Poshitively creepy...

I’ve deliberately stayed away from blogging about Victoria Beckham (a.k.a. Posh Spice) but I’m afraid I can no longer keep my mouth shut because she’s totally starting to creep me out.

Back when she was part of that minion of mini-skirted Brit pop-tarts her sass was cute in a “this is all an act, I promise I’m a totally cool chick when the vinyl comes off” way.

I mean, she had a Barbie doll modeled after her and everyone knows that Barbie would not stand for any bitchiness because Barbie is cool and fun and sophisticated and has worked as a Burger King cashier so she remembers what it’s like to be part of the little people.


But now…good lord God. No, seriously. Have you seen her lately?


Girlfriend, eat some chicken fingers dipped in Crisco rolled in chocolate. Something. You’re killing me.

Actually, it’s not her emaciated figure that creeps me out, though that alone is cause for alarm...and a colon cleanse. It’s her tan and how pissed off she looks all the time. See for yourself:


Is this the kind of person you’d like to go to a soccer game with? I imagine that if I'd been with her she'd be giving me the evil eye and jealously watching me polish off my sixth Bud Light and fourth jumbo pretzel. She'd look at me as if I were a piece of rubbish (that's Brit for "trash" - I use it in her honor) stuck to the bottom of her boots which, by the way, are an inappropriate shoe selection for that outfit and that venue.

How about this?

Even her doorman and bodyguard look scared of her. Is that a scrunchi she's wearing around her waist? Because surely no one has dared make a skirt that short. And where exactly is she going in her scrunchi? The ice skating rink to work on her triple toe loops?

Quite frankly, if I were married to this guy:

I’d be smiling a whole lot more.