Paris Hilton looks great on fire

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.

Let’s be honest, I’m willing to bet many of you found that joke clever. Hell, you might have even laughed up your Doritos for all I know. The point is, while many of you may have taken great offense, most of you probably got your rocks off on it.

You’re all sick and demented – but so am I.

Maybe that’s why our species is so doomed to destroy itself; we have a natural urge to feed off of the suffering of others. Daily celebrity drama is a drug that keeps us lit, allowing us to ignore the fact that we are all entirely miserable with our own lives.

I mean what’s the use in worrying about your own taxes when you have Michael Jackson finger-painting with preschoolers on “Good Morning America”?

Maybe I’m being overly dramatic. Maybe I’m thinking way too much into this whole celebrity thing.

Or maybe we’re all screwed.

That’s the worst part, too. Like Hilary Clinton’s presidential chances, there isn’t a hope in hell for any of us. We’re all going to continue to watch reality TV, read “People,” and download the latest celebrity sex tape.

I don’t care if Britney Spears shaved her head and is wolfing down gallons of Crisco, and I don’t care if Suri Cruise is actually one of Jim Henson’s aborted Muppets.

And yet here I am, writing up this entire editorial about celebrities. I wouldn’t write about them if I didn’t care – would I?

George Carlin once said, “the planet is fine, the people are f—–.”

Amen, brother. Amen.

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