The Kardashian morons, Brad and Angelina, Ashton and Demi, and even those space cadet freaks Tom and Katie captivate our apathetic nation with every silly little mundane life task they accomplish.
By some disconcerting quirk of fate, I’ve become a repository for all things celebrity. Maybe it has something to do with the persistent onslaught of reality television that’s been thrown into our living rooms the past few years that feeds our salacious infatuation with other people’s lives.
I personally don’t ever recall having any weird fascination with anyone famous. OK, so I did have a brief infatuation with the cast from “Land of the Lost” when I was just a wee lad. Then again, I never really had any pervasive preoccupation with who Will was dating, or if Holly was ever going to find the right guy. And don’t even get me started on the Sleestaks.
It recently hit me that I wasn’t familiar with where this current blitzkrieg of voyeuristic media germinated. Whose fertile mind sprung the invasion that riddles our daily broadcasts or magazine covers?
I guess documentaries were the first foray into examining our lives unfettered by the formulaic action of Hollywood’s interference.
After that, reality took on a whole other face. You can’t leisurely flip a channel anymore without finding a television program that deals with either reality or celebrities in a general sense.
The worst part is that I can’t keep my eyes off all of these lurid magazines that they so leisurely place near the checkout lines. I have an encyclopedic knowledge of who Penn Badgely is dating, how Britney’s coping with sobriety, why Reese is mad at Jake Gyllenhaal, and what the hot new latest fall fashion is. I’m so pathetic, it hurts my feelings to even look in the mirror sometimes.
Just a quick sidenote: Paris Hilton is neither a celebrity nor has any semblance of talent. By poor karmic rendition, she inherited a disturbing sum of money, then had boring intercourse on the Internet. She has eerily been extending her 15 minutes of fame to near obscene proportions.
As we speak, I’m sure our golden dilettante reeks of champagne, a smattered mixture of cologne, perfume and cheap condoms. If that’s not class, I don’t know what is.
In all honesty, is that someone we want to glamorize through our vapid and morose media? Or Lindsey Lohan and her increasingly energetic sprint toward the downward spiral. Or perhaps the rapidly dwindling Olsen twins and their focal intent on becoming billionaire bag ladies.
Wait, aren’t we still fighting two wars? And our economy is still in the crapper? Never mind, I’ll just keep reading about pointless celebrities and their legion of failed relationships, drug abuse and gaudy spending. I’m sure that will assuage the rest of our brainless lemmings into thinking that Hollywood is actually important.
Personally, I wouldn’t give two flushes if all of Hollywood sunk into the Pacific Ocean. They mean so little to me on the grand scale, yet we bestow so much adoration and praise to these people, it’s just sad.
That grating irritation you feel is the realization that B-list actors, musicians and celebutards make more money than any teacher, firefighter or police officer you know.
So, save your hero worship and misguided adulation for those people who actually live their lives and make their living by trying to further humanity. Because they actually deserve it.
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