May 11, 2017 | celebrity | Sam Robeson | 0 Comments
Joanna Krupa is famous enough to get photographed while leaving restaurants. Hollywood is running on fumes. The former Real Housewive and future plastic surgery victim lazily shields herself from the cameras while flashing her tits in a see-through dress. Please respect her privacy. Krupa is starting to get Joker lips. But the rest of her very much so fuckable.
I can’t prove that Krupa paid these photographers with unspeakable sexual favors to catch her outside of Craig’s restaurant. You be the judge. She’s the only Real Housewive to not look like she was run through a dehydrator. Maybe that counts for something. Photographic evidence of the paparazzi encounter isn’t enough. They also drill the political scientist on the correlation of values and relationships:
Do you think politics affect who you love?
It shouldn’t. Of course not. They’re so, like, relationships are hard as it is. Everybody has their own opinion on a president. I mean, who cares.
The paps press on with a simultaneous question and statement:
What is your opinion? Love your outfit.
And scene. This is news. Yesterday it was Krupa’s divorce from Romain Zago, the less Corleone of the Miami nightclub scene. Tomorrow it will be a cookbook. In twenty years it will be an ad for Boniva. Parlaying a Z-list modeling past and rumors of escorting (no longer not cool, thanks to the First Lady) into something other than full-blown porn is commendable. Pose nude. Flash your nips in see-through dresses. Pretend to be exhausted by marginal fame. What Krupa lacks in political profundity she makes up for in public relations. Fancy words for corner strolling.
Photo Credit: Splash News