Auntie Anger: Celebrity Meltdown 2011

I may have dissed Gwyneth in my first blog post, but at least she’s not a crackhead.  Or if she is, she certainly hides it well! The year started with Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton at their usual tricks (pun certainly intended) as their wrists were slapped for offenses that would have guaranteed anyone else hard time while the public collectively rolled its eyes at the fact they both wish they could be Snooki.

Christina Aguilera decided that since she can no longer compete as a poster girl for steampunk rasta bimbo fetish prostitution that she would vie for the Worst Mother of the Century award, spending less time with her spawn than Catherine Dollanganger.   Aguilera (whose voice reminds me of a rubber balloon being pinched at the neck) is more addicted to alcohol than makeup, and if you get a look at her that is truly saying something.  Her MAC kit appears to be the industrial polymer whale sperm version with spackle knife.  There may have been a few more celebutante faux pas that I have missed, but that’s what happens when you don’t watch television and don’t care about the people on it.

Even if you live in the media-eschewing equivalent of the Unabomber’s cabin, you have probably heard how Charlie Sheen Control + Alt + Deleted his cushy Hollywood gig in a matter of a few hours.   Hysterically unapologetic, Crackie Sheen managed to be funnier in the span of two anti-Semitic hours than in his entire near-decade run on Two and a Half Men.   Have you seen the footage where he’s with his two meth-head hookers and they blather on about Charlie’s children and one of them avoids the use of the childrens’ names, probably because she cannot remember what they are?  It is David Lynch surreal.  Charlie’s kitchen counter radiates psychic disturbance as if the hot zone of every venereal disease ever visited upon man, donkey, sheep or pig is uniting with the front of schizophrenic cocaine mania.   During the interview, he refrains from the unfathomable gibberish that brought into being an entire website of his random quotes:  Nevertheless, you can see the crazy burrowing behind his eyes.  You can see the mental illness sheltering there like maggots about to explode out of a scene in Hellraiser; he’s two lines away from spewing unending bizarre vitriol from his compressed ,micro-fractured, nonagenarian jaws.

As if to show Charlie Sheen how one could flush an entire absurdly lucrative easy career in minutes instead of hours, John Galliano verbally attacked a pair of Italian women like an overbred German Shepherd.  His diet was revealed as clearly irony deficient–that’s what happens when you drink booze for breakfast, lunch, and dinner–as Goebbels would have gleefully sent Galliano to the showers with one fell glance.

I am starting to question if these celebrity wastoids intended to make us feel better about ourselves by virtue of schadenfreude alone.  Charlie Sheen insists without doubt that he is winning.  If Charlie is indeed the winner he believes he is, I will wear my loser badge with pride.

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