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Headline: "Keira Knightley poses topless to make statement about body image and retouched photos."
Saw the photos, and here's what that unspoken photographic statement of Keira's essentially said (I'm translating for you folks who don't speak the celebrese language long ago created by ancient tribes of Hollywood publicists): "Hey everybody! Look at me! I'm young, rich, white, pretty and skinny! Woo hoo! Suck it, losers!!! Ha ha ha ha ha! Worship me you pathetic fucks!!!!!!!! Gwab morg goff blergh fwomp!!!! (sound of Keira morphing into a demon with camera flash-bulbs for eyes)
That Keira Knightley is one daring woman. To have her professionally made-up, lighted, costumed, and posed visage selectively edited for the best shots out of dozens (if not hundreds) of photos thrown out there into the public domain is an act of heroism, nay, BRAVERY, that really makes Joan of Arc look like a self aggrandizing attention whore by comparison. What we really need to ask ourselves is this...Keira Knightley: great woman? Or greatest woman? I know...I'm torn too...btw, kinda flat chested. Just sayin'...Zing! See what I did there? Ha ha ha...it's like I don't get it! Right??? (seriously though, smallish boobs is the point I'm trying to get across here)
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Oh, and apparently THIS happened in the UK. So, a maniac in Wales murders a woman, then eats her face, and then dies after being Tasered by police (for those of you keeping score at home, this is also known as the methamphetamine trifecta). I had no idea the Welsh were such a rowdy lot.
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Just got an email inquiring if I'd like to rent a private jet. Evidently, a marketing firm has identified me as a player (pronounced "play-ah"). I figure it's only a matter of time before subscription opportunities to the Cristal bottle of the month club come rolling in, and, mixed in my mailbox with the Bed, Bath and Beyond flyers, I start getting service coupons offering to get the oil changed on my Bentley for 15% off.
This was followed by another email, that, no joke, was an offer for me to rent a yacht. I figure the offers to set me up with a Kardashian must be just right around the corner. The yacht email:
Note: offer states yachts are "friendly, accommodating, and well run." Needless to say, these proclamations are a sure sign of quality, as most of us are just plain sick and tired of the unfriendly, un-accomodating, and highly disorganized floating luxury deathtraps we've become accustomed to. Thank god. Then again, the fact my last yacht crew was a bunch of Somali's should have been the first clue I had erred in judgment with my choice in yacht rentals.
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Here's an article about "Lumbersexuals". The article refers to them as "rugged hipsters."
http://www.cbc.ca/newsblogs/yourcommunity/2014/11/lumbersexual-trend-thrusts-rugged-hipsters-into-mens-fashion-spotlight.html
Ahem. "Rugged hipsters"? I don't know where to even begin...but fear not, for begin, I shall. Rugged is to hipster as dental hygiene is to meth addict. Sure, it's theoretically possible, but probably something that could only exist for a millionth of a second in a highly controlled environment at Lawrence Livermore Labs...like an isotope of element 115 (aka ununpentium...look it up...nerd humor). Anyways, can we just either a) make it stop with the bearded buffoon brigade (the bbb's) and their many lame ass (lame assed?) iterations (monocle man, handlebar mustache man, fixie man, craft beer man, insanely expensive limited release whiskey man, bacon man, etc) and just round them up and force them to live electrically fenced inside an elitist, green, micro-farming, pet friendly, GMO free, all natural deodorant, flannel lined gulag, and just call it New Portland? They'd be happy to live there, never notice they were imprisoned, and can all bore each other to death with hysterically un-funny, droll tales full of whimsy of their times in grad school when they grew their own hops for their home brew they later shared with their neighbors who didn't get the joke of the hand drawn label of a pirate they put on their bottle and called it PBR (pee bee arrrrrrrrrrrrr!), or, b) have them all shipped to Syria, and let Darwinism work its magic. I know. Option "b" sounds a little risky, because it could end up with wave after wave of jihadists coming back to our shores armed with skinny jean IED's, hemp grenades, IPA launchers, and ironic musical death beams blasting out Journey (even though these jihadists will secretly cringe a little with self doubt because they're not sure everybody GET'S IT, and they almost feel the need to start babbling on about their love of Leonard Cohen to reestablish their hipster, jihadist cred. This is when they will be most vulnerable, and when we rush in and cut up their Visa card that is paid off monthly by their parents who co-signed for them, thus rendering them defenseless and soon kicked out of their apartments in Brooklyn for overdue back-rent, and now at our mercy) from the speakers of the most ironic of hipster cars: the 1969 Citroen DS..............
I'm not going to lie, I seem to have gone off on a foaming at the mouth tangent, and I totally forgot what my point was...but I think it has something to do with my unresolved anger at 23 year olds who just 2 years ago were drinking Bud Light Lime-A-Rita's and are now pre-ordering by the case the 2014 release of 18 year old Sazerac Rye (for example) to the point where I cannot get my hands on a bottle even through special order. I also suspect they don't even like it, and take it home and mix it with Dr. Pepper. Hopefully, someday soon, they'll go back to secretly drinking their girlfriends Cosmo's and doing Jåger bombs, and come out of the closet for their love of all things Bon Jovi, and not Bon Iver.
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By the way, When Snoop Dogg uses words like "shizzle", "nizzle", and "izzle kizzle", everybody thinks he's using slang, or some sort of self created street lingo. Personally, I just think he's quoting from the lesser known books of Dr. Seuss.
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There's been a dangerous lack of celebrity opinions and comments about the recent events that have occurred this week, unbelievably, right before Thanksgiving. This is a time when Americans are supposed to be coming together, giving thanks and celebrating our shared values, and not fighting amongst ourselves. I feel so lost. How am I supposed to know how to feel, and how to think, and what to think, if a celebrity won't tell me what's appropriate? Come you egomaniacal, narcissistic, vapid and vain visages of the screen big and small...to the Twitterverse and spill it! I cannot wait to hear how this has affected you, nay, haunted you, as you sip a $300 dollar Pinot in your Malibu fortress and contemplate what's right and just for the hoi polloi. Do it! Stop staring at the screen and just hit send! I breathlessly await, trembling with anticipation, all atingle, for you to free me from my mental vapor lock, not knowing how to process all this stimuli with my little, underdeveloped, non-red carpet brain. Your sage words learned from a rich and diverse, deeply salt of the earth life, full of meaningful experience gained through $2000 prostitutes and cocaine fueled parties, will fill my head with wonder and new understanding of my existence as it relates to my fellow man and woman, and I will finally, blissfully know, through your wisdom.......................whether these post-Thanksgiving Black Friday sales are worth the hassle or not.
http://www.cbc.ca/newsblogs/yourcommunity/2014/11/lumbersexual-trend-thrusts-rugged-hipsters-into-mens-fashion-spotlight.html
Ahem. "Rugged hipsters"? I don't know where to even begin...but fear not, for begin, I shall. Rugged is to hipster as dental hygiene is to meth addict. Sure, it's theoretically possible, but probably something that could only exist for a millionth of a second in a highly controlled environment at Lawrence Livermore Labs...like an isotope of element 115 (aka ununpentium...look it up...nerd humor). Anyways, can we just either a) make it stop with the bearded buffoon brigade (the bbb's) and their many lame ass (lame assed?) iterations (monocle man, handlebar mustache man, fixie man, craft beer man, insanely expensive limited release whiskey man, bacon man, etc) and just round them up and force them to live electrically fenced inside an elitist, green, micro-farming, pet friendly, GMO free, all natural deodorant, flannel lined gulag, and just call it New Portland? They'd be happy to live there, never notice they were imprisoned, and can all bore each other to death with hysterically un-funny, droll tales full of whimsy of their times in grad school when they grew their own hops for their home brew they later shared with their neighbors who didn't get the joke of the hand drawn label of a pirate they put on their bottle and called it PBR (pee bee arrrrrrrrrrrrr!), or, b) have them all shipped to Syria, and let Darwinism work its magic. I know. Option "b" sounds a little risky, because it could end up with wave after wave of jihadists coming back to our shores armed with skinny jean IED's, hemp grenades, IPA launchers, and ironic musical death beams blasting out Journey (even though these jihadists will secretly cringe a little with self doubt because they're not sure everybody GET'S IT, and they almost feel the need to start babbling on about their love of Leonard Cohen to reestablish their hipster, jihadist cred. This is when they will be most vulnerable, and when we rush in and cut up their Visa card that is paid off monthly by their parents who co-signed for them, thus rendering them defenseless and soon kicked out of their apartments in Brooklyn for overdue back-rent, and now at our mercy) from the speakers of the most ironic of hipster cars: the 1969 Citroen DS..............
I'm not going to lie, I seem to have gone off on a foaming at the mouth tangent, and I totally forgot what my point was...but I think it has something to do with my unresolved anger at 23 year olds who just 2 years ago were drinking Bud Light Lime-A-Rita's and are now pre-ordering by the case the 2014 release of 18 year old Sazerac Rye (for example) to the point where I cannot get my hands on a bottle even through special order. I also suspect they don't even like it, and take it home and mix it with Dr. Pepper. Hopefully, someday soon, they'll go back to secretly drinking their girlfriends Cosmo's and doing Jåger bombs, and come out of the closet for their love of all things Bon Jovi, and not Bon Iver.
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By the way, When Snoop Dogg uses words like "shizzle", "nizzle", and "izzle kizzle", everybody thinks he's using slang, or some sort of self created street lingo. Personally, I just think he's quoting from the lesser known books of Dr. Seuss.
*
There's been a dangerous lack of celebrity opinions and comments about the recent events that have occurred this week, unbelievably, right before Thanksgiving. This is a time when Americans are supposed to be coming together, giving thanks and celebrating our shared values, and not fighting amongst ourselves. I feel so lost. How am I supposed to know how to feel, and how to think, and what to think, if a celebrity won't tell me what's appropriate? Come you egomaniacal, narcissistic, vapid and vain visages of the screen big and small...to the Twitterverse and spill it! I cannot wait to hear how this has affected you, nay, haunted you, as you sip a $300 dollar Pinot in your Malibu fortress and contemplate what's right and just for the hoi polloi. Do it! Stop staring at the screen and just hit send! I breathlessly await, trembling with anticipation, all atingle, for you to free me from my mental vapor lock, not knowing how to process all this stimuli with my little, underdeveloped, non-red carpet brain. Your sage words learned from a rich and diverse, deeply salt of the earth life, full of meaningful experience gained through $2000 prostitutes and cocaine fueled parties, will fill my head with wonder and new understanding of my existence as it relates to my fellow man and woman, and I will finally, blissfully know, through your wisdom.......................whether these post-Thanksgiving Black Friday sales are worth the hassle or not.
