The Random Griffith

Famewhores have totally ruined being famous

Posted in celebrity ooze by Jackson Griffith on 11/05/2010

Time for my Polident-flavored Andy Rooney imitation: Gosh darn it, what the heck’s wrong with all these famewhores today? Back in my day, celebrities had a modicum of class, and men wore stylish suits, and women all carried themselves like Audrey Hepburn. But these days, well, you aren’t anybody unless you’ve got a sex tape.

No, you can’t get ahead in show business unless you’re ready to spread a little talent in the boudoir for the cameras. And the stakes keep getting upped, too. First, Paris Hilton demonstrated the bored — and boring — insouciance of pathetically stupid little rich girls trying to buy their way to relevance by filming the ick nast in military-style night vision, which at least resulted in a pretty great South Park episode. Of course, someone had to up the ante, and a social climber and future mocha Jocelyn Wildenstein-style catwoman named Quim Lardassian had to do it with rapper and Brandy brother Ray J, who went all barky-bark in it by lifting his leg on her, no doubt mistaking that badonka-donkesque — and some would say surgically enhanced — gluteus maximus for a fire hydrant.

And now, this Kendra Wilkinson, who already let Hugh Hefner put on his smoking jacket and lay some pipe — and we’re talking about a mighty ancient meerschaum here — who’s upping the ante again. Apparently Vivid Entertainment, a company that specializes in non-Disney kiddie fare, got its hands on some horizontal entertainment featuring Wilkinson and “multiple partners.” Given the context of the statement, let’s assume the company is talking about what’s colloquially called a “gangbang,” or at least a “double-teaming” or a “three-way.”

Now, I’ve got nothing against a good porn tape. Heaven knows, wankflicks have provided many businessmen, and women, a decent happy ending while ensconced in hotels on the road, happy endings that didn’t involve the kind of room service that got Eliot Spitzer in so much trouble. My beef, instead, lies in the aforementioned ante getting upped. What’s next? Tila Tequila doing it with a German Shepherd? Someone from The Hills, desperate for the waning attention of the public, getting all oiled up and climbing into a kennel, or Lindsay Lohan and her mom and sister, or Jwoww and Snooki from Jersey Shore, venturing to Tijuana for consort with multiple donkeys?

I guess I’m just mildly crestfallen that skanks have taken over being famous, and that now you have to do something truly skanky to get anyone to pay attention to you. When I grew up (he says, gumming a bran muffin that helps him stay “regular”), stars had class, and Holly Golightly would never do the fucklebuck with some bling-encrusted cad, or the family pooch, nor would she cavort with a stripper pole on national television; she would save her charms for some lucky lad to enjoy in private. Gosh darn it. Heck whiz.

Grumble. Grumble. Waiter, why do you stop serving oatmeal so early? Me want some, now. —Jackson Griffith

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