anywhere near me.

Love, Karl

ps. the image is by Nadia Plesner. I just told one of my assistants to set up a meeting with her. More on this as it develops.

Back

Today one of my assistants informed me that Google had shut down this blog because their "spam search" or something thought this was a "spam blog".
He went on to say that "spam" is like the fatties, and should not be tolerated.

So I told him to sort it out and get me a glass of Diet Pepsi.

He sorted it out, but the Pepsi was not good enough so I poured it on him.
So fear not, hmm? I am back.