Now...You Too Can Smell Toxic
By now, you may have noticed Britney Spears has her own perfume called "Curious".
While I actually couldn’t care any less, it just refreshes my belief once again that we are quickly sinking into the Age of Self-Importance.
After all, this Bush-supporting bleach-blonde gum-smacking git has somehow maneuvered herself from Mickey Mouse Club personality to music idol to movie star to fashion queen and now, a perfume delegate.
Shoot, that’s a lot of jobs for a brainless twat.
Hell, even Howard Hughes kept it to 3: aviation, making movies and banging hot celebrities. Mind you, what else would any American, red-blooded obsessive-compulsive want…..well, other than a lifetime’s supply of Purell hand sanitizer.
But not anymore! It’s no longer about aviation. It’s not even about making movies. It is a little bit about bangin’ hot celebrities, but more than that, it’s all about that narcissistic whore called self-aggrandizement.
Do you really think Brit’s spending a whole lotta time in the lab with the scientists trying to get just that “curious” scent so she can help trailer trash in Middle America to smell less skank? Hells no - I’m sure the wet squib is more likely to be found on the penthouse of the Chateau Marmont demanding her dancer/hubby feed her skinless grapes while she sniffs the scent cards. “Oooo, I don’t like that one – it reminds me of temporary, fleeting splendor”.
This is why millions of people try out for shit like American Idol or Fear Factor. Instant fame. Well, instant as a bowl of luke warm instant Quaker oatmeal....and I’m talking plain, not the fancy maple and brown sugar kind…which reminds me, when are we gonna let William Hung in on the joke?
Does anyone really wanna make a difference anymore out there? Or do they just wanna grab the cash, sign some autographs, have sex with some dumb actress and make sure their name goes above the title of the movie? Hmm, me thinks the answer may be closer to not.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to engage in all of the above items. Hell, I’ve even fantasized about Halle Berry riding me around the room like a wild pinto in her Catwoman costume. “Go on, gimme the spurs, Catty!”. But those things used to be the fruits of success, not the point of it. Think JFK’s career foresight included a hummer from Marilyn Monroe in the Lincoln bedroom?
Okay, bad example.
Still, point is, just once I’d like to meet someone who wants to succeed to be successful. To earn their glory with integrity, not just take the magical instant superstar pill given the chance…
Well…as long as that person knows who I am and asks for my autograph anyway.
While I actually couldn’t care any less, it just refreshes my belief once again that we are quickly sinking into the Age of Self-Importance.
After all, this Bush-supporting bleach-blonde gum-smacking git has somehow maneuvered herself from Mickey Mouse Club personality to music idol to movie star to fashion queen and now, a perfume delegate.
Shoot, that’s a lot of jobs for a brainless twat.
Hell, even Howard Hughes kept it to 3: aviation, making movies and banging hot celebrities. Mind you, what else would any American, red-blooded obsessive-compulsive want…..well, other than a lifetime’s supply of Purell hand sanitizer.
But not anymore! It’s no longer about aviation. It’s not even about making movies. It is a little bit about bangin’ hot celebrities, but more than that, it’s all about that narcissistic whore called self-aggrandizement.
Do you really think Brit’s spending a whole lotta time in the lab with the scientists trying to get just that “curious” scent so she can help trailer trash in Middle America to smell less skank? Hells no - I’m sure the wet squib is more likely to be found on the penthouse of the Chateau Marmont demanding her dancer/hubby feed her skinless grapes while she sniffs the scent cards. “Oooo, I don’t like that one – it reminds me of temporary, fleeting splendor”.
This is why millions of people try out for shit like American Idol or Fear Factor. Instant fame. Well, instant as a bowl of luke warm instant Quaker oatmeal....and I’m talking plain, not the fancy maple and brown sugar kind…which reminds me, when are we gonna let William Hung in on the joke?
Does anyone really wanna make a difference anymore out there? Or do they just wanna grab the cash, sign some autographs, have sex with some dumb actress and make sure their name goes above the title of the movie? Hmm, me thinks the answer may be closer to not.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to engage in all of the above items. Hell, I’ve even fantasized about Halle Berry riding me around the room like a wild pinto in her Catwoman costume. “Go on, gimme the spurs, Catty!”. But those things used to be the fruits of success, not the point of it. Think JFK’s career foresight included a hummer from Marilyn Monroe in the Lincoln bedroom?
Okay, bad example.
Still, point is, just once I’d like to meet someone who wants to succeed to be successful. To earn their glory with integrity, not just take the magical instant superstar pill given the chance…
Well…as long as that person knows who I am and asks for my autograph anyway.
posted by Saucy Monk at 7:05 AM
1 Comments:
Every time I see a closeup of Britney's vacant mug I am traumatized by the narcotized emptiness that emanates from her her beady little brown dung beetle eyes.
Am I the only one not impressed by her bowlegged double-jointed "dancing?"
Pop culture bothers me. I stick to watching VH1 specials about pop culture from previous decades, back when I cared.
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