It ain't much fun to be Rodman. The members of his boring-ass entourage sit around like a pack of Mr. Blackballs, making bitchy comments about some people and telling others to get lost. Rodman sits in one place like a Santa without the capacity to ask questions while folks stand in line to tell him boring things over and over again ("Hey, Rodman! You're awesome, man!").
We're not going to let feeling sorry for Rodman spoil our most awesome memories of the bacchanal that was the OC Weekly's fashion show. Imagine, if you will, 700 people purring at one another, smiling saucily, and standing cozily with their arms around random pretty strangers. If everybody good-looking hadn't left at 12:30 a.m. or so, it would have turned into a goddamn orgy-an orgy without anyone fat. Except for us, of course: watching the very beautiful models on the runway was making us feel like, oh, how do you say? A fat tub of goo? But between feeling like a fat tub of goo, we got to watch the pretty pretty-boy supermodels, like the inimitable Marcos and some guy who looked about 14 and kind of like Party of Five's Scott Wolf. We got to meet him after the show, but we realized we really had nothing to say to him. What were we going to talk about? Hemlines? Or the difficulties in getting a single-payer health-care system like Canada's implemented in the U.S.? Not that we meant to say we know anything about health care. And so we made our excuses and left him there.
Oh, you want to know about the clothes? They were fine. There were, um, some bikinis and some board shorts and some dresses, maybe? There were some hotpants through which we could see the outline of the model's vagina. There was a cute sweater that seemed to come from a place called Little Bohemia. Yes, we should stick to what we know, like fashion.