Celebrities, You are NOT the Boss of Me.

Why do celebrities even open their mouths when they are not A.) speaking in character on screen or stage, B.) getting their teeth whitened, or C.) blowing someone? I mean, the only thing of substance that ever, ever comes out of a celebrity’s dental orifice is partially digested food. Are you paying attention here? Donald. Trump. Could. Be. President. People think Jennifer Aniston is REAL. And for God’s sake, global warming is NOT to blame for the ozone’s holes. The one-hundred percent true cause is Sean-Puerile-Penn’s toxic twaddle.

Why do we—and by we I mean idiots when I don’t personally like the celebrity in question—follow the minute-to-minute functions of people so synthetic that if you flip them over and look at the bottom of one foot, it will say Patent Pending? Did you know there is a Celebrity Attitude Scale developed by a British psychologist, which ranks people according to their levels of celebrity worship? There’s entertainment-social: Celebrities are fun to watch! There’s intense-personal: Celebrities and I have lots in common, and I want to hump one! And then there’s borderline-pathological: The duct tape, chain saw, and map to David Letterman’s house are in my trunk because he has been sending me secret love messages in his monologues, and he wants me to come over and cut him into small squares so that I can keep him in my pocket at all times and maybe wear some of his skin.

There is something seriously bent about the fact that we buy schmillions of products and services just because Tiger Woods or Oprah says we should, unless of course Miss Winfrey selects my book for her Book Club one day, and then you absolutely, by all means, most definitely should get a copy as soon as possible because Oprah really knows her shit when it comes to picking incredible literature except for the couple of times she touted those bogus-memoirs, but everyone makes mistakes. Under no circumstances, though, should you trust any fucking thing Tiger Woods says, even if he is trying to convince you to buy golf balls. The last thing anyone should ever want to play with is that guy’s balls.

Funny Girls Write Books.

Well. I’ve been KINDLING lately, and I don’t mean I’ve become firewood. Or that I’ve recently turned anyone on. I really should say “Kindle-ing” if I want to be accurate, since I’m talking about all the reading I’ve been doing on my Amazon Kindle. I’d toyed with getting one for awhile, and a few weeks ago I snagged a deal at Big Box. As soon as I plugged that puppy in, and whole books and magazines appeared in microseconds, I frothed at the mouth and scheduled some near-future rehab.

The first thing I did was order a whole slew of books penned by comediennes (women comedians for all your dumbshits). I’d been anticipating the arrival of Tina Fey’s Bossypants like a gaggle of gay teens pining for a Kurt-Blaine tongue wrestle. But because I had a couple of days before Bpants’s release, I quelled my desire with Kathy Griffin’s Official Book Club Selection: A Memoir According to Kathy Griffin and Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life.

Kathy r-o-c-k-s. I laughed laaaaaate into the night reading her surprisingly sweet and intimate memoir; but I can say with unvarnished truth that Chelsea Handler’s book was so unfunny that I resent the fact that I cannot even use it as toilet paper if I run out. I want my fucking five dollars back, bitch. (Although perhaps the reality that it was five dollars should have been a clue to its suckassness.)

Tina Fey, now, is just as wicked as Kathy Griffin; but because her humor is a little more cerebral, and she’s selected a better class of friends, Tina isn’t on Oprah’s and David’s and every-damned-body’s shitlist. Hey. Both of those girls swear way more than I do, but nobody’s having a stroke about it. So be quiet, Daddy. (Who do you think taught me all those words anyway? Yeah. That’s right. Bathroom bitches at Parkwood Elementary. But you should have warned me about sixth-graders.)

My conclusion #1- If you’re looking for pee-in-your-panties fun, grad a box of Depends ® and a Griffin- or Fey-produced product.

My conclusion #2- The only upside to anything by Handler: If you need to lose a few pounds before an upcoming special event, read Handler’s shit, and you can puke up food you haven’t even eaten yet. Slimming.

My conclusion #3- If they can sell books, so can I. Go, girl writers.