I went to St. Tropez once, once. I was looked at like a cheap, slummy, outsider, which, granted, I was pretty much guilty of across the board. Had I arrived by yacht with petite hot Cannuckian sk8ter girl Avril Lavigne in a bikini to my aft, flashing all kinds of bare nipple, I bet I wouldn’t have been so summarily judged by the good and gracious peoples of France.
I’m an unabashed liker of Avril Lavigne. I’ve always liked her. Even through her post-20-something-still-maturing phase, her bad boyfriend and husband phases, her stupid tattoos and her Casio-keyboard bubblegum music, I still just have a thing for Avril. I can’t help it. And these wardrobe malfunctioning bikini pictures of the mirthful mini-singer just aren’t going to do anything to reverse that deep-seeded emoticon of lust. Much like I hope that someday, the citizens of St. Tropez will embrace me, so too do I hope someday to embrace Avril Lavigne, only, you know, nekkid. Enjoy.