Oscar Post-Party Fug Carpet: Joy Bryant

They’re called camisoles, Joy. It almost rhymes with areola, which is what I can see because you’re not wearing any kind of undergarments. Although, actually, you’d probably need something strapless, since when you stapled your flimsy translucent fabric together, you were determined to do it in a way that thwarted anything strapped. So perhaps I should say, “They’re called undergarments, Joy.” And they result in your boobs not being entirely visible to the rest of the world. Do you have a friend who can take you to Victoria’s Secret — you know, the giant pink panty palace in the mall where 40 photos of Gisele in tiny underwear stare down at you as you wonder whether you can handle that much lace in your nethers? Yes, that place. You might want to go there.