It's just too easy to be enraged now. I was reading a recent New Yorker, and I started with a book review of three separate books on the 'Bush Dynasty,' then immediately afterward I began reading an article about Egypt's militant Muslim factions, and I had to put the magazine down and go watch Newlyweds. I just couldn't handle anymore idiocy. It's not even news anymore when the President lies or tries to implement some new crazy strategy. At this point, Bush could project pink bunnies from his bum and I wouldn't bat an eye. I can waste no more energy, as I have none.
For politics, that is. I always have time for my BritBrit! No prenup? No problem! Kevvy's got his own illustrious career as a breakdancer. So eat that, Lynne Spears! Oh, wait. It's not 1982? Shite. Luckily Federline has his modeling career to fall back on. Oh, wait. I forgot that he's kind of ugly, and not in a good way. Get ready to say "Bye Bye Bye" to half of your cheese, my little fat dumpling Brit! Wait. Who sings "Bye Bye Bye?"
This is why I love Star Magazine so.
I saw Anchorman this weekend. It was a very strange movie. If it wasn't so funny it would have been the worst movie ever made. Does that make any sense? It doesn't? Shut up.
I don't know about you, but Ashlee Simpson makes me want to cry sweet tears of angst over the death of music altogether. Sure, I'll watch her show, because it makes me feel better about my life. But stand one second of her recycled, banal, mediocre to the point of new revelation in ennui, dare I say, record? Sure, why the hell not. I don't have the creativity to waste on music taste anymore, remember? I have to finish a horrible novel as well as lay daily eggs of horror at the state of this country. Bring on the Shania Twain, I say! Did somebody say Hulk Hogan's daughter sings now? Excellent! Where do I plug in my iPod, yo?
Courtney Love had an abortion. No, no, I meant she just has a 'gynecological problem.' And it's not drug-related, so just stop it. I'm serious, you guys, really. It's not drugs! They're prescription, anyway, for the, you know, 'gynecological problem.' Otherwise known as 'heroin dry-womb.'
Whatever happened to Warren G? Ini Kamoze? Rage? I'm sure these questions will be answered on VH1's "I Love the 90s," a.k.a. "Too Close to the Bone," a.k.a. "We Can't Play That Maroon 5 Song All Day, So We've Come Up With This Shit to Appease You in the Meantime. Please Watch Us!!" I've already viewed the 1990 episode. I was ten in 1990. TEN. I was drawing "Peace in the Middle East" posters in Mrs. Castle's class and making fun of Tina Statts, who picked her nose and ate it. My mom told me Michael Bolton was cool, I believed her. I mean, really, how AM I supposed to live without you? How??
It was a clear black night...and by the way, the rhythm is the base and the base is the treble, beyotch.