An open letter to Lindsay Lohan (and her vagina)

Okay sweetie, have a seat for while. Put away the vodka for one second; that next bump can wait until we're done giving you a good talking-to.

First of all, I know Brandon Davis is an asshole. We all know that he's hurtling towards Fat Elvis territory at Mach 7 and appears to slather himself in whatever falls out of the grease traps at Waffle Houses nation-wide. And he fucked Paris Hilton. The latter alone would just make him male on either coast, but her chimpy sniggering and egging you on to call you the now-immortal "Firecrotch" was just a sign of how these two wastes of space belong together.

That being said, STOP FLASHING YOUR COOTER! I know Brandon called you "poor" because you have a piddly $7 million dollars, much of which you seem to have blown living in the "motel" that is the Chateau Marmont. Why would you want to buy, you know, property with that money? You're barely 20 and a huge star! Of course all this fame and money's gonna last forever! Especially with your increasingly stellar and glittering reputation on-set as a true professional who only shows up late to the set daily because your coke stash apparently looks an awful lot like your asthma inhaler.

So yes, until you're making $20 million a film like Cameron Diaz, you will be forced to subsist on $7 million dollars. It's hard, I know. You do the best you can to get by, scrambling to make excuses as to how you forgot your credit card, again, when they actually have the audacity to bill you for the 12 bottles of Grey Goose you and your entourage of 47 consume at Bungalow 8 about five times a week. Because even the lord rested on the 7th day and even though one of your ginormous designer purses was right next to your ass at the banquette, you couldn't be bothered to fish your AmEx Black card out because you, like, totally forgot it back at your suite anyway.

It's hard, I know. But for the love of God, buy some panties! There's nothing wrong with going commando once in a while. I do it, but I save it for when I'm wearing pants. Maybe the first time it happened you were getting dressed in a hurry due to your hectic starlet schedule, and the paparazzi snapped a photo of an apparently very thorough Brazilian as you stepped out the limo but before you really had a chance to feel a draft. Or maybe you didn't forget the panties, since the easy breezy shot was coincidentally taken a few days after Brandon Davis' "Firecrotch" tirade. Yes, we saw there was no fire, just crotch. Brandon Davis is a dick, and flashing your bald vagina proved it.

However...then came the Venice Film Festival. And once again, you forgot to put on panties. But again, we saw that you're quite thorough with your grooming.

And then just this past week...well, the short version is: LA, limo, crotch shot.

Again, I know it's hard subsisting on a piddly seven mil. I know they don't sell lingerie at the Chanel store on 57th Street and the La Perla store is, like, so far away down in the Meatpacking District and it's like right next to Lotus which is, like, such a B&T haven. But you need to set aside a certain amount in your budget for some panties. It might mean an ounce or two less of blow, but growing up is all about making sacrifices, darling. And you are apparently growing up, since it's not illegal to splash your exposed genitals all over the internet. La Perla even makes a secondary line called Malizia that's actually quite attractive. You could even be a bit cheeky and commission an artist to airbrush an abstract Burning Bush on the crotch of some simple Hanro white cotton panties! Get photographed flashing that, and your street cred will increase almost as much as if you played a meth-addled truck stop hooker in an edgy indie film.

So darling, we're on your side. We adore you, even though you're hideously, hideously overexposed. But it's not your fault that you love the overpriced and crappy food at paparazzi Base Camp "The Ivy" in LA. It's not your fault that all the clubs with all the rilly good 80's music-playing DJ's have so many damn photographers outside. They DO have some great shopping on Robertson Boulevard. But darling, that's besides the point.

Next time you venture out into the big, bad scary world, as you're getting dressed, ask yourself just one simple question: would Audrey Hepburn have let her twat be photographed? Multiple times? Are you having a moment of clarity yet? Good. Now run with it.