It's Monday. We spent the weekend battling traffic and malls and sales people giving us blank looks while asking other clueless sales people "Do we sell something called a–what was it again?– a DVC player?" and teeangers whining "But Ma-uh-um!" We have never felt more like Garfield in our life. Except maybe that time we were really depressed and stuck our face in a tray of microwave lasagna and didn't sit upright until every noodle was consumed. But you know our philosophy: Boobs make everything better. So have another cup of that office coffee that tastes like liquid rat shit and look at Rihanna over there. It's as if she's peering down at her own cleavage, saying "It's magnificent, isn't it? Go on, take a look. I won't mind. I only want to make you smile." Because, you see, even when she's dressed up like that lady you pay to pee in your face, she's still just a sweet little innocent. There's no fooling us, Rihanna.
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Is that a stripper, a prostitute or a singer?