The Slurs of a Clown

Okay, did anybody else see the video of Anna Nicole, fucked up while she was pregnant? She’s playing “mommy” with a little friend (Niece? Midget? Who can say?). The little girl is painting Anna’s face like a clown, then Anna is pushing a stroller around, mumbling incoherently, while her lover/incubus Howard Stern films the whole train wreck. And by the way, who would have thought that someone could FURTHER TARNISH the name Howard Stern!!?!? Love that.

Anyhoo, the jackass with the camera (STERN, showing his true colors) says, “So, is this a mushroom trip?”

Okay, I know I don’t have kids, but I’m pretty sure that this one line disproves Stern’s paternity of little Dannielynn Nicole Smith Stern Birkhead Old Dead Millionaire Almost Dead Prince Burton Todd Fortensky. If it were MY child in the figurative (NOT proverbial) oven, I think I’d be just a hair PISSED that the mother of my child was on drugs. Not standing around videotaping her trip.

Anna, true to form, slurs, “Whaaaaa?”

Stern then says, “This footage is worth money.”

ANNA: “Wah foodige?”

STERN: “This footage I’m shooting now.”

ANNA: “Thash nah foodige. Thasha cam-ra!”

That Anna. Can’t get anything past her!

How Many Blondes . . .?

So, it’s been a couple of weeks since the curtain fell on Anna Nicole Smith. (NOTE TO BLONDES: A curtain didn’t really fall on her. That’s not how she died. You don’t have to step away from the window). Yet the sideshow continues unabated. Funny how that happens in America. We value many people more in death than in life. Okay, I guess that happens in Vatican City, too.

Since she was (is?) such an easy target, I refrained from blogging about her demise, or her life as an icon of stupidity. But, you know . . . it’s my job.

My first shock came when my beloved said, “Poor Anna Nicole.” I heard a vertebra pop as my head snapped around. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘poor Anna’?”

But he’s not alone. The world is fascinated with this tragedy. And saddened by the loss . . . of . . . of . . . OF WHAT, people?!?!?

Granted, she’s a tragic figure, but this is Darwinism at it’s finest. She was dumber than a box of hair! And other than getting skinny for a big payday (don’t kid yourself—she didn’t do it for her health! And I bet you a million that Trim Spa wasn’t the only thing slimming her down.) what did she ever accomplish? Or try to? (Being a GUESS model sooooo doesn’t count.)

Anna Nicole Smith lead with her greatest assets—literally. There was nothing else there. When she was coherent, which was seldom, she STILL didn’t make any sense. But there’s nothing like a good train wreck, huh? Just don’t act like it’s a tragedy. Or a shock. We all saw it coming.

Growing up in Texas, we’re no strangers to golddiggers. Ever watch the Miss Texas pageant?

But the paternity issue? CRAZY. Okay, first of all, how many different guys did she fuck without using protection? We have people coming out of the woodwork claiming to have slept with her during the time she became pregnant. And then there’s the dead man’s sperm theory. Ewww.

God, I hope for little Dannielyn’s sake that the fastest swimmer had some brain cells in there, too.

So, Anna . . . Godspeed. You’ll be happy to know that all the boys are still fussing over you. At least now you can stop taking all the drugs “‘cuz it hurt yer head to think so much.”

White Trash and Wigs

Contrary to what most children’s books would suggest, rhyming apparently isn’t a necessary skill for good parenting. Just ask Kevin Federline.

Good Gawd, people! Who would have honestly thought that K-Fed would turn out to be the responsible party between those two?!!?? Poor Little Brit Brit and her shaved vazheen, wandering in and out of rehab with half a credit card number scribbled on a scrap of paper. That’s practically HOMELESS in Hollywood.

But I have to give the Toxic Girl this—in a town that is completely jaded to the crazies (anyone see the Sharon Stone “naughty germans” tirade), she has set the bar at a new high (or is that low? I can’t tell if we’re jumping or limbo-ing). But I digress.

Everyone is totally wigged that Britney shaved her head. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? After all the attention she got for shaving her naughty bits? It was the logical next step. Just wait. In a week or so, she’ll slide out of some sports car, exposing a cheap blonde wig on the punani and setting off an international fashion craze.

Zsa Zsa did it. Or was it Eva? Let’s see, one is married to an old prince and the other was with an old queen (Merv, you know it’s true!). So, using my pnemonic skills, beard=fake hair=wig—IT WAS EVA!

Anyhoo, I think this is all just a marketing ploy for Britney’s new white trash wig line, Cheap Hair for Down There. Lindsay will certainly jump on that bandwagon. Paris will probably complain that it’s “too hot.”

Meanwhile, let Kevin have the kids. He could hone his rhyming skills to Seussian levels. Between his multiple kids and their pals, he might even develop a following. He could be the next Rafi.

And by the way, wouldn’t it be HYSTERICALLY funny if Zsa Zsa’s husband really was Anna Nic’s baby daddy? Princess Dannielynn. Has a nice ring to it. Like JonBenet.

My L'il Blozzle

So I see this commercial this week for an insurance company. It features ostensibly real agents talking about how they helped the client. This one nice middle-American, middle-aged, unremarkably white bread woman, remarks that her company is open “24/7.”

I cringed. Then shuddered. Then threw up in my mouth just a little.

Why such a visceral reaction to such a seemingly benign quote? Call it the proverbial straw. (And don’t EVEN get me started on the overuse of the word “proverbial.” People THERE AREN’T THAT MANY PROVERBS!!!!).

You see, I find it a bit pathetic and laughable that middle class white people have adopted the patois of the urban street. The appropriation of hip-hop culture among middle class folk whose “street cred” involves a cul-de-sac absolutely cracks my ass up. When your “hizzy” is in a gated community, you can’t really own that word.

And when I hear a child of privilege peppering his speech with “-izzles,”—you get the picture.

It’s becoming an epidemic. And in case you think it’s just a little harmless vocabulary, I have two words for you: Kevin Federline.


That said, I am thinking about getting my moms a grill for her birthday.

Babes in Thailand

So USA TODAY has one of those, “ya gotta be fuckin’ kidding me?” stories in today’s edition.

It seems that Ms. Jaeyana Beuraheng of Thailand got on the wrong bus in Malaysia. She meant to go to her home in Southern Thailand, but instead wound up in Bangkok, 800 miles away. In 1982.

Yep, that’s right. This brainiac Thai Master not only got lost. She got stuck there. Apparently, she speaks a rare Muslim dialect, common only in southern Thailand. Unable to make herself understood, she wound up in a "social services hostel." Apparently, Southern Muslim Thailand is the equivalent of Alabama.

But wait a minute--don’t Muslims ALWAYS know which way Mecca is? Perhaps that’s a skill set that might have other applications? Ya think?

Jintana Satjang, a director at the hostel, was quoted as saying, "We thought she was a mute." (If you say that with a southern AMERICAN accent, it’s really funny). Hey, dumbass! Mute means you can’t speak. Not that you speak a different language. Have another hit off the Thai stick. (and pass it).

TWENTY FIVE YEARS later, a couple of students from her home province just happened into the hostel (apparently backpacking isn’t big with the Southern Muslim Thai set) and after exclaiming, “Whoa, Dude!” in their obscure patois, “struck up a friendship” with the lost cause, “and she was able to tell them how she became separated from her family."

What? You couldn’t pick up ANY of the language being spoken around you daily for the last 25 years?!?! You had to wait until a mini-tribe of your peeps showed up.

"I thought I would die (at the hostel) in Phitsanulok," Jaeyana said. See, she DID know where she was.

The headline read “Lost for 25 Years Because She Got on the Wrong Bus.” The short bus will do that to you.

Can You Say “Bush League?”

According to Reuters, The Federal Reserve (OUR Federal Reserve) sent 363 TONS of money, totaling $4 billion in cash to Baghdad, just before the U.S. “gave control back to Iraquis.” Ok, before I get to the money, let me say, “Wha . . .?” When exactly did we give control back to Iraquis? And if we’re not in control, then why the hell aren’t we headed home? And doesn’t “Iraquis” make you think of “daiquiris” or is that just me? But I digress.

We sent $4 billion--in cash--to Iraq. On giant pallets. In military aircraft. Stupefyingly, jaw-droppingly, short-bus level decision making.

Yes, it was money that belonged to Iraq that had been “held” by the U.S. (Because they just would have bought a bunch of candy and spoiled their dinners!) Nonetheless, it was the largest cash shipment ever by the Federal Reserve.
L. Paul Bremer, administrator of the Coalition Provisional Authority, said we sent the money at the request of the Iraqi Minister of Finance. Bremer: "He said, 'I am concerned that I will not have the money to support the Iraqi government expenses for the first couple of months after we are sovereign. We won't have the mechanisms in place, I won't know how to get the money here."

“I WON’T KNOW HOW TO GET THE MONEY HERE”!?!?!?!? You’re the fucking FINANCE minister and you don’t know about wire transfers or online bill pay? I wonder how he manages all those accounts in Switzerland and the Caymans with such little understanding of complex, international, multi-billion dollar financial deals.

Also of note: “FIRST COUPLE OF MONTHS?!” $4 BILLION for the first couple of months? Wonder where next months allowance is going to come from?

And then the other staggeringly stupid thing that jumps out at me—when did the U.S. Dollar become the official currency of Iraq? I know that when I converted my paltry sum of U.S. dollars to Australian dollars for my recent adventure, the bank took a nice little percentage off the top. Makes me want to rush right over and start a Casa de Cambio or Bureau de Change in Baghdad.

"Who in their right mind would send 363 tons of cash into a war zone? But that's exactly what our government did," said Congressman Henry Wexler. Hello, Rep. Wexler? Where have you been for the last 6 years? “Our government” hasn’t exactly been making the honor roll.

"So these shipments were made at the explicit request of the Iraqi minister of finance to forward fund government expenses, a perfectly, seems to me, legitimate use of his money," Bremer told lawmakers.

When reached on his satellite phone for comment, the Iraqui Finance Minister said, “Hang on a sec, I have a mouth full of caviar.” Upon clearing his pallet (pun intended), the Minister said, “Can you hear me okay? I’m on the yacht and the wind noise can be problematic.”

An Equal and Opposite Reaction

So, I’m taking my dear friend Jeffoise to the airport this morning for his flight home. We’re stopped behind a car at a light. The light turns green. And the guy just sits there. A while. We’re talking 10-12 seconds (time it out, people, it’s longer than you think). So, I do what I think is the polite thing, giving a light touch to my horn.

I mean, come on, we’ve all been there. You zone out and someone gives you a little goose and you wave to say, “sorry and thank you!” and drive on your merry, zoned-out way. Oh, no! I got THE GLARE in the rearview mirror. The guy is giving me the death stare for the next four blocks. And it got me to thinking about how prevalent it is in this country to not accept responsibility for our actions/missteps. Unless, of course, you’re O.J. and there’s money to be made and you don’t REALLY have to confess.

The late, great Richard Pryor did one of the funniest routines about a vase getting broken in his house and asking his daughter what happened. She says “I’m gonna tell you, ok? I’m gonna tell you. See, we were running—but we weren’t really RUNNING running—‘cause you told us not to run in the house . . .” It’s awesome.

I think all of America has adopted the “it’s not my fault” philosophy. I watched a child accidentally knock something over and break it. As he began to cry, he said, “It’s not my fault.” Yes, it is your fault. It may have been an accident, but it IS your fault. Accept it. Own it.

“He’s not MY President. We didn’t REALLY elect him.” Yeah. We did. It’s your fault. And it’s even more your fault that you let it happen a second time. And now it’s your fault that you’re probably not going to involve or engage yourself in any meaningful way in the NEXT elections.

You know what? ALL of our parents screwed us up. We’re ALL excellent candidates for therapy. What we define as normal is a lie. Fucked up is normal. Deal with it. Get on with it.

And the next time someone honks at you because you almost hit them during a lane change, don’t flip them off. Accept responsibility. Give ‘em the wave with ALL your fingers (okay, not jazz hands, but a simple country wave).

And that, my friends, is my curmudgeonly attempt to make the world a nicer place. And it it doesn’t work . . . hey, it’s not my fault!