I Love Your Work...

It's been a few days since I've written a post but I've been going through a really bad bout of depression. First there was the news K-Fed had pumped Britney more times than a Texas oil well. Then there was the big scare anthropologists thought Paris might NOT be as big a stupid whore as first thought. (Too close for comfort on that one is all I can say.) And then this week's news that Lindsay Whorhan and her boy/girlfriend Sam are moving to Dubai. (After of course, they whip off their trousers to get into Tommy Lee's dressing room when they stop off to say good by. New rule.) It's almost more than an emotionally sensitive, in touch with his inner child guy such as myself can take.

Hero-Worship in this country is at such an epidemic level it gets Props and a case of Cristal sent over from the Ebola virus' private booth at The Viper Room. What is it that causes people to sideline what little common sense they have and drool over every tidbit of celebrity lives like feral dogs in a South African garbage dump looking at a new born baby?

When Kooky Spooky Spice, Victoria Beckham, changed her hairstyle to a “Pixie Crop” by putting her head in a blender and hoping for the best, women stampeded to hair salons in the UK. with newspaper clippings of Ms. Spooky in order to achieve their life long goal of removing any last remnants of individuality from their lives.

Now correct me if I'm wrong. But this pipe-cleaner makes an Auschwitz survivor look like Rosie O'Donnell after she belly-flopped into a swimming pool full of Ben & Jerry's. For God's sake, pick up some Mickey D's, grab a doughnut, swallow next time you give Davy B. the 'ol hummer.

J. Lo: “Has anybody got a cross, some garlic? A spare wooden stake perhaps?”

After the stolen video of Tommy Lee pounding Pam's Smurf-Puss, -which looked more like one of those hairless cats, than something you'd want to stick your dick in,- hit triple digits, every 'Never should be seen naked on film' celebrity in Hollywood was triple-booking plumbers, roofers and window washers in the hopes one of them would somehow stumble across the VHS tape labeled: “Taking it in the face after I took it in the ass. For our eyes only. PRIVATE! PRIVATE! PRIVATE!” duct-taped to the outside of the mailbox.

I have 'em all. (Purely for research purposes.) From Tonya Harding spooge juggling to Ray J splitting Kardashian's onion. And there are two things I've learned after watching these sexual-thespian masterpieces over and over and over and over. Stupid people should not be allowed to own video cameras, and that I fuck way better than I thought I did.

The socially criminal side of this sequin obsession is the intrusion into the most emotionally private parts of the lives of the famous. The excuse that these people have given up all expectation of privacy by virtue of their career choice is as hollow as the heads of the Cabbage Patch putzes that shred the National Enquirer so they can sprinkle it on their Corn Flakes. The death of John Travolta's son last Friday is a hands-off subject. If the Fagarazzi are going to sit in a boat off the beach of Travolta's place, a Predator drone should be dispatched and melt them into a glass surfboard.

If the picture snapping jackal-pac follows Michelle Williams and her daughter, two guys from Blackwater should step out of an alley, put one of those parasites against the nearest wall and blow his fucking brains all over the rest of them. Problem solved.

Our obsession with the lives of the famous is often explained with the logic that their lives are so much different than ours. More exciting, beautiful, exotic, nothing but shits and giggles 24-7.

Bullshit. I've lived and worked with these people for years, and their lives are in such a constant state of derailment Amtrak is considering suing for trademark infringement. If any of us had the money, adulation and preferred parking these narcissistic space aliens do, we'd slip quietly out of town and resettle on a yet-to-be-discovered, tax free island before our 1986 Buick driving, meth addled relatives knew we were gone.

The every hour of the day monitoring of Angelina Blowme and her tragic hang-nail condition is just one more symptom of this country's downward spiral into a National Motto of: Don't Worry About Me. Let Me Worry About You.

If you think the Star's lives are more interesting and tragic than your neighbor's. You're wrong.

If you think there's a difference between the Star's sex lives and your neighbor's. You're right.

The only ones videoing your neighbor's is you.

I gotta go. Brad P's on the phone and he wants a pinky massage before FedEx arrives with the Hawaiian sunset he ordered for later this afternoon.

Keep The Faith