No Guts, No Tori: Yeah, we'll give you a second to process this one. No, really, take your time, drink it in, we'll wait. ... OK, ready? So, in case you didn't recognize her under that neon-orange wig cross-bred from the follicles of homicidal doll Chucky and a bandage-clad Milla Jovovich... that's Tori Amos, she of the emotional, piano-accompanied ditties and rabid fan base. In the chanteuse's defense, she was at Comic-Con, a safe place to let your inner kook out for a little air, although that doesn't give her license to gut an innocent beanbag chair, throw a belt around it and call it a dress. It also doesn't excuse the droopy black material surrounding Tori's calves and feet, although, curiously, not her toes. Granted, it isn't easy accessorizing a hollowed-out novelty cushion, but come on, at least try to find something resembling actual footwear, and not extra-thick leg warmers glued to a pair of sandals, or drafty moon boots, or -- and we're just spitballing here -- Batman's cross-dressing shoe of choice.
I adore this bitch, but sometimes, she just needs to calm down with the batshit.