What in the name of Doctor Miami is going on with Kim Ks posterior? Unretouched photos of the shape-shifting star surfaced last week, in which Kimmy emerged from the Mexican sea, looking remarkably like an unidentified creature; thrown up from the bowls of the ocean. That was rather unkind of me, I’m sure if you squint Kim could pass for a nappy wearing, alternate life form, who took a wrong exit on to planet Earth.
You’ve most likely surmised that I will not be attempting to rouse furious and wrathful feminists everywhere into the sacred act of shielding the Good Sisters Kardashian; and my friend, you would be right! Kimberly will have to look elsewhere for a shoulder on which to pour her tan streaked tears.
Coverage surrounding the exposition of Kim’s lumpy and malformed bottom has been schizophrenic at best and patronizing at its absolute worst. The ‘We should all be feminists, or womanists or whatever’ camp in their bid to prop up the plastic surgery addict, sang to the tune of faux and fowl cries of ‘body shaming’. While the disingenuous, pot-stirring hacks seemed hopelessly concerned with asking us civilians to wrap our pea-sized brains around the riddle of Kardashian’s rapidly south heading rump.
I don’t mean to saddle us mortals with the brutal and honest truth, but let’s face it kids, anyone with two eyes and a couple of brain cells knocking about could draw their own accurate conclusions, given this horror- story picture show. Pockets of the mainstream (and I mean you Susanna Reid) seem hell bent on railroading us into the belief that our outrage over Kim’s dimpled and puckered rear stems from a societal dislike of female imperfection. Got that children? The problem here is us. As a people we just haven’t evolved sufficiently enough to embrace voluntary female bodily mutilation cellulite. Thanks Susanna.
What we were all in fact gawping at was obvi Kardashian West’s foray into the world of freak show attraction. She is now nothing short of being a human cut-and-shut job, having copied and pasted, African inspired curves onto her own tiny Armenian frame. What the star didn’t account for, was the incompatibility of the two distinct formats. (There is a donk to thigh ratio, you know?)
Kimmy has learned the short and hard way, that inflating your behind more times than a balloon artist at a child’s party, does apparently have its draw backs. With even the Michelin man raising an eyebrow at Kim’s blow-up backside. Perhaps matching your ass to your man, isn’t the same as matching your purse to you dress, Kimberley. Just a thought.
It’s rather fitting that K Dash has now become a curiosity for disgusted and excitable consumption. The age old adage of ‘being careful for what you wish for’ has come back around to sinks its sharp teeth into her pneumatic not so juicy doubles. Kardashian’s desperation to acquire the physical trappings of black womanhood, has landed her a king sized helping of unwanted extras. For Blackness, unlike her famed salads, does not come with a choice of sides. If it did, I’m sure that Kim would have plumped for something a little more palatable than, the bitter tasting; jest and ridicule.