I see you baby, shakin' that ass

JC on Celebrity Selector? Best. Crack. Ever. He poses! He gestures! He blings loudly and makes ordinary words sound absolutely delicious. I've long said the foreign press should get to do all their interviews, because seriously, there's gotta be something in the water. They're somehow exponentially more candid across the border.

"Anything that has the word 'fornication' in it wins." Also, I love when he talks about surfing.

"And it is odd, and I like it." You are by far the prettiest, most spastic freak show around, JC.

"I believe in a thing called love, man. It's a beautiful thing. It's love and. It's loving in the darkness." He almost sings it! He believes, man. But I bet he does it with the lights on.

"If you know what I mean." My god, that boy's voice. I lose all consistency, I do. Of course he's a Madonna fan. And come now, who with any taste isn't?

"Anybody feeling James Bond-ish?" Continuing with the voice tip, the way he says 'Bond-ish,' making it sound like five syllables and dipped in gourmet chocolate? Yeah, hi, mind the puddle by your feet. And the nutty poses! Get this man on SNL, stat.

"I forget the tone, but it's cool, go with it." No such ginormous dork should be that hot. And with the final "Now." Fuck. Me.

He does the robot! Bwahahaha! I am so, so easy. But, the robot! Bwah!

Okay, by segment ten, he's obviously dipped into whatever heroin-laced crack the Smash Hits staff keeps in readily separated lines for their guests (right, raaone?) because, whoa. Whoa, nelly.

"This is one of those videos that, uh, it's really inspiring in some ways. Enjoy it. I do." He says as his fingers never leave his crotch. All the other segments, he's waving his arms around like he's looking to put someone's eye out, but as soon as you get him talking about Madonna's Justify My Love, just try prying them away. While you're at it, JC, why don't you tell us just how you enjoy it? Oh, wait. You already have, in convenient LP format.

"Everybody thinks about it." *points to head* "I said it." *points to chest* Died, I did. Self-pimping has no place being that cute.

"And hopefully, we were on the same wavelength. Laters." This boy will be the end of me, I swear.

Quote of the muthafreakin' month, man:

"What can I say. It's Britney Spears. You know what, we've all thought about it one time or another."
-JC

Thank you, JC. Thank you, British television. Thank you, fandom. Good night.

Most days, I like my boobs.

I've got a nice pair, a fact the world's pretty much not let me forget since around the time of the seventh grade. And really, most days, I don't mind that I can't wear Abercrombie & Fitch's cute little tops or strapless dresses, because while milkshake alone may bring some boys to the yard, I've never found halter tops to be a hindrance. They're among fashion's rare gifts to full-figured women, but a pretty nice one: practical, fun, available in styles that run the gamut from modest to slutty. For them, I am grateful.

The seventies, however, were not the time for busty women. Well, as my mall excursion this afternoon revealed, apparently that abstract shapes/odd colors abundance (or pneumonia-inducing dearth) of open-cut, fake material as tops style is making a comeback (while this trend-capital-of-North-Central-Florida store played the greatest hits of the early '90s on the radio. This did not at all help the urge to do the Time Warp, already strong enough with all the middle schoolers milling about given that it was early afternoon.) As much as I adore the prints and funky slinkiness, there is sadly simply no way I can walk around without ample support as a general rule.

After that depressing episode and resigning myself to the classics for another season, I needed a reason to remember the aforementioned appreciation for my girls, so to celebrate my dependence, I bought two lovely bras. On sale! And so pretty. I have a red bra again, something you only understand as a wardrobe staple if you have one. And a sexy little black number, which I've been searching for longer than ever. They just don't make pretty bras in my size. I found out the secret though - 38C. Because everyone and their mother/daughter/niece/aunt wears a 36D. I'd never thought to go up a number and down a cup size since outgrowing my beloved 34C, but huzzah! They're happy and not quite so self-conscious about being cumbersome (as all but two of my current bras make them feel.) The world is mine again.

This concludes your latest riveting chapter in the "life" of Jules.