Now that Lindsay Lohan is under house arrest, she’s probably turned into a bit of a borebag. Her life has gone from wildly reckless and grottily glamorous to that of a student, loafing about and switching channels on the TV while sat in greasy undercrackers.
Gone are the days when she’d have sex with either gender, toot drugs, get into fist fights and steal necklaces by accident. The current situation is in danger of becoming worthy, to the point of dull.
But wait! Her ankle tag has started bleeping! Does that mean she’s been sloping off in the night to indulge in some wild times, brimming with strong booze and class A drugs that are so strong it could make a mountain weep?
Of course not. This is LiLo 2.0 and she’s about as interesting as a soap dish these days.
See, it appears that Lohan’s house-arrest electronic monitoring system has gone on the blink, meaning that the only ray of hope we all have, in terms of this being a vaguely interesting story, is that she’s timing the beeps with swear words when she speaks, leaving her sounding like a pre-watershed television show, or indeed, that the constant digital pips are driving her mad, to result in a murderous spree.
As yet though, all that is happening is that probation officials have to visit her to make sure that their equipment is working properly. Nice for those guys, if they’re into meeting famous people.
So what did they see when they arrived at her Venice townhouse? Was it like the Somme, bodies strewn all over the place, blood spattered walls and the remnants of animal carcasses offered to some false god?
Nope. She was watching her 3-D TV, reading scripts and posing for tabloid photographs on her rooftop patio.
Don’t blame us for wasting your time. This is all the fault of Lindsay Lohan. Doesn’t she realise that she’s got an obligation to raise hell all the time, even if it is to her detriment? We need stories to write you selfish, preening shit.