Do you not realize that because you are celebrities, people look up to you, emulate you, want to be you. And by people, I’m referring to teenaged girls and other speculative members of our species who have a spotty sense of “self.” (Closeted gay guys, I’m looking at you.)
Why do you celebrities insist upon thumbing your noses at good sense and common decency? Disclaimer: I swear like a fucking gangbanging career criminal with an incurable case of crabs, but if our featured ladies exhibited only a dirty mouth for bad behavior, I’d invite those sistahs over for snacks and shit. The prob is that they just drip and ooze with poor choices.
Disclaimer 2: Okay. It’s not like I’m saying I’ve never made any poor choices. God. I mean honestly. I have a string of ex-husbands as long as my arm, and have you seen my hideously lumpy thighs lately? But I’m not on magazine covers.
First up. Gwyneth Paltrow, who has to be THE most clueless woman on the planet besides the mother of the Tsarnaev brothers, who claims that “America stole her sons,” and that “they were framed.” I did not know women of her faith were even allowed to smoke weed.
But I digress. Gwyneth. Gackkk. Even her name makes me want to puke up food I haven’t eaten yet and re-eat it just so I can puke again. It’s like her parents prayed to the god of myshitdon’tstink for a name that would just scream Park Avenue and organic-produce-that-costs-more-than-your-car-payment-because-I-can. I am entirely convinced that she pays people to clean her poor children’s asses with gold-infused and lavender-scented moist-wipes so that their psyches will not be soiled.
The woman—who just received the prestigious “World’s Most Beautiful Woman” award from People magazine because after a series of American Idol-like rounds through which every, single female on the planet was judged on beauty, Gwyneth WON!—posts her every whimsical idea about how people should live and “nourish their inner something or other” on the most condescending website ever created. Is it ironic that its name rhymes with poop?
Ms. Paltrow enlightens her subscribers with all kinds of useful advice like how to make life all meaningful and cozy with yoga at the $1000-a-month gym, and $90 t-shirts, and $300 family dinner ingredients. And then she shows up on the red carpet for the premier of her latest superhero sequel—for which she is a shoo-in for another Academy Award nomination, I’m sure—in a dress that has peek-a-boo panels, like, all over.
I’m thinking somewhere along the line, the meaning of “penthouse view” in her mind went a little wonky. One little fabric slippage, and we’d have been all up in her business. Frankly, I don’t want to be that intimate with Gwyneth’s “inner something.” Although I’m sure it smells like lilac and crystal stemware.
Speaking of wardrobe issues, is there something that celebrities have against pants? Maybe they give Beyoncé a rash, but that girl hasn’t seen a pair of pants since 1982. Has there ever been a woman more in love with her own crotch? She seems to be stuck in an eternal pose that is hell-bent on proving how good her Brazilian waxer is. I’m thrilled shitless, Ms. Knowles, that you have the stubble-less bikini zone of a toddler. Yay. You don’t have to keep showing everybody.
And speaking of “showing everybody,” boy did that Reese Witherspoon prove to the world what a “somebody” she is. She went down to Georgia and may or may not have gotten her ass good and drunk, and then when her husband got pulled over for drunk driving, she played the old “Do you know who I am?!?!” card. Yes, yes! We know who you are! Just another in a long line of entitled, spoiled, rich girls whose souls were on the bargain table at the devil’s garage sale.
Now that we’ve all seen way more of these class acts than we ever wanted, couldn’t we get a little reprieve? I promise that will be all the inner nourishment we need.
