Undressed for Oct. 14

That Sinking Feline: Paris Hilton loves animals, even if her warm and fuzzy feelings for all creatures great and small (all right, mostly small) aren't always returned in kind. Remember when her once ubiquitous lapdog Tinkerbell made an unsuccessful break for freedom, or that time her pet kinkajou Baby Luv chomped on her arm? Recently, the reverse Dr. Dolittle plunked down $4,500 for a miniature teacup porker she's cleverly christened Princess Pigelette. Unfortunately, it won't take long for the oinker to realize that it wasn't Hilton's first choice for a new pet. That honor goes to the super-cuddly leopard. See, for years Hilton has tried to add a majestic feline to her pint-sized menagerie, only to have boring old guy after boring old guy warn her about "predator" this and "man-eating" that. Whatever. She isn't about to give up on her big cat dream. The starlet keeps hope alive by vowing to cover herself in spots until the day comes when she has her very own leopard BFF to claw at her frenemies. And while some might consider donning speckled leggings with a complementary purse, headband and jacket a case of animal print overkill, for the sartorially self-indulgent Paris, it's just the right amount of kill.

Take a dive into the Paris Hilton Sleazy Boyfriend Pool

And Now for Something Compleatly Different: Jessica Alba has unwittingly discovered a phenomenon as rare as a dodo bird staring at a total solar eclipse: an outfit that would be improved by the addition of lederhosen. That little touch of Bavaria would bring some logic to her seasonally inconsistent decision to wear oversized, pleated shorts with knee-high socks, a color-coordinated cardigan and suede boots. Then again, Jessica's duds might be the surest sign yet of how committed she is to being taken seriously as a thespian, because any bombshell worth her saltwater-soaked string bikini knows that even the hottest hottie is no match against the sexiness-depleting power of wrinkly pleats.

Runaway Train Wreck: Pamela Anderson recently denied reports that she's in dire financial straits, but this picture says otherwise. The worse-for-wear bombshell fights to keep her heavily lashed eyes open at the Hollywood Style Awards (go ahead and take a second to chuckle at the irony -- we'll wait) in a dilapidated, safety-pinned dress apparently created on the cheap using a pink satin sheet ripped off a much-abused waterbed from her leaked-sex-tape-heyday as Mrs. Tommy Lee. It also looks like Pam can no longer afford the lackey-stuffed lifestyle to which she's become accustomed and has resorted to cheap child labor. Anderson has forced an adorable but terrified-looking little girl to hold up her lengthy train, a swath of floor-grazing material that would have been better utilized around her much-seen swimsuit area. But even though Pam's fiscal outlook isn't nearly as buoyant as her surprisingly underexposed (for the moment, anyway) yabbos, it's a comfort to know that she still has enough money to buy underwear, a fact she repeatedly proved as she posed. Here's hoping she has enough cash left over to cover that poor tyke's sure-to-be-sizable therapy bill.

What's Thong With This Picture? Few celebrities tug at our underused heartstrings quite like Jessica Simpson. She seems so genuinely sweet and harmless that when something bad happens to her, like getting dumped on the eve of her birthday or having her beloved pooch snatched by a coyote, our impulse is to cut her some slack for her often dubious style choices. But, as you can see, Jessica has forced our hand. From the front, her diaphanous jumpsuit is merely unbecoming and woefully dated, with the two-buttoned, tuxedo-lapel-bedecked halter-top doing very unfortunate things to the lovely starlet's very covetable figure. The real problem, however, is in the back, where the one-piece's sheer black fabric tragically collides with a pair of lacy white underpants. Jessica seems to need a refresher course on the concept of a thong, because, while she appears to grasp that it has something to do with the heartbreak of a visible panty line, she hasn't yet figured out that actually concealing those lines is the main objective.

Is this look better or worse than Jessica's geisha garb?

One Gray at a Time: For months, Penelope Cruz has been dogged by stork chatter, and, despite brushing off the rumors not once but twice, she remains under intense belly scrutiny whenever she hits the red carpet. For the New York premiere of "Broken Embraces," her latest collaboration with director Pedro Almodovar, the sublime Spanish Oscar winner attempts to combat the unwelcome examination of her womb with layers. Lots and lots of gunmetal gray layers. She swims inside an asymmetrical, zipper-accented vest topped with a puffy-shouldered leather jacket that has an air of Member's Only about it. (And that air? It stinks of Drakkar Noir and acid-wash.) Together, they form a bulky, Kevlar-like pairing that's guaranteed to ward off both prying eyes and stray bullets. Penelope seals off her monochrome wall of designer dinginess with a satin skirt fringed with an unfinished hemline, a schlumpy choice that she might have been better off swapping for a mid-'80s pair of totally awesome Z. Cavaricci pants.

Peeping Up With the Kardashians: Thanks to her hasty wedding to Los Angeles Lakers star Lamar Odom, Khloe Kardashian is enjoying a level of fame that's almost on par with sister Kim's comparably talented posterior and sister Kourtney's more publicity-savvy fetus. And rest assured that she's not about to let this golden opportunity go to waste. A little more than two weeks after the statuesque brunette committed to forever with a man she'd known for 30 days (30 truly deep and meaningful days, of course), she holds tightly to him on the red carpet while sporting a clingy, mesh cutout minidress that captures the essence of their fledgling romance. In other words, it's transparent, spotlight-grabbing, lacking the proper foundation (garments) and flimsier than a Kleenex in a hurricane.

Purple Craze: No, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you. That's not Norma Desmond suddenly come to life in all her faded, aging glory, although it's an easy mistake to make. Like the past-her-prime "Sunset Boulevard" legend, Lindsay Lohan used to be big, and, as much as she might like to think otherwise, it's not the pictures that got small (too bad the same can't be said for her alarmingly blubbery lips). Still, the spiraling starlet grabs hold of her remaining fame and takes a stab at haute couture drama during Paris Fashion Week, where she was oh-so-stylishly eviscerated for her work as the "artistic adviser" on Ungaro's latest collection. Color us shocked that Lindsay's designer gig crashed and burned. We figured the leggings-addicted actress had an unerring eye for what women want to wear, which, if we're going by this outfit, is an upscale, Barney-infused version of the Slanket, otherwise known as the blanket with sleeves.

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Things You Can Tell Chest by Looking at Her: Mariah Carey beams as she arrives at the New York premiere of her new flick, "Precious." Let's listen in to what she's saying to husband Nick Cannon, shall we?

Mariah: How hot am I? Really hot, right? My signature "jumbo cantaloupes crammed into extra-small sausage casing" style hasn't let me down once in 20 years. And the way I'm going, it'll do me right for 20 more. Don't you think?

Nick: Yes, dear.

Mariah: Did I tell you I'm getting rave reviews for bravely agreeing to look like an ordinary person in the film? I hope my adoring public understands that's just movie magic. I had a fake schnoz and everything, just like Nicole Kidman did when she got ugly and won an Oscar. But look at me now. Flawless. And my girls? Nothing ordinary about them. Right, honey?

Nick: Yes, dear.

Mariah: And check it out: I feel so confident with my foxy cleavage, curves and curls that I don't even mind if photographers take pictures of the left side of my face. Am I smokin' or am I smokin'? ... Hey, answer me when I ask you a question! I'm smokin', right?

Nick: Yes, dear.

Mariah: I knew it.

The Garter They Come, the Garter They Fall: If ever there was a time to take your avant-garde, piping-hot-off-the-runway couture for a test drive, it's during the style free-for-all that is Paris Fashion Week. But even a trendsetter like Rihanna must take precautions in the ultra-sophisticated City of Light, where a creased gray minidress and a Bumpits-supported pompadour created from chunks of vintage Elvis locks might not cut it. The solution? Protective gear. The chanteuse not only straps on fishing boots to wade through the sea of barb-flinging fashion critics, but she also breaks out a pair of safety glasses from her high school chemistry class to guard against any angrily flung copies of Vogue.

Joan of Arc-tic: Do you feel that chill? The one that creeps up your spine and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up straighter than Tom Cruise giving a demonstration on good posture? It's what comes from staring into the cold, dark abyss that was once occupied by Joan Rivers' eyeballs. And from the looks of it, the veteran comedian is experiencing the same flesh-crawling frigidness. Not that we're surprised. For someone as obsessed with appearance as she is, a mirror is as essential as oxygen (or at least the oxygen tank at her plastic surgeon's office). To combat what is likely turning into a permanent case of hypothermia from the hours spent staring into her own soulless peepers, Joan needs heavy-duty warmth, the kind that only comes from swaddling oneself in a craftsy quilt made from the toastiest material in the universe: authentic Wookiee fur.

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I Scream of Genie: Thank you, Sienna Miller, for reminding us why the clock will never strike Hammer Time again. The actress-cum-Vogue magazine darling falls victim to an incurable case of extreme chicness as she billows her way into a sit-down with David Letterman. Sienna, we realize fashion overlord Anna Wintour has anointed you a future style icon, but no matter how fabulous your strappy stilettos are or how prettily your delicate golden shrug glitters against your buttery blond Jennifer Aniston-esque highlights, nothing, and we mean nothing, will convince us to flap around in harem pants from Aladdin's clothing line for husky boys. Perhaps somewhere in the recesses of Miller's dive-bombing crotch and draping, butt- and hip-replacing saddlebags, there's a magic lamp we can rub that will grant our wish to rid the world of this saggy scourge once and for all.

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