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

Day of the locust milkshake, anyone?

Posted in celebrity ooze by Jackson Griffith on 28/04/2010

The end is near. Stephen Hawking recently went public with the idea that space aliens may not have our best interests at heart here on Earth. Couple that observation with the idea that there’s got to be a few spaceship-loads of hungry carnivorous aliens riding around, looking for a free-range human dining experience, and it’s a short leap to the shuddering realization that our days are numbered on this planet, and allow me to douse myself with this 28-ounce bottle of Sriracha Rooster Sauce with the faint hope that I am making myself repulsive to the alien palate. As someone from the Eagles once etched into the runoff groove of an album: “He who hesitates is lunch.”

Nevertheless, if marauding and hungry aliens are indeed hell-bent on coming to Earth and chomping and swallowing their way through humanity and they’re taking suggestions, I’ve got a pretty good place for them to start. It’s in West Hollywood, it’s loaded with celebrity humans, if you believe its tireless promotional efforts, and it’s called Millions of Milkshakes. I would posit to aliens that celebrities taste better than the rest of us mortals, and it’s not like these aliens are doing us a favor by gobbling all our celebrities, because we’re also on the menu, but if we’re going to die miserable deaths by being masticated by the drooling mandibles of insectile extraterrestrial horrors, please give us the entertainment of watching celebrities get devoured first, okay? Aliens, imagine the gustatory delights of ripping the flesh off of a celebrity that just finished concocting a gooey and sweet milkshake delight, and is loaded with sugary goodness. Mmmmm! And here’s a bonus tip: Paparazzi, those guys with the flashing lightbulbs, taste great, too!

Curious about this Millions of Milkshakes, I went to Wikipedia looking for an entry on it. Wikipedia has everything. But there was nothing on Millions of Milkshakes. And there was nothing on Millions of Milkshakes’ founder, Sheeraz Hasan. And there was nothing on one of Hasan’s other enterprises, a website called How can this be? A shamelessly famewhoring business in shamelessly famewhoring Hollywood, one that’s definitely on the radar of every skeezy cable TV chronicler of famewhores doing their famewhoring, not to mention all the gossip columns taking delight in ripping apart famewhores doing their famewhoring, and no Wiki page?

My first encounter with Millions of Milkshakes was when I saw it mentioned in conjunction with Jon Gosselin, the toady co-star of the so-called reality series Jon & Kate Plus Eight, whose Ed Hardy-clad gallivanting and skankbanging exploits after separating from his now ex-wife Kate Gosselin made her, a woman with a personality that public relations executives might describe as having “high negatives,” actually look good. That’s some award-winning douchebaggery there, and it was mystifying why Jon Gosselin was getting so much coverage as a celebrity, when all he was doing was showing up in public clad in the latest Christian Audigier-designed sartorial abortions and moping about, sucking on Marlboros or hitting on random skanks. So when I caught a report of Gosselin creating his own milkshake at something called Millions of Milkshakes, I figured this was something special, kinda like Planet Hollywood colliding with Tastee-Freez in a special hellchamber of future human tortures.

I have to admit that I was surprised by the absence of footage featuring celebrity famewhoring couple Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, who would show up at a casket opening if it got them on TV. But perhaps Hasan is smart, figuring that those two are already over, or maybe he got them early, before he started posting clips on YouTube of all his milkshake exploits. But Hasan did get land a second appearance of future 2010 obituary fodder Lindsay Lohan, this time with her preternaturally aged and now-Kahlo-eyebrowed sister Ali in tow, and the elder Lohan — fresh from a lifetime 86 at the nightclub Trousdale for tossing a drink at the head of her former girlfriend, DJ Samantha Ronson — received some special Millions of Milkshakes award, a trophy, for being the first putative celebrity to create a second milkshake. Such are the demands of stardom.

Given the sheer starpower of Millions of Milkshakes, I was frankly quite surprised that Gavin and Joe Maloof, owners of the Sacramento Kings, haven’t created their original milkshakes there yet. But I did find footage of one of their former employees, Ron Artest, now a power forward for the Los Angeles Lakers. Not sure what goes into a Ron Artest milkshake, and I don’t think I want to find out — milk, yogurt, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, taurine, random steroids, dog blood, uh, help me out here? (Actually, compared to Gosselin’s mess, Artest’s sounds quite drinkable.)

Anyway, if any of you aliens are cruising the internet right now trying to figure out where to start that human dining experience, here’s another link to the Millions of Milkshakes website, and there’s a map there, too. Happy eating, and hopefully by the time we see you up here, you’ll have full stomachs or whatever your digestive organs are called, and you’ll be tired of gnawing on humans. Here’s hoping. —Jackson Griffith