What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: This Is A Joke, Right? (Updated)

April 28, 2010

This Is A Joke, Right? (Updated)

What. The. Fuck?

I've long held a special kind of contempt toward the kind of self-deluded celebrity that makes a super special announcement via the glossy, inbred pages of People magazine. Weddings, births, rehab: if you're telling the public about some milestone in your life via People, you're fucking retarded. (Apologies to all our retarded readers for my use of the word retarded. But I must contend: your physical or mental differences don't make you retarded. So the next time somebody calls you retarded, respond thusly: "Oh, no, sir, it is not I who is retarded! It's Sandra fucking Bullock!")

But the above cover... holy shit, we're entering into a whole new level of navel-gazing self-congratulatory publicity. There's just so much wrong with this, I feel compelled to deploy a numeric list so that all may understand the hierarchy of fuckery going on here.

1. The headline, "Meet My Baby," right off the bat makes it seem like the kid is, at best, a new gadget or toy. It sounds like someone saying, "Check out my new iPad" or "Isn't this African doll really unique?"

2. Even the baby seems bemused. Look at the look on its face. That's a look that screams out, "Is this bitch fucking kidding me?" And is that a traditional necklace from wherever that kid is from around its neck? That's how you're gonna hold on to your adoptive kid's culture and heritage, through overly large jewelry? Nice touch.

Update: As Pete points out in the comments, I had assumed that this kid was from Malawi or some such place. (And you all know what happens when you assume: you make an unverified conclusion based on available, superficial evidence.) But this kid is actually from N'awlens. Does that mean the necklace around its neck is one of those beaded necklaces for which drunk chicks flash their lady bags during Mardi Gras? Way classy.

3. Because of that ridiculous pose, her phony smile, and the way she's holding the baby like a football, I can just feel the publicists, managers, agents, and stylists all standing over the photographer's shoulder shrieking, "That's the cover!" Fake, fake, fake.

4. You know that joke about African adoptees being trendy accessories for famous shitheads? This picture makes that joke seem less like a cynical snark from jealous nobodies and more like the actual fucking truth. Ugh.

5. The bar at the top informing us that this is the Most Beautiful People issue has a picture of Julia Roberts accompanying it. Fucking People isn't even trying anymore. Fuck.

2 comments:

Scrap Heap Pete said...: Oy. You captured my thoughts exactly. I also believed, upon first glance, "Oh boy, another 'Hollywood Liberal' (read: fake liberal) swooping in to 'save' a poor, confused African baby." But Mike, my friend, we were mistaken--this baby is actually from...wait for it...NEW ORLEANS! I shit you not. Sandra must've watched the first few episodes of "Treme" and decided that adopting African babies is like sooooo 2008. It's only a matter of time before Heidi Montag-Pratt is adopting numerous Haitian babies.

And the fucking timing of this cover story is so asinine and contrived. I can totally see Sandra and her publicist trying to think of ways to bury the fact that she's been married to a racist Nazi shit-head for the last few years...and voila!! Black baby!; 6:33 PM
Scrap Heap Pete said...: Isn't this African doll really unique?

Kudos, sir! Ha, that is a really great line.; 6:36 PM

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A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.