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."

Work that dumpster, girl.

I didn't think it was that interesting of a story anymore, but upon seeing the threads Naomi Campbell has worn over the last three days while reporting to trash duty, sweeping school, or whatever the hell she's been tasked to do as penance for flinging a cell phone at her assistant - which, considering this assistant lost her favorite pair of jeans, I think got off fairly easily - I'm now inclined to think there's more here than I initially thought.

Considering her image as a conscience-less diva bitch who occasionally emerges from her fiery lair to attend court proceedings and date younger men, why would Ms. Campbell show up to Swiffer in $10,000+ outfits, carry not one but two designer handbags and aside from the red soles of her Louboutin stilettos, sport nothing but black?

The only answer I can come up with is that she just doesn't care. Girl knows she got caught, and even though she doesn't want to get up before 11am and not shop for 36-inch inseam high-waisted crepe trousers, she knows she has no choice. She knows that if she doesn't do exactly what the man in the black robe ordered her to do, she might have to go even longer without Champagne brunches, Evian baths and failed restaurant ventures.

So fine, these outfits say, she'll do your dirty work and "apologize" for the awful, horrible wrong she's committed, but there will be absolutely no introspection, no lessons learned and no promises that any other inanimate, around-the-house objects - the phone or the help - won't meet with a similar fate in the future.

She's not here to convince the other criminals, the city employees or any of us who download pictures of her walking from her chauffeured car to the front door of the NYC Sanitation Department that she's not as awful as we think she is, because she is and she knows it, and she's fine with it.

And that attitude makes me smile, because it proves to me once again how much we need women like Naomi around to remind us just how boring and unfashionable life would be if the world was only filled with law-abiding, equal-playing-time-supporting, gosh-darn-she's-so-nice Jennifer Aniston types.

Naomi, looking trash-collector chic on days one through three of her five-day sentence: