Ooooh. FF is cranky. I feel like doing one million karate chops. I feel like Keropi with fangs.* I taste venom in every vowel.
And y'know, it's just that time of year. The weather shifts. The days are short. My birthday looms like a strange balloon. Culture -- anything human -- is alienating. Who are these people and what are they talking about?
Burrow. Burrow. Burrow. Line the den with chocolate. Retire.
And yet even in the dark of my blackest mood, the culture of "celebrity" glows like a radioactive virus. It spreads and flexes and mutates, spills and oozes like a wound. "Money! Money! Money!" it calls out. "There's always more to buy!" And now they've got books. They've got 'em by the spine.
I resent celebrity "authors." No, resent is too sanitary a term. I despise them. I think them vile. And I'm pea green. Yup, I've got the penvy.
First of all, they don't even write their books. Second of all, their stories are predictable and boring. Third of all, whoever they get to write their books doesn't really do a good job. I know. I know. These books are trash. They'd do more good thrown on the pyre! (I'm kidding of course).
But I hate every word that has ever comes out of Paris Hilton's mouth. Enough already.
And this post has already gone on long enough. growl. snarl. boo. and hiss. But the customer review's are sorta funny:
50 Cent's Book
Pamela Anderson's book
Paris Hilton's book
Nicole Richie's book
And I will prolly read fiddy's book anyway.
Go ahead -- call me a hypocrite. My claws are out.
*more halloween keropi here.