UPDATE: Life imitates Art Hudgens stalking Fergie?
Homegirl spent the better part of the morning vomiting and crying. She shrieked twenty-first-century Nancy Kerrigan style, “Why? Why Megan Fox? Why not me?” She was eventually persuaded to rise up off the bathroom floor and begin some semblance of a normal day, at least by “celebrity” standards.
The sniffles and intermittent weeping persisted throughout the day. If she had mustered up one tenth that commitment and affability on the craptastic character that made her famous maybe someone other than cheese hungry, beard following tweens would be able to stand her and she might’ve gotten a small role in a Summer Blockbuster or even a spot in a sleeper smash.
Instead she met the end of this day by frantically searching for the real Fergie on Twitter, determined to strike-up a friendship based on a what she hoped would be a shared hatred of Megan Fox – to no avail.
So for now she’ll simply have to be steadied by the comfort clawing with a death grip onto the coat tails of her virginal man friend brings – in this her brief stint of consciousness that she has less of a “career” than does a ribbon wearing cartoon kitten.