F*ck me in the fembot

Written by Aliza

Today Victoria Beckham introduced her new campaign with Emporio Armani Underwear and all I have to say is: fuck me in the fembot are you KIDDING. I’d like to know what planet this lady descended from because, let’s be real, it’s not the Earth I know and love with its 24-hour Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.

As much as I envy her some of the time (excluding notable other times), I’m not so sure how I feel about this. Part of it makes me jealous because her body is obviously slamming, part of it makes me hungry because I feel as if it is my duty to personally consume the calories she is not, and a small, yet very real, part of it makes me want to run my hands over her body and question my sexuality.

I actually had the pleasure of following around Mrs. Beckham for a full day so that I could more closely observe the habits of this much-talked-about celeb and dispel rumors that she’s not just like one of us.

9:00 am: Enter hotel room to meet Victoria. She is conversing with a maid about cleaning the breakfast she spilled on her shirt. Maid tells her water does not stain.

9:01 am: Victoria tells maid someone brought little Brooklyn’s new birthday present, a large animatronic T-Rex, two weeks early and placed it in the foyer.  Maid tells Victoria that I am not, in fact, an animatronic T-Rex, but the reporter following her for the day.

10:30 am: Victoria curls up and is placed inside large, custom made Birkin for easy transport to-and-from waiting Escalade.

11:00 am: We arrive at Body Waxing, Botox and Butch Haircuts, Inc. for Victoria’s daily appointment. An employee asks Victoria if she would like to change into a robe and Victoria tells her assistant she wants the employee sentenced to death by guillotine. Her assistant tells her that she does not have any legal right to commit homicide and it is not the year 1793.

4:00 pm: I ask Victoria if we can perhaps stop for a late lunch as there has been no food consumed at all by anyone in her entourage, including me, the entire day. Victoria looks at me, blinks, continues to stare blankly, then reaches down, removes one of her YSL Tribs, and stabs me with the heel in my forearm. I cry.

6:00 pm: We go into the Chanel boutique for Victoria’s weekly purchases and fitting. Ingrid, the seamstress, tells her she has lost another inch and the clothes cannot be taken in anymore because they’ll lose their form. Victoria calls Karl Lagerfeld and tells him she wants a custom Chanel suit made out of Ingrid’s flesh. He obliges.

7:00 pm: We cradle Victoria and take off her clothes so she can be gently placed into her cryogenic sleep chamber. After I notice something missing in the anal region, I’m told she had her ass removed. Posh doesn’t dump.

All in all, the day was a great success. After bringing Posh to the people, I’d say I’d like to bring the people to Posh. But she’d cut you. She would.

About the author


a born and bred Manhattan-ite who graduated Lehigh University in 2007 with a degree in Journalism. She currently lives with her two patient roommates and works for Valentino Fashion Group where she handles a lot of garment bags, answers a lot of phones, and does a lot of what anyone tells her to (most eagerly in PR and Marketing). She favors brunch over lunch, heels over flats, tequila over vodka, downtown over uptown, and a tropical destination over pretty much anything else in the world.


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