It’s been a busy week for famous idiots, this. First we had Amy Winehouse’s utter toilet brush of a husband, Blake Fielder-Civil, being jailed for – wait for it – grievous bodily harm (or assault, as common people call it), resulting in Mrs. Winehouse arriving one hour late for a concert, while hundreds holding Amy Winehouse tickets traipsed out onto the pavement (as British people call it), chanting obscenities and generally making asses (as Americans call them) of themselves. That this streak of piss actually managed to successfully assault another full-grown human man I find extremely doubtful, unless the guy in question was:
a) Quadriplegic, or,
b) Unconscious.
Why Mr. and Mrs. Winehouse (or whatever their name is) can’t be more like Kanye West, who has shown a great deal of dignity this week in the eye of the speculative hurricane blowing up around his mother’s death, I do not know. Perhaps it is because he is a pathetic excuse for a drug addict – that’s right, not a pathetic excuse for a man; even junkies must be ashamed to count him among their number (and you know what crap they are). And her… I know what I’d do with the pair of ‘em.
Winehouse’s famous beehive hairdo was searched by police this week, when she went to visit Toilet-Brush in prison, and her house was raided by a gaggle of salivating pigs, sorry, police officers, in search of drugs. Or something. Meanwhile, the Spice Girls were heating up their processed Pop-Tart of an act for the world, at the Victoria’s Secret (read: Porn In Disguise, at least as far as I’m concerned) Party. According to the sharp-eyed sentinels attending, the girls were miming. That's right, lip-syncing... Apparently they were found out. You don’t say…
Then we had something a bit tastier; an alleged brawl between George Clooney and that ponced-up hairdryer’s companion, Fabio (what kind of @#&*%^! name is Fabio?), after Clooney called one of the godlike Eurobeefbag’s female companions a “fat cow”. There were photos of Fabio with a bust nose, speculations about Clooney carrying a blade, and even sillier postulations too obscene and ridiculous to print in a family digizine such as this. But it all came to nought, which is all we should expect, really. I mean, look at the facts here: Fabio makes his living from looking the part. He originated in Milan, but ran away to a land of make-believe called New York, where he became a girly catwalk boy, with preposterous long hair and the type of high boots typically worn by European heroes in children’s fairy tales, and all in the 20th Century! At best, Fabio is a girly version of wannabe tough-guy Dog the Bounty Hunter, who’s also in the news this week, for using the N-word and making such an arse (as the English say) of himself in front of his own family that one of them saw fit to expose him for the racist long-haired girlyboy he always has been. I could take him. Seriously, I could. I’ve been waiting for months for some skinny little Puerto Rican meth-head on PCP to knock him out with arms of wire and fists of steel, and now he’s gone and knocked himself out with words of garbage. Shame. But what Fabio is to Dog, Dog is to those UFC 78 guys who fight in the octagonal cage. That’s right, it’s all just degrees of girlyness and wannabe-ism on the part of various public figures who think they’re tough guys but aren’t. It radiates out from a center of pure evil and winds up in a mass of cotton candy airy-fairy famous heifers with exceptional (or is that effers with hexceptional) good photogenic properties in their facial proteins. One glance at that anal-wipe, Dog, reveals further concentric layers, leading to the UFC tough guys, until we suddenly realize, that, just as Toilet-Brush Winehouse is a heavily diluted version of Fabio, and Fabio is a heavily diluted version of Dog, and Dog is a sickeningly watered-down moist towelette version of UFC 78, it suddenly hits you that this thing can only run in one direction, like the laws of thermodynamics. Jeepers, you say, what lies beyond UFC 78? Nothing nice, let me assure you of that; prison, death-row, death, proper racism committed by proper tough guys (not TV asses who name themselves after domestic animals), and lots of hardened men in cages. It’s enough to make you want to get drunk, it really is. Then again, what isn’t?
