Sorry, ScarJo, I just can't do it.

Even though I went on and on last week about how I cashed in 120 of my hard-earned Coke Rewards points just so I could physically own Scarlett's 2006 "Sexiest Woman Alive" photo spread in last November's Esquire, I've decided after an intense cost-benefit analysis that it would not be worth dropping the better part of a Cosi salad on the April issue of Vogue, on which she is also the covergirl.

This decision is in no way a reflection of how dewy and nubile ScarJo looks in her plumsicle '50s-inspired satin Prada ensemble (my favorite) or her turquoise D&G bustier with built-in Chantilly lace bra complete with "Oh piddle, did I invite you both tonight?" expression. Not at all.

Frankly, I've just never found Vogue capable of sustaining my interest through its 400-odd pages. Even on an airplane where I don't have the lure of a playful puppy and more than 60 stored episodes of "Laguna Beach," "Real Housewives of Orange County," "The Agency" and "Nightline," I still have to take a breather at the halfway point, eat a snack and read some Kant to unwind. It's just too arduous to plow through, too riddled with ads, too humorless and in the end, just too friggin' heavy for my delicate shoulders to bear on the five-block walk home.

I have nothing but the utmost respect for the writing and the photographs gracing Vogue's pages, but I can't deny the physical exhaustion - strikingly similar to that of a poorly-paced half-marathon - I experience every time I give that magazine another chance.

The digital pictures have an additional advantage over their paper counterparts in that we have the ability to look them - Scarlett wearing her Chanel sequined microshorts and crystal-encrusted wedges, as an example - with the lights off.

If we were so inclined, that is.

Uh, anyway, here's Miss Scah-lett in this month's issue of Vogue:

Disappointing.

Dammit, maybe all that real-people work is causing Naomi to repent, after all.

How else can we explain three straight days of dressing like Brandon Lee in The Crow to an abrupt foray into the realm of, dare I call it ladylike with a purple satin ruffle, tie-front long-sleeve, wide-legged denim Hepburn trousers and barely-clearing-three-inches mahogany patent-toe granny booties?

Even Miss Naomi's bag is downplayed on day four. Instead of a highly-polished calfskin Fendi satchel, that canvas thing she's toting around probably barely set her back a single "G."

The only way you'd know you were dealing with a hard-core, doesn't-give-a-flip-what-you-think bitch are the fierce Versace shades, the slung-over-the-shoulder army boots and the cropped fur coat, which, given that it was in the mid-50s this morning in Manhattan makes it the hardest core of the hard-core outfit components.

I'm not too worried yet, but if she reports to work tomorrow, her last day, with beachy highlights, a Greek nose, a pre-packaged Zone meal and some weepy statement about how great it is to have supportive friends in times of need, my nascent relationship with Ms. Campbell will be, to use the apropos SoCal phrasing of "Laguna Beach's" Kristen Cavallari, "dunzo."

Great way to start my day.

There's nothing more frustrating than seeing someone you dislike wear a dress you love -- a dress you've coveted for months. That feeling is heightened when that someone is a pair of someones and between the two of them their biggest accomplishments are being named the most overrated young actress of 2004 and being little more than an extra on a "Laguna Beach" spin-off.

I can understand how Whitney Port has this dress - "The Hills" just had a premiere, after all - but how can Emmy Rossum, an "actress" who hasn't been in a film in three years ("The Day After Tomorrow" and "Poseidon" don't count), even afford a $500 dress? How much can hosting parties for new vodka lines and adhesive Swarovski eye crystals really pay?

Oh, that much.

So People Magazine expects me to vote for the one I think wore my 3.1 Phillip Lim asymmetrical rosette-trim cocktail dress the best? Unless there's a write-in option in which I can type something bitchy and immature, I will without hesitation press "next" and move onto Tilda Swinton and Amy Lee - two reasonable celebrities - battling it out in a gray, bow-belted Viktor & Rolf puffy coat.

Hmpf. What a way to start my day.