First, I'd just like to note that Lindsay Lohan's love life is none of my business. She can flash that thigh bruise to any stranger she'd like, and she actually seems well-suited to greasy-haired Italian men with slight paunches. I understand, also, that over a 24-hour-period, she's allowed three different men of various levels of unattractiveness break her phantom hymen. Good for her. If you gotta trade that blow addiction in for another addiction, you can hardly beat a cock addiction. That's what Freud said, anyway.

But, seriously unnamed greasy-haired Italian dude, I really must advise against denim intercourse with Lindsay Lohan. Granted, putting a layer of denim between yourself and the little bugs that live inside LL's hooha is probably a smart idea. But, unless there's something about physics and Newton that I don't understand, your swimmers will never make it to the Firecrotch gloryland. And if your seed can't find purchase, there's no potential for a fetal-alcohol-addled love child. And therefore, unnamed greasy-haired Italian dude, there's no baby-daddy buy-off money. And really, if there's no gold pot on the other side of the rainbow, then all your doing here is giving yourself a chafed penis. And no woman is worth a chafed penis.