Help! I’m addicted to cheesy celebrity gossip sites!
Hi. My name is Jackson, and I am a gossip site-oholic. Or something like that. And yes, with all the wonderful information available on the Internet — art, science, history, philosophy — why is it I gravitate toward sites that report the doings of White Oprah, her mesh-shirted ex and their daughters, one of them a 23-going-on-69 pillhead and the other 16-going-on-at-least-45, along with that possum-headed beeyotch with her tiny-peened skankbanging now ex-hubby and, um, the Oscar-winning actress, her douchetastic husband and the “Nazi swamp pussy” that particular dumbshit was nailing on the side?
I dunno. It’s kind of a character defect of mine. I guess I just like to get down in the mud and roll around with the pigs every day, because to continually do something more elevated would leave me in a state of emptiness resembling boredom? Or maybe it’s a way of honoring my dark side, that inner douchebag that secretly wants to get all messed up on Elvis drugs, listen to loud wanky post-metal, smoke some unholy Viagra-cocaine combo in a glass pipe and then have raucous sex with skanky tattooed women, preferably working in teams.
Oh, and eat Cap’n Crunch for breakfast, too.
So, rather than act out on bad behavior, I can go to Crazy Days and Nights or Dlisted or any number of other trashy destinations and catch up on the doings of various turbo-narcissistic and poly-addicted celebrities with huge entitlement issues, some of which will make me laugh while others make me cringe, and there’s a thin line between laughing and cringing so what the hey. Wheeeee! And even though everyone I read about has way more money than me, more than enough money to get them into laughably staggering, Ed Hardy-wearing, OxyContin-fueled public debacles, I can read about their travails and exploits, resting assured in the knowledge that, as black as my little heart may be, I’m not thaaaat bad, now am I? Am I?
I guess I’m just continually astonished at the potent cocktail of stupidity, narcissism and insanity that gets served up daily by celebrity culture, and maybe I need a daily fix of this swill to make me feel better about my impoverished, utterly humdrum life. Or maybe I just like watching trains collide at maximum speed. Or perhaps it’s just a weird little twist on the spiritual practice of reminding ourselves that we are all fallen beings who must be redeemed, except that I’m a Buddhist and don’t think we are born fallen but that we get that way by willful behavior like, oh, deriving prurient pleasure from snarking on stupid websites like these.
Oh, fuck it. I don’t feel guilty about my pleasures in the least. I’ll own them. And you? —Jackson Griffith