Isn’t it about time you put on a dress that you can actually walk in?
Where’s a bad ass crane when you need one? This is what must have been going through our collective sunshine’s head last night as she was being hosted up a bunch of red stairs at the Met.
dlisted: It’s one thing for Beyonce to wrap herself in a gown that looks like it was made using the gilded sperm of Lumiere the Candlestick and the dusty ovaries of Babbette the Feather Duster, but it’s another to stuff herself so tight that you can’t even walk.
Hmm, I guess that’s one way to describe the existential woe that befuddled our collective sunshine block.
Jay-Z and a helper had to physically help Beyonce up the stairs into the museum. If it was me, I would’ve knocked that ho to the floor and rolled her ass up the stairs. When we were getting ready to leave, I would’ve set up bowling pins at the bottom of the stairs, told Beyonce to hold her breath and then rolled her ass down hoping for a strike!
One day when Beyonce is sitting on the back porch, creaking herself to sleep in one of them fancy asylum suits that passes for fashion fodder, Jay-Z will roll up next to her in his own sperm whale version of utopia quietly nudging inside Beyonce’s inner tresses for a yard of blue horn rope to lasso himself in as he takes his seat next to her…
Don’t you wish you were one of them celebrity bitches too?
