Viggo Mortensen tries not to laugh as he comforts raincoaster after her recent self-tanning disaster

If you read women's magazines at all, and we don't doubt for a moment that you, like all right-thinking people who want to know about Ashlee's new nose and whether wedgies are really more comfortable, do (yes it scans, go back and check), you've no doubt heard about how the new self-tanning lotions, creams, gels, mousses, dry oil sprays, etc etc are far superior to the old ones.

Gone are the days of blotchy orange tans; here are the welcome days of even, coppery, sunkissed bliss.

If I were to momentarily lapse into emo, I would almost say that was complete and utter fucking bullshit for which the editors will pay with a lifetime in Purgatory listening to Fiona Apple covers of Teletubbies songs, but of course I shall do no such thing, for lo I am way classy.

Fucking orange pinto hide and all.

Do you know, the splotch on my right shin actually shows drip marks? And it didn't even drip in the first place! It must be some kind of stencil the gremlins applied while I slept! My left leg, on the other hand, looks like a sepia-toned map of the Canadian Shield, dotted with many tiny "lakes" and "rivers" of white, no doubt frozen over by the icy force of my stare, with what appear to be features of continental glaciation such as tiny moraines, drumlins and eskers.

So now that it's spring and a young (don't go there!) woman's mind turns to thoughts of skirts and shorts and evenly coppery skintones, this young woman has to jump on the unfortunately fugly leggings bandwagon until I can fade this appaloosa nightmare into oblivion. Anyone know any cheap sandblasting contractors?