The other day I discovered my wife watching a television show called What Not To Wear on some lifestyle cable channel.
For those of you who don’t know, this is a sick and twisted version of getting your so-called friends to change your fashion sense by ridicule and slander that will ultimately lead to you caught in the verbal crosshairs to change your tastes or else continue to receive further abuse from your friends.
The alleged fashion gurus who host this show begin the verbal stoning by putting you up on display like a public execution and demand you repent your wrongdoings, or fashion faux pas, in the name of god before being hung in front of the masses.
The abuse you receive on television reminds me of a terrorist hostage tape sent to all the major news networks as a ransom note with you, starving and beat up, chained to a rock while telling the camera about all the fashion sins you have committed before falling at the hands of your enemy’s machete.
The other problem with this show is it promotes a false sense of hope and proclaims the only sure method to fix your problem is by way of reality television. All the doctor talk shows and weight loss game shows that are aired on primetime try to prove the only way your problem will be fixed is if you embarrass yourself for all to see rather than seek real medical attention or an artistic outlet that can get to the root of some self-esteem issue or repressed anger.
We live in a world where celebrities and television network consultants have become our saviors, our means of therapy that lobby for their own gain and revenue when the heavy product endorsed television show goes to commercial and fills the dead air time with ads for prescription drugs we do not need. They promote band-aid remedies for our problems than real solutions that are not covered by the already corrupt medical insurance field.
What’s wrong with this country, when did we become so superficial that the mannequin display of our outer selves became more important to fix, rather than the root of most of our problems that fall under the bitter strain of human emotion? Don’t you think we should fix our battered thoughts of how we perceive ourselves first, before dealing with how other see us?
If my friends decided to put me on a show like this, I would know they are not my friends. If someone, anyone ever put me on some television show to embarrass me it would warrant an ass kicking. And I’m not talking about some slap in the face, I’m talking about all out anarchy in the studio set where I would stomp the shit out of any two-bit waste of life that felt obligated for their own emotional benefit to make me feel as if the real Me standing in front of them did not exist.
Understand your problems will not be worked out on a television show. Understand there are other methods, even more proactive ways of dealing with your problems than displaying them on some ratings hungry network.
And if reality television still feels like the outcome you need to feel better about yourself, fine, just don’t feel as if that was your only hope if you don’t get on. Do not allow those repressed feelings to slip further down into the pit of your stomach where the world feels against you and the only result is deadly harm to yourself or to others.
Someone in the world cares for you. And if you have trouble finding that person, just look in the mirror and tell yourself everything is going to be ok.
There are enough assholes in the world that dress and look like everyone else, and you should not feel obligated to become one of them.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Delayed Flight # 7
It is no longer enough to be an employee.
We are living in a time where company policies and procedures are being forced to replace our own morals and values, to adopt a corporate culture from a particular brand name that has the philosophical significance of generalized personalization we feel speaks to us and only us.
Our new religious faith in retail.
With jobs I have had in the past, I was always told that when I was on the clock, it was my duty to follow company policy at all times. When I was on break, I still have a moral responsibility to represent the company I work for if I decide not to eat in the break room and venture outside the walls of office parks and store front animations.
The hold on my life slowly slipping away.
I have realized through experience when trouble arises from a company mishap, you, the employee, should apologize to the consumers for the mistakes made, not the company. The only time executives will get involved is when the problem goes beyond the consumer and is attacked by government subcommittees, non-profit groups, or investigative journalism.
On my last flight when the rest of the passengers were stuck on the tarmac for an hour, waiting to get clearance from the tower to leave, it was the airline stewardess that apologized for the delay, not on behalf of the airline, but found it to be ethically sound to apologize as if she was the cause of the problem.
Employees take all the heat when sins are made, but your corporate god, draped in its symbol of perfection, will take all the glory when the company makes quarterly profits or serves a cause that the nation deems worthy of public notice during the wake of a natural disaster.
We are no longer individuals that are identified by our own beliefs, but subjects that are categorized by our job titles.
Understand unions are disappearing. The right for individual self is becoming obsolete as factories are being shutdown for cheaper labor in third world countries, making the retail stores our new industrial unit without the same balance between employer and employee.
We are at the helms of our demigods. We are at the mercy of the willful tyrants of executives and boards of directors that look down on us as used automobiles that can always be replaced.
Soon we will speak sentences that will be endorsed by our brand names.
Soon we will wage war, not against countries, but against competitive companies that will not merge with us when our gods feel consistency is more important than another company slashing prices.
Automobiles will resemble the outer exterior of race cars covered in logos.
Middle class homes will be splattered with advertisements of brand name entities.
Our neighborhoods will resemble amusement parks.
The entire world will soon be dominated by a hidden religion that has a far greater influence than all religions put together--the holy empire of consumerism, the savior of all our needs and wants that is able to give it to us now.
Money is power, and we as individuals have none.
We are living in a time where company policies and procedures are being forced to replace our own morals and values, to adopt a corporate culture from a particular brand name that has the philosophical significance of generalized personalization we feel speaks to us and only us.
Our new religious faith in retail.
With jobs I have had in the past, I was always told that when I was on the clock, it was my duty to follow company policy at all times. When I was on break, I still have a moral responsibility to represent the company I work for if I decide not to eat in the break room and venture outside the walls of office parks and store front animations.
The hold on my life slowly slipping away.
I have realized through experience when trouble arises from a company mishap, you, the employee, should apologize to the consumers for the mistakes made, not the company. The only time executives will get involved is when the problem goes beyond the consumer and is attacked by government subcommittees, non-profit groups, or investigative journalism.
On my last flight when the rest of the passengers were stuck on the tarmac for an hour, waiting to get clearance from the tower to leave, it was the airline stewardess that apologized for the delay, not on behalf of the airline, but found it to be ethically sound to apologize as if she was the cause of the problem.
Employees take all the heat when sins are made, but your corporate god, draped in its symbol of perfection, will take all the glory when the company makes quarterly profits or serves a cause that the nation deems worthy of public notice during the wake of a natural disaster.
We are no longer individuals that are identified by our own beliefs, but subjects that are categorized by our job titles.
Understand unions are disappearing. The right for individual self is becoming obsolete as factories are being shutdown for cheaper labor in third world countries, making the retail stores our new industrial unit without the same balance between employer and employee.
We are at the helms of our demigods. We are at the mercy of the willful tyrants of executives and boards of directors that look down on us as used automobiles that can always be replaced.
Soon we will speak sentences that will be endorsed by our brand names.
Soon we will wage war, not against countries, but against competitive companies that will not merge with us when our gods feel consistency is more important than another company slashing prices.
Automobiles will resemble the outer exterior of race cars covered in logos.
Middle class homes will be splattered with advertisements of brand name entities.
Our neighborhoods will resemble amusement parks.
The entire world will soon be dominated by a hidden religion that has a far greater influence than all religions put together--the holy empire of consumerism, the savior of all our needs and wants that is able to give it to us now.
Money is power, and we as individuals have none.
Delayed Flight # 6
I proceed with caution as I stand in-line and wait to use the ATM machine, or search for an empty sanitized booth to gobble down that conspicuous protein of processed meat in my Quarter Pounder with Cheese.
My fear lingers like a stuffy nose, an illness of self-doubt hoping to make it past my next birthday as I read about others just like myself who depend on the awareness of local reporters to fill me in when I should be suspicious of certain elements on my next flight, or very cautious of hotel bed comforters.
I wish my frightened inner child would disappear, fade away into my subconscious and realize that I have nothing to be afraid of, that everything will be ok. But eventually I wake up.
Hot flashes and a cold sweat.
Chills of discomfort and blood shot eyes.
The television turns on and it proves that indeed I should be fearful for my life, to not play with toys made from china, to not consume the green leaf goodness of a balanced diet if the packaged pesticides have defected lot numbers.
We were told to live life to the fullest, to not be afraid of anything and take chances. But used car salesmen are all liars as they fill my head with diagnostic concerns for my car, how if I do not get it fixed now, I might not live to tell about my mistake on a car insurance commercial.
When does it all end? When will there be a time when I can relax without malice?
The headlines say cell phones cause brain tumors.
The president states they want to take away my freedom.
Paranoia is a justified feeling that controls me, that will always hover over my head the way a dark shadow can remain peering over my shoulder at a coffee shop as I hesitantly type away on my laptop.
There was a time long ago when fear was brought by a great power to create order in a world of chaos. When a powerful being exposed the “truth” about his own conception by testifying to his people that he was a descendent of a high power, that if his people did not do what he said, they would all suffer, burn for eternity in a fiery grave that will never perish.
Now that same equation of control is still being used today, to instill the same terror to the masses, realizing nothing in life is for free, not even your own will.
When did fiction turn to fact?
When did man’s fables become truth?
Living life to the fullest and without fear is a delicate flower in the Amazon that hasn’t been touched by human hands, which means my freedom has become a self-made prison of erratic compulsion that can no longer cope with the outside world unless I’m wrapped in cellophane wearing a bullet proof vest just to get the mail.
My fear lingers like a stuffy nose, an illness of self-doubt hoping to make it past my next birthday as I read about others just like myself who depend on the awareness of local reporters to fill me in when I should be suspicious of certain elements on my next flight, or very cautious of hotel bed comforters.
I wish my frightened inner child would disappear, fade away into my subconscious and realize that I have nothing to be afraid of, that everything will be ok. But eventually I wake up.
Hot flashes and a cold sweat.
Chills of discomfort and blood shot eyes.
The television turns on and it proves that indeed I should be fearful for my life, to not play with toys made from china, to not consume the green leaf goodness of a balanced diet if the packaged pesticides have defected lot numbers.
We were told to live life to the fullest, to not be afraid of anything and take chances. But used car salesmen are all liars as they fill my head with diagnostic concerns for my car, how if I do not get it fixed now, I might not live to tell about my mistake on a car insurance commercial.
When does it all end? When will there be a time when I can relax without malice?
The headlines say cell phones cause brain tumors.
The president states they want to take away my freedom.
Paranoia is a justified feeling that controls me, that will always hover over my head the way a dark shadow can remain peering over my shoulder at a coffee shop as I hesitantly type away on my laptop.
There was a time long ago when fear was brought by a great power to create order in a world of chaos. When a powerful being exposed the “truth” about his own conception by testifying to his people that he was a descendent of a high power, that if his people did not do what he said, they would all suffer, burn for eternity in a fiery grave that will never perish.
Now that same equation of control is still being used today, to instill the same terror to the masses, realizing nothing in life is for free, not even your own will.
When did fiction turn to fact?
When did man’s fables become truth?
Living life to the fullest and without fear is a delicate flower in the Amazon that hasn’t been touched by human hands, which means my freedom has become a self-made prison of erratic compulsion that can no longer cope with the outside world unless I’m wrapped in cellophane wearing a bullet proof vest just to get the mail.
Delayed Flight # 5
The formula is simple, so simple in fact that it becomes abstract and difficult to catch for an adolescent or stay-at-home mom. But its there, trust me.
The formula is embedded in each radio friendly pop song that passes through our ears as lyrically unique, cutting edge commercial jingles that ultimately, if heard with a good ear, comes out sounding identical, like two farts trumpeting the same note from two different brands of fast food nudged and boiled in the large intestines.
Do you hear it now?
Do you hear the catchy hook of meaningless pain and sorrow sung from a teenage molded Cabbage Patch Doll that apparently is manufactured somewhere in Florida?
The hidden purpose of pop music is to not make a difference as it appears. It does not create an identity or give a unique take on the world. The ultimate purpose of this redundant demon is to feed on that one consistent emotion in your life that stains the outer layer of your mind day after day, that one unchanged Xerox copy of boredom that fills your everyday existence as you do the same thing over and over again.
The reason we feel empty, emotionally strained on that rerun concept of broken hearted loss and identity is because mainstream entertainment has the emotional depth of an infant, based not on experience, but on marketing demographics and pizza pie charts of target age groups that has become a company staple for our entertainment selection.
Britney Spears is not making your life better, it is exactly the same.
Lindsay Lohan is not relating to your tragedy, she’s exploiting it.
The Backstreet Boys are not creating diverse music, they are just remixing the same song and giving it a different name.
Understand the formulaic demon of empty emotion and redundancy hides everywhere—in the day old pizza cardboard cartons of tabloid newspapers, in the three act scenarios of our prime time television shows, and wedged in-between commercial slots of acne cream and soda pop billboards.
Realize, all these factors, the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers of pop culture have merged together, fused to become one being that is not teaching everyone to be different like you expect, but teaching everyone to be exactly the same.
So be careful, or else you might catch yourself humming along.
The formula is embedded in each radio friendly pop song that passes through our ears as lyrically unique, cutting edge commercial jingles that ultimately, if heard with a good ear, comes out sounding identical, like two farts trumpeting the same note from two different brands of fast food nudged and boiled in the large intestines.
Do you hear it now?
Do you hear the catchy hook of meaningless pain and sorrow sung from a teenage molded Cabbage Patch Doll that apparently is manufactured somewhere in Florida?
The hidden purpose of pop music is to not make a difference as it appears. It does not create an identity or give a unique take on the world. The ultimate purpose of this redundant demon is to feed on that one consistent emotion in your life that stains the outer layer of your mind day after day, that one unchanged Xerox copy of boredom that fills your everyday existence as you do the same thing over and over again.
The reason we feel empty, emotionally strained on that rerun concept of broken hearted loss and identity is because mainstream entertainment has the emotional depth of an infant, based not on experience, but on marketing demographics and pizza pie charts of target age groups that has become a company staple for our entertainment selection.
Britney Spears is not making your life better, it is exactly the same.
Lindsay Lohan is not relating to your tragedy, she’s exploiting it.
The Backstreet Boys are not creating diverse music, they are just remixing the same song and giving it a different name.
Understand the formulaic demon of empty emotion and redundancy hides everywhere—in the day old pizza cardboard cartons of tabloid newspapers, in the three act scenarios of our prime time television shows, and wedged in-between commercial slots of acne cream and soda pop billboards.
Realize, all these factors, the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers of pop culture have merged together, fused to become one being that is not teaching everyone to be different like you expect, but teaching everyone to be exactly the same.
So be careful, or else you might catch yourself humming along.
Delayed Flight # 4
Right now the only reality in TV is me watching hour after hour in a dead silence. I owe it to myself to do something more. My life should be more important. My life is what should be remembered rather than an identity that’s defined by marketing slogans and chorus hooks from manufactured pop songs.
After it’s all said and done, after the world encounters another drastic climate change, or a meteor hits the earth causing another powerful species to become extinct, this is what will occur when a new evolution of man re-surfaces giving meaning to an extinct period. It’s nothing like the movies:
They will come to the conclusion, after digging up the land and excavating that all franchise chains, corporate businesses, and apartment complexes were religious shrines.
They will find Barbie Dolls and action figures sealed in their boxes and define them as fertility symbols similar to our meaning of The Venus of Wilendorf.
They will find junk mail and coupons sealed in envelopes as letters sent to one another with a deeper meaning.
Malls mistaken for cities. Thomas Kincade prints, Affirmation posters, and store-front animations will be mistaken for our timeless art.
They’ll think the Starbucks logo was a Goddess.
They’ll think, “Just Do It” and “Can you hear me now?” were daily prayers or relaxing mantras.
Who won’t be remembered is me.
I will have left nothing behind that truly leaves a mark that lasts forever. My home will not be a reflection of me since someone else built it. When I die, others will occupy the same space, leaving no trace of my existence.
I must realize now there is nothing around that will give a glimpse of who I am since everything is by a company name or logo that doesn’t physically exist. Everything around me is ready-made, particle-board and compressed saw dust built to last through a year’s lease of renting.
Eons back there was a time when things were built to last a life time. Structures and monuments constructed out of marble and stone, brick and solid wood that stamped a seal of a past generation that would never be forgotten. Stored and preserved in museums and government controlled lands. But that time has passed.
Now, life is meaningless since all I do is consume more than what I need, to have someone else make it for me.
This is life on fast-forward, flying passed me quicker than my cable modem connection.
The time is now to realize I don’t really own anything. Life is based on the illusion of possession and the things I claim ownership to. The only thing I truly own is my life, and I’m giving it away to others like a kidney, spending my time at a place I hate for a check that I will eventually give away to others to fulfill a small piece of happiness that fades far too quickly. Today, my nothingness, my life should mean everything. But sadly it
After it’s all said and done, after the world encounters another drastic climate change, or a meteor hits the earth causing another powerful species to become extinct, this is what will occur when a new evolution of man re-surfaces giving meaning to an extinct period. It’s nothing like the movies:
They will come to the conclusion, after digging up the land and excavating that all franchise chains, corporate businesses, and apartment complexes were religious shrines.
They will find Barbie Dolls and action figures sealed in their boxes and define them as fertility symbols similar to our meaning of The Venus of Wilendorf.
They will find junk mail and coupons sealed in envelopes as letters sent to one another with a deeper meaning.
Malls mistaken for cities. Thomas Kincade prints, Affirmation posters, and store-front animations will be mistaken for our timeless art.
They’ll think the Starbucks logo was a Goddess.
They’ll think, “Just Do It” and “Can you hear me now?” were daily prayers or relaxing mantras.
Who won’t be remembered is me.
I will have left nothing behind that truly leaves a mark that lasts forever. My home will not be a reflection of me since someone else built it. When I die, others will occupy the same space, leaving no trace of my existence.
I must realize now there is nothing around that will give a glimpse of who I am since everything is by a company name or logo that doesn’t physically exist. Everything around me is ready-made, particle-board and compressed saw dust built to last through a year’s lease of renting.
Eons back there was a time when things were built to last a life time. Structures and monuments constructed out of marble and stone, brick and solid wood that stamped a seal of a past generation that would never be forgotten. Stored and preserved in museums and government controlled lands. But that time has passed.
Now, life is meaningless since all I do is consume more than what I need, to have someone else make it for me.
This is life on fast-forward, flying passed me quicker than my cable modem connection.
The time is now to realize I don’t really own anything. Life is based on the illusion of possession and the things I claim ownership to. The only thing I truly own is my life, and I’m giving it away to others like a kidney, spending my time at a place I hate for a check that I will eventually give away to others to fulfill a small piece of happiness that fades far too quickly. Today, my nothingness, my life should mean everything. But sadly it
Delayed Flight # 3
Watching clips from the show America’s Got Talent at the airport terminal is the equivalent of celebrating the fact that I could fart without shitting my pants while indulging in three chili-cheese burritos that have coated the lining of my stomach like a tea kettle of hot water left to Lobster scream on the stove.
The contestants of this show are mediocre, having the skills of a high school talent show which I now realize is the standard expectation for a good source of entertainment.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I don’t enjoy the occasional stunt when my friend is drunk on his own bullshit of get rich quick ambitions and 100 proof liquor as he tries and lights his own fart with my Zippo lighter. But there’s a big drawn line between being a drunk jack ass and seriously considering taking your fire fart act on the road.
Have our standards become this mediocre? Is this a glimpse of our future as we celebrate the Pulitzer and Noble Peace Prize of stupidity that has now become confused for brilliance?
If this is our take on talent, please kill me now. Don’t make it a painless death, but make it hurt to remind me of why I want to explore my other spiritual options then have to suffer through the reality of being at a never-ending frat party of existence.
If people really want to showcase their talent and impress the masses, then let’s find contestants who can add and subtract in their head without using their fingers, or read an entire book from start to finish. How about graduate high school without impregnating your girlfriend or understanding the difference between right and wrong when your best friend tells you that raw dog feels better than using a condom?
Am I asking for too much?
The real talent we should be recognizing and giving a million dollars to are the men and women who have really made a difference in society, helped all of us make long drawn mundane tasks into simple time consuming activities. What I’m talking about are inventions like the Foreman Grill, The Gift Wrap Cutter, The FM Radio Pen, The Hercules Hook, and the instant classic One Touch Can Opener. This is what should be our new definition of genius, our role models for a generation that has settled on a curriculum of useless facts under our Snapple caps and celebrity blogs. These leaders of innovation are the ones who should be recognized for greatness, not the talent-less amusement park performers that have invaded our magic box of truth.
And remember talent is not just in the eye of a bestselling Eastern European Pop sensation, but in the determination of one man or woman who finds their unique intelligence in-between time slots of The Apprentice and Who’s Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?
The contestants of this show are mediocre, having the skills of a high school talent show which I now realize is the standard expectation for a good source of entertainment.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I don’t enjoy the occasional stunt when my friend is drunk on his own bullshit of get rich quick ambitions and 100 proof liquor as he tries and lights his own fart with my Zippo lighter. But there’s a big drawn line between being a drunk jack ass and seriously considering taking your fire fart act on the road.
Have our standards become this mediocre? Is this a glimpse of our future as we celebrate the Pulitzer and Noble Peace Prize of stupidity that has now become confused for brilliance?
If this is our take on talent, please kill me now. Don’t make it a painless death, but make it hurt to remind me of why I want to explore my other spiritual options then have to suffer through the reality of being at a never-ending frat party of existence.
If people really want to showcase their talent and impress the masses, then let’s find contestants who can add and subtract in their head without using their fingers, or read an entire book from start to finish. How about graduate high school without impregnating your girlfriend or understanding the difference between right and wrong when your best friend tells you that raw dog feels better than using a condom?
Am I asking for too much?
The real talent we should be recognizing and giving a million dollars to are the men and women who have really made a difference in society, helped all of us make long drawn mundane tasks into simple time consuming activities. What I’m talking about are inventions like the Foreman Grill, The Gift Wrap Cutter, The FM Radio Pen, The Hercules Hook, and the instant classic One Touch Can Opener. This is what should be our new definition of genius, our role models for a generation that has settled on a curriculum of useless facts under our Snapple caps and celebrity blogs. These leaders of innovation are the ones who should be recognized for greatness, not the talent-less amusement park performers that have invaded our magic box of truth.
And remember talent is not just in the eye of a bestselling Eastern European Pop sensation, but in the determination of one man or woman who finds their unique intelligence in-between time slots of The Apprentice and Who’s Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?
Delayed Flight # 2
Have you ever noticed how celebrity fragrances smell like Third-World Slave labor?
Have you ever wondered why a celebrity cannot be great at one aspect of entertainment, but mediocre at a bunch?
Have you ever noticed when two celebrities date and split up, they feel it is important to tell the world of their break-up through their publicist? Fill our already fueled junk food minds with some moral standard of support and life long friendship?
Who are they kidding? When did news become mistaken for soap operas?
When I hear or read about these so-called headlines in newspapers, these comments make me want to masturbate the blood from out my veins. End my life now because I’m sick of being looked at as a complete moron.
There’s a reason people break up, there’s a reason why couples decide to split and start a new life that doesn’t include one another. It’s because they couldn’t stand each other any longer.
Like went to love and back to like before it became hate real fucking fast.
It must have gotten to the point where one person had to have said to the other, “Every time I look at you on-screen, it makes me want to push you down the staircase to abort the child we will never have together.”
Obviously, it got to the point where couples therapy was out of the question.
But seriously, why should I give a shit?
David Cross once said in his comedy routine that he now reads newspapers from different countries to read about what’s happening in his country since American papers are filled with bullshit.
And I couldn’t agree with him more when I get a USA Today at my hotel room door step every morning and read, front page, about a celebrity couple calling it quits, or a celebrity douche bag showing off her vagina after spending the evening at a some ritzy club.
I’m sick of hearing about it. I’m sick of hearing my friends and co-workers talk about these matters like they were family members.
We need to stop getting involved because all we are doing is feeding the frenzy even further to help support even more wasted time on celebrity gossip television shows and newspaper rags. We should all realize celebrities could give two shits about us in real life. We are a smart species and shouldn’t be so ignorant. And convenience should not be an excuse any longer because life is a struggle, and that’s what makes it worth living, not hearing about it from others.
Have you ever wondered why a celebrity cannot be great at one aspect of entertainment, but mediocre at a bunch?
Have you ever noticed when two celebrities date and split up, they feel it is important to tell the world of their break-up through their publicist? Fill our already fueled junk food minds with some moral standard of support and life long friendship?
Who are they kidding? When did news become mistaken for soap operas?
When I hear or read about these so-called headlines in newspapers, these comments make me want to masturbate the blood from out my veins. End my life now because I’m sick of being looked at as a complete moron.
There’s a reason people break up, there’s a reason why couples decide to split and start a new life that doesn’t include one another. It’s because they couldn’t stand each other any longer.
Like went to love and back to like before it became hate real fucking fast.
It must have gotten to the point where one person had to have said to the other, “Every time I look at you on-screen, it makes me want to push you down the staircase to abort the child we will never have together.”
Obviously, it got to the point where couples therapy was out of the question.
But seriously, why should I give a shit?
David Cross once said in his comedy routine that he now reads newspapers from different countries to read about what’s happening in his country since American papers are filled with bullshit.
And I couldn’t agree with him more when I get a USA Today at my hotel room door step every morning and read, front page, about a celebrity couple calling it quits, or a celebrity douche bag showing off her vagina after spending the evening at a some ritzy club.
I’m sick of hearing about it. I’m sick of hearing my friends and co-workers talk about these matters like they were family members.
We need to stop getting involved because all we are doing is feeding the frenzy even further to help support even more wasted time on celebrity gossip television shows and newspaper rags. We should all realize celebrities could give two shits about us in real life. We are a smart species and shouldn’t be so ignorant. And convenience should not be an excuse any longer because life is a struggle, and that’s what makes it worth living, not hearing about it from others.
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