New York, I Fug You

Clearly, Natalie Portman is going through a phase.

This is not the first time she’s cloaked herself in layers of needless, fussy hoo-ha — remember this? Perhaps she’s desperately trying to communicate something very important to her fan base, or her manager. Or her mom. What do you think it is? That her life needs more clutter? Because she doesn’t get enough catalogs in the mail, or never runs across informercials, and therefore is living a live stripped of pricey modern annoyances like the broken Magic Bullet sitting in the kitchen, the closet full of Yoga Booty Ballet DVDs she never uses, and a dresser drawer full of demagnetized Clever Clasps? The poor girl. Quick, somebody send her a care package of Mighty Putty, PedEggs, and books by that strange Andy Dick-looking nutball who wears suits with question-marks on them. This is a cry for help that needs to be answered the way that only a Hairagami piece can.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have about ten Tae-Bo video tapes that I need to lock away so that Billy Blanks’ eyes of judgment no longer stare at me every from the package while I’m on the couch eating cashews.