(no subject)
In my infinite wisdom and insight, I have noticed three basic types of celebrity journals - and perhaps a fourth that is barely worth mentioning. However, as it seems quite prevalent, let's say three and a half. Never let it be said that Wayne Gretzky is anything but thorough. Now, I don't claim to be some sort of veteran - ignore the granny glasses and watch the journal, asshole - but I can construct vaguely coherent sentences, which is more than I can say for fifty percent of you out there. These sentences grow into paragraphs, which develop into actual statements, which is more than I can say for the other fifty percent. Let's face it, there are those that have, those that have not, and those that laugh: I'll leave it up to you to decide where you stand.
But I digress. The journals.
1) The obsessive. The knowledge-tracker. The kind that knows their own favourite plants, eating habits, what kind of panties their granny wore, and delight in imparting these little tidbits to their adoring (ha) audience. Of course, there's nothing by way of originality or, sometimes, intelligence - it's kind of like having a help feature in Solitaire, only more useless.
Recognizable feature: drier than my ass during a Phoenix heat wave.
2) The Ingenue. The Preteen. The one who giggles, cries at the drop of a cock-ring, and tends to shift between the two without warning. They are frequently heartbroken over imagined slights and yet they don't manage to catch the intended insults. It seems they know nothing about real life and how acting like a moronic douchebag will get you gang-raped,s hot, and dumped in a river, not clingily and happily married. I mean, if I'm going to have a cock up my ass, it sure as hell isn't going to belong to a fourteen-year-old girl.
Recognizable feature: more tears than a rookie losing his virginity to Scotty Bowman.
3) The artiste. The pseudo-poet. The one who devotes entire entries to the apple they ate for breakfast after fucking Adam's brains out. Hell, they'll probably make a series out of it, moving onto bananas, grapes, mangos, a fruit journey across entire continents. Storylines are frequently obscure and sometimes altogether nonexistent. They like to pretend they're being chic, intellectual, and avant garde, but are really just extending their cocks in an attempt to mask their lack of knowledge.
Recognizable feature: more metaphors than Margaret Atwood with her ass in the air.
.5) The tragic coma victims whose families show up every five weeks and six days to inform us that their loved one is not, in fact, dead. A moment of silence please.
Now, there are hybrids, and there are those who defy all pigeon-holing, you tricky, triangular fucks. This is only an overview of what I've seen over my ample years.
However, there is a disturbing trend starting to emerge. Preteen-on-preteen violence is shaping up to be the next rapper-on-rapper rivalry - yes, I keep up with pop culture, look at the coat for chrissake. (Un?)fortunately, the violence isn't carried on with drive-by shootings and car bombings, but with lame high school dramatics, backstabbing, and one-cent words. All of a sudden, Preteen is a dirty word, and no one can be quick enough to point their fingers up someone else's ass. Come on, kids, hate just doesn't look right on you; it clashes with the wide-eyed wonder and the ten-second attention spans... oh look, a castle! Again. I digress.
Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against hate. Hate is what will lead to Gary Bettman's eventual ass raping and painful death. Hate can motivate us to win. Hate is what makes the news go around, and far be it from me to deny a newscaster their job. The thing is, 'birds of a feather' has grown to be an outdated concept, and cannibalism is la forme nouvelle of getting a leg up on Darwin's ladder. Please. Hate the Artiste for being more intelligent, or hate the Obsessive for knowing more than you do, (and contrary to popular belief, those are not the same things - but that's a whole new issue) but for chrissake, if you hate yourselves and each other, who the hell is going to put up with your lot?
And to those who only "act" lame "ironically" to "mock the system," please line up so I can shoot you all down without too much effort. You assholes only stoke the fire higher and my libido can't withstand the shrieking and the whining. I'm not fucking old enough for Viagra, yet. Stop it. Stop making fun of the deliriously in love boy without a basic grasp of grammar (oh, don't get me started) and who cuts himself up in public when you run to AIM to do the exact same thing.
In other words, please stick within the confines of your stereotype. It's easier to judge you, that way.
But I digress. The journals.
1) The obsessive. The knowledge-tracker. The kind that knows their own favourite plants, eating habits, what kind of panties their granny wore, and delight in imparting these little tidbits to their adoring (ha) audience. Of course, there's nothing by way of originality or, sometimes, intelligence - it's kind of like having a help feature in Solitaire, only more useless.
Recognizable feature: drier than my ass during a Phoenix heat wave.
2) The Ingenue. The Preteen. The one who giggles, cries at the drop of a cock-ring, and tends to shift between the two without warning. They are frequently heartbroken over imagined slights and yet they don't manage to catch the intended insults. It seems they know nothing about real life and how acting like a moronic douchebag will get you gang-raped,s hot, and dumped in a river, not clingily and happily married. I mean, if I'm going to have a cock up my ass, it sure as hell isn't going to belong to a fourteen-year-old girl.
Recognizable feature: more tears than a rookie losing his virginity to Scotty Bowman.
3) The artiste. The pseudo-poet. The one who devotes entire entries to the apple they ate for breakfast after fucking Adam's brains out. Hell, they'll probably make a series out of it, moving onto bananas, grapes, mangos, a fruit journey across entire continents. Storylines are frequently obscure and sometimes altogether nonexistent. They like to pretend they're being chic, intellectual, and avant garde, but are really just extending their cocks in an attempt to mask their lack of knowledge.
Recognizable feature: more metaphors than Margaret Atwood with her ass in the air.
.5) The tragic coma victims whose families show up every five weeks and six days to inform us that their loved one is not, in fact, dead. A moment of silence please.
Now, there are hybrids, and there are those who defy all pigeon-holing, you tricky, triangular fucks. This is only an overview of what I've seen over my ample years.
However, there is a disturbing trend starting to emerge. Preteen-on-preteen violence is shaping up to be the next rapper-on-rapper rivalry - yes, I keep up with pop culture, look at the coat for chrissake. (Un?)fortunately, the violence isn't carried on with drive-by shootings and car bombings, but with lame high school dramatics, backstabbing, and one-cent words. All of a sudden, Preteen is a dirty word, and no one can be quick enough to point their fingers up someone else's ass. Come on, kids, hate just doesn't look right on you; it clashes with the wide-eyed wonder and the ten-second attention spans... oh look, a castle! Again. I digress.
Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against hate. Hate is what will lead to Gary Bettman's eventual ass raping and painful death. Hate can motivate us to win. Hate is what makes the news go around, and far be it from me to deny a newscaster their job. The thing is, 'birds of a feather' has grown to be an outdated concept, and cannibalism is la forme nouvelle of getting a leg up on Darwin's ladder. Please. Hate the Artiste for being more intelligent, or hate the Obsessive for knowing more than you do, (and contrary to popular belief, those are not the same things - but that's a whole new issue) but for chrissake, if you hate yourselves and each other, who the hell is going to put up with your lot?
And to those who only "act" lame "ironically" to "mock the system," please line up so I can shoot you all down without too much effort. You assholes only stoke the fire higher and my libido can't withstand the shrieking and the whining. I'm not fucking old enough for Viagra, yet. Stop it. Stop making fun of the deliriously in love boy without a basic grasp of grammar (oh, don't get me started) and who cuts himself up in public when you run to AIM to do the exact same thing.
In other words, please stick within the confines of your stereotype. It's easier to judge you, that way.