Only four fabulous ladies remain to duke it out for the title of Fabbest of them All. 

DIANE KRUGER vs. ELIZABETH BANKS

Diane: Here we go, bitches! The Final Four! The end is in sight, April is approaching, and I’m almost ready to lay down my weapons and be crowned champion.

Elizabeth: Well, it’s not over yet, Diane. You still have to defeat me, and the power of my Hunger Games press tour looks, which are nothing if not fabulous.

Diane: I’d consider us two peas in a pod, with you in Versace and me in their diffusion line. But clearly, I have no fear of side cut-outs, unlike some lame celebrities I might mention.

Elizabeth: I’m not afraid of anything, Diane. Not when it comes to fashion. I will prove this with a series of jaw-droppingly bright and bold dresses.

Diane: And I will use this time to prove, time and time again, that I can pull off anything and everything that mere mortals couldn’t even dream of wearing.

Elizabeth: Have we entered some sort of trial where we need to, like, prove things? Or is that just a symptom of the Democracy Diva orchestrating this battle while she’s sitting in a mock trial?

Diane: Yes! The Diva is the judge, the dear readers are the jury, and we’re just really sparkly evidence!

Elizabeth: Seriously? We’re not like, lawyers, or witnesses, or something? We’re EVIDENCE? That seems kind of disempowering.

Diane: But we’re really FANCY evidence that looks super pretty and is admissible to prove how fucking glamorous we are! I mean, how glamorous I am. You’re alright, I guess.

Elizabeth: No, moron. We’re the lawyers, and the clothes are the evidence we’re presenting! That way we can be all, Exhibit A: ridiculously fierce brass-knuckled McQueen clutch. BOOM. Lawyered.

Diane: Fine, opposing counsel. I think your latest “exhibit” is tacky and lame.

Elizabeth: Um, excuse me? You don’t talk about fuchsia Marc Jacobs dresses like that. EVER.

Diane: I’m just trying to tell you that you’re fighting a war you cannot possibly win, Lizzie. I’m the fucking William Jennings Bryan of litigating fashion battles.

Elizabeth: I have no idea what that means.

Diane: It means I can float down a red carpet at the Cannes Film Festival like some sort of angel/mermaid hybrid that can pull off this seafoam color with aplomb.

Elizabeth: Aplomb? Get off your high horse, Diane, and just talk like a normal human being, okay?

Diane: First of all, I’m not on a high horse. I’m just aware of the fact that by owning a purse shaped like a giant domino, I am cooler than every other woman in Hollywood.

Elizabeth: Oh, yeah? Wear head-to-toe yellow as bright as the sun and then tell me who looks cooler. I mean, how many different black, white, and gray outfits can one woman possibly own?

Diane: When it looks as good as this Dior does, you really only need one.

Elizabeth: You can fear color all you like, Diane. My love of bold shades will win me this battle, hands down.

EMMA STONE vs. EMMA WATSON

Stone: Alright, Watson. We’ve had this battle before – in fact, last year’s March Fabness culminated in an EMMA VS. EMMA final round smackdown so dangerously fabulous, it wasn’t even safe to hit the red carpet for weeks afterwards.

Watson: Not safe for you, maybe. Because I kicked your ass.

Stone: Yeah, but only because people have this THING about loving Hermione so much that they basically believe you can do no wrong. I mean, that has to be the reason, because your two consecutive victories certainly can’t be based on that hot mess of a dress you’ve got on now.

Watson: Just because you’re terrified of mixed prints doesn’t mean you have to get all bent out of shape about it.

Stone: Um, my dress is watercolor on top of flowers, and yours is black and boring. Who’s afraid of prints now, bitch?

Watson: I’m afraid of contracting conjunctivitis from you based on how pink your eyes are, that’s for sure.

Stone: First of all, pink eye is SO in this season. Second, don’t think that you can beat me in a ladypants battle. Not when my ladypants are green, Calvin Klein, and phenomenally adorable.

Watson: You look like a salamander. Not that I can really describe what those look like, but if I had to guess, they’d quite closely resemble whatever the hell it is you’re wearing now.

Stone: At least I know how to wear a little black dress. Word to the wise, Watson: You’re not supposed to wear them over pants.

Watson: What’s the point of being a little bit hipster if I can’t rock a dress/pants combo once in awhile?

Stone: Can’t you just stick to the classics, like me? I mean, must every dress you wear be this overdesigned and, well, butt-ugly?

Watson: My grandma called – she’d like her shoes back.

Stone: Like Macklemore, I wear your grandma’s clothes, and I look incredible. Unlike Macklemore, I would not be caught dead in a thrift shop.

Watson: Finally, something we can agree on! I mean, clothes other people have already worn?! I don’t even like wearing things that aren’t custom-made for me!

Stone: Please don’t tell me that hideous thing you’re wearing now was custom-made for you, Watson. Because that was a serious waste of time – you look like a very wealthy mental patient in some futuristic plane of existence.

Watson: That sounds awesome to me. You, on the other hand, look like a cougar trying to reclaim her youth.

Stone: If you think my style is so lame, stop copying me! I INVENTED little white dresses with floral embellishments, bitch.

Watson: That’s not even remotely true.

Stone: I’ve had enough of this obnoxious banter. Let’s let the dear readers kick you out of this competition once and for all.

Watson: In your dreams, Stone.

—
© Democracy Diva, 2013.
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