Monsieur Jimothy

The communist plot against Mount Rushmore.

This newsletter comes with Robert Downey Jr.’s stamp of approval.

Hi, Messketeers!!!

How’s it going? Can you believe it’s almost August already? My summer is flying by and I haven’t even made it to the beach yet. Sacrilege!

This week, as a sort of birthday present slash my parents finding any excuse to empty out their storage unit, they agreed to ship me their absolutely giant, brand new King-sized Tempur-pedic mattress. And I feel like as a society we are not talking enough about the huge leap that is going from a Queen to a King bed. It feels like the mattress has suddenly ballooned to comical proportions and I am but a pea within it, but at the same time this might be the first bed in my adult life that actually fits the entire length of my body which has been quite shocking to realize. It’s also thankfully finally big enough to contain Fran’s need to sprawl unencumbered. While I’ve been at work, she’s been using that time to explore all new ways to stretch out and take up as much space as a 45-pound dog can possibly occupy. Not that I can really judge her as I’ve been doing the same, awaking each day to find that I’ve been sleeping diagonally across its entirety.

My parents also shipped me their dining table, which in a final twist of Mercury Retrograde fate almost didn’t make it into the house because everyone believed it was too wide to get in through the building’s front door and, naturally, has unremovable wooden legs. But eventually, with some measuring and some finagling, it made it inside and it is very surreal to have in my adult apartment as this was the table I ate breakfast and dinner at for the entirety of my childhood. And in a very cute and sweet turn of events, I also realized that I was actively using the underside of this table as some sort of freeform diary when I was about ~6 years old. And one of the most prominent messages I spotted down there, that was clearly of immense importance to me at the time, is a simple piece of graffito that reads in green crayon scrawl “I’M GOING TO SEE DAVID COPPERFIELD TOMORROW!!!!” I do not recall being this big of a magic stan as a child, but I appreciate the all-new fodder to unpack in therapy.

I also published a new YouTube video earlier this week recapping the month of June in celebrity attire. Make sure to check that out, and I’ll have a new one out for members next week:

Also, it’s my BIRTHDAY next week!! So I will most likely be taking the week off from this newsletter in celebration of another turn around the sun. That is unless something so incredibly breathtakingly ugly transpires that I will be dragged back to my laptop to furiously type out a screed to you all about that garment’s many wonders. It’s happened before!!! Either way, I was thinking that as a gift to you all, I will send out an email offering discounted subscriptions to mark the occasion. So keep your eyes peeled for that on Tuesday!

(And if you don’t know who the titular Jimothy is yet, do yourself a favor already.)

Ooook, then. Time for a deeply random assault on your eyeballs!

First of all, I believe I said this at the time, but I just need to reiterate to you all that with every passing day I become more and more convinced that we as a society completely miscast Zach Braff as the celeb chatbot paramour, when in fact the real culprit behind all those blind items about the Hollywood guy in full romantic Chat GPT psychosis is obviously Aaron Rodgers and his “wife” that literally no one has ever laid eyes on. I love their love, and now I need Sam Altman to gift Aaron a Neo robot so the happy couple can FINALLY go red carpet official. Newlywed Interview editorial spread when?

The First Mess Wedding?

I also have to briefly touch upon Gabbriette’s marital looks not only because she’s officially the first Matières Fécales bride, but also to ask: could this be the first genuinely Mess nuptial affair? It already struck me upon seeing this totally shredded ball gown that she herself says is very phantom from the ocean depths, and then I saw this bridal circus ringleader look she changed into! Again, shredded, farting tulle, and ready to lead lions through hoops between performances of Cabaret. I actually do love both outfits though and, most importantly, I am thrilled to finally see a celebrity wedding with genuine personality.

My Diva

And this right here is exactly why I can never quit Heidi Klum. She already reconfirmed her legend status this year in that full body marble statue prosthetic, and now she’s back to flex upon her peers yet again by posing topless using only a potato chip bag featuring her own face as a modesty panel. My diva. As I’ve been saying since the pandemic when Kim wore that weird dress with her own face on it that gave her baby beluga forehead, I think celebs can and should be leaning way harder into the replication of their own image in strange and usual ways that insist upon their meme-ification. And a chip bag pastie is a fantastic start.

Double the Doppelgänger

On the subject of the Klums, her husband, Tom Kaulitz, and his twin, Bill Kaulitz, are apparently getting their own Netflix show. They were photographed at the premiere and Sofia Vergara DM’d Heidi about it to say that Bill looks like her twin, not Tom’s, to which Heidi was like, oh yeah, “he morphed into me in the past few years but I take it as a compliment.” Amazing. And, honestly, I agree. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then having your husband’s identical twin be so obsessed with you he’s inspired to transform into your drag alter ego has got to be a compliment of the highest possible order. But the real reason I bring up Bill and his gorgeous attire is just to say that I need him to have his breakout moment already and cultivate crossover American fame on par with his fame in Germany because he would give these lackluster Timothée wannabes a hell of a run for their money on the red carpet and I need to see it. The only note of improvement I have for this look is that I think a brief instead of a boxer brief would do a world of wonders.

The Twin Swag Chasm

In further news of twin swag canyons, I was just struck by this image of Rami and Sami Malek walking around London together because I did not previously realize Sami had it like that. He’s got that shit on. I suddenly realize why I have never had a lick of interest in Rami and it’s because Sami absorbed every ounce of interesting available in the womb. But I also wanted to highlight this ensemble to praise the pleated volume of this gaucho pant. As always, men are so, so close to just wearing a skirt already and making their outfits automatically more interesting by default, and yet they still simply refuse to snip out that gusset……

Introducing the Polo Poncho

Here’s someone who clearly doesn’t fear a little snip. I was tagged in this Justin Bieber polo poncho at the World Cup a handful of times and blessings to all who did so as I totally would’ve missed this top otherwise, writing it off as just another rehash of the double-popped collars of my youth. I really enjoy the deconstructed prep of it all. It feels somehow akin to all the embellished distressing going on at Dior, where the cutting edge of design is now the intentional unraveling of the luxury garment. I also think the general flappy-ness adds a lovely element of motion to the overall look that’s often nonexistent in menswear. JB does it again. Likewise, I must applaud his commitment to trying to make this chunky 80s cankle silhouette happen in a world full of thin, Gen Z quarter socks.

Stay Out of My Sauna!

Now, I must follow up those compliments with a stern warning for the young pop superstar, which is: Stop blowing up my sauna spot, bitch!!!!! I ignored it the first time he was spotted at Spa 88—the superior/cheap NYC Russian baths my friends and I have been frequenting for the last ~15 years—hoping that it was a fluke and that the whole affair would pass by the public without so much as a second glance. But he returned to my favorite no-frills place to schvitz and go swimming this week, and now I am pissed. Go to Aire Ancient Baths like a normal rich person! Leave one of the last places on earth that still has an indoor smoking room to the rest of us plebes! Like what has become of New York City when even the “spa” completely populated by octogenarian Eastern Europeans where I regularly see cockroaches is not safeguarded from the 1%. We’re cooked, chat.

Boycott Illusion Mesh

And the last sartorial musing I’ll leave you with is simply this aggressively wired matching set worn by Paige DeSorbo while on vacation. I just wanted to show you that the rudimentary technology for strange, floating cutouts does in fact exist and is out there ready to be improved upon. An illusion mesh-less future is possible if we want it. Not even so much as a single PVC strap in sight!

Ok, my sweet sea hags! I have to go join Chloë Sevigny in collecting some merman merkins by the seashore. I’ve got another YouTube video for members coming out next Friday, and a new podcast episode shortly after that, and an offer for a deeply discounted subscription to this email coming posthaste. If none of that appeals, I’ll see you all right back here once I’m officially 38 years of age. Bye-bye, besties!!!

• If you can’t wait for another single solitary second to find out what deranged attire we’re discussing in depth behind the paywall, make sure to upgrade and treat your friends to a taste of the trash life today:

• Once you’ve gorged on those sacred texts, go take a masterclass in the ancient scrolls by diving into the Mess chat room:

And as always, if you can’t afford to pay for more, just ask me about getting a complimentary subscription. I promise, it’s no big deal. I do it all the time. And if you send over a screenshot of your donation to any abortion fund, bail fund, Gaza relief fund, or honestly anything that helps stymie Trump’s agenda in any capacity, your next month of Mess is on me.