2008 Woodie Awards
Paris Hilton looks great on fire
Terry Badman
Issue date: 3/7/07 Section: Opinion
Celebrities.
If there were ever a race of human beings that deserved to be locked in a freezer and slowly tortured to death by nailgun-wielding penguins, it would be them.
Nothing would thrill me more than to see all of the Paris Hiltons and Tom Cruises of the world tossed into a blender, then soaked in mayonnaise and fed to French-Canadians.
Oh Canada. You know I love ya.
All joking aside, what exactly is the fetish with celebrities? Why does our culture care whether or not Lindsay Lohan is snorting lines of coke off of Ronald McDonald's asscrack?
I'll tell you why - because Americans love fire.
Think about it. You walk by a burning building and notice Pamela Anderson screaming for help from a seventh-story window. What do you do?
Now there are two types of people on this planet. One type will call the fire brigade and try to lend a helping hand, maybe play Superman for a day.
The other will run to the nearest convenience store and pick up a disposable camera and a bag of marshmallows.
Now it's just a theory of mine, but I'm willing to bet that most of you would opt for the marshmallows. And why wouldn't you? Trying to help someone in need puts you at unnecessary risk. And really, what's in it for you anyway? Fifteen minutes of fame? Screw that.
Besides, I got a good buzz going, and it's almost time for Vanilla Ice to square off against Gary Coleman on "Celebrity Boxing."
But that entire concept explains our unwavering love for celebrities. We love to set fire to people's lives, watching overpaid drama kings and queens get thrown into rehab or take a dirt nap. It gets us off.
Take this joke for example:
What does Anna Nicole Smith and my neighbor's cats have in common? Give up? They're both infested with worms! Mwu-hah hah!
Now I'm sure someone out there is bound to email me and complain about how I'm going to spend an eternity in hell cleaning Hitler's underoos with a toothbrush for that one, but I'm willing to take that risk to make a point.
If there were ever a race of human beings that deserved to be locked in a freezer and slowly tortured to death by nailgun-wielding penguins, it would be them.
Nothing would thrill me more than to see all of the Paris Hiltons and Tom Cruises of the world tossed into a blender, then soaked in mayonnaise and fed to French-Canadians.
Oh Canada. You know I love ya.
All joking aside, what exactly is the fetish with celebrities? Why does our culture care whether or not Lindsay Lohan is snorting lines of coke off of Ronald McDonald's asscrack?
I'll tell you why - because Americans love fire.
Think about it. You walk by a burning building and notice Pamela Anderson screaming for help from a seventh-story window. What do you do?
Now there are two types of people on this planet. One type will call the fire brigade and try to lend a helping hand, maybe play Superman for a day.
The other will run to the nearest convenience store and pick up a disposable camera and a bag of marshmallows.
Now it's just a theory of mine, but I'm willing to bet that most of you would opt for the marshmallows. And why wouldn't you? Trying to help someone in need puts you at unnecessary risk. And really, what's in it for you anyway? Fifteen minutes of fame? Screw that.
Besides, I got a good buzz going, and it's almost time for Vanilla Ice to square off against Gary Coleman on "Celebrity Boxing."
But that entire concept explains our unwavering love for celebrities. We love to set fire to people's lives, watching overpaid drama kings and queens get thrown into rehab or take a dirt nap. It gets us off.
Take this joke for example:
What does Anna Nicole Smith and my neighbor's cats have in common? Give up? They're both infested with worms! Mwu-hah hah!
Now I'm sure someone out there is bound to email me and complain about how I'm going to spend an eternity in hell cleaning Hitler's underoos with a toothbrush for that one, but I'm willing to take that risk to make a point.
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