——

Occupy Wall Street does remind me of the 60’s anti-war movement inasmuch as they were both based on a lie. The dirty, filthy hippies didn’t care about the Vietnam War; what they wanted was an end to the draft. That’s why, after Nixon ended the draft, the anti-war movement broke up even though the war would rage for a few more years.

OWS is based on the same lie. These smelly, selfish, narcissistic, spoiled loser creeps want their student loans forgiven. They claim to be outraged over the government’s bailout of Wall Street (which is worth being outraged over) and yet they want their own government bailout and in large part support President GoldmanSachsFailureTeleprompter.

The only purists in both movements were and are the communists, fascists, and anarchists (but I repeat myself) using all that selfish, crybaby energy to further their own goals.  Oh, and the corrupt MSM  doing everything they can to hide these truths and dim-witted Hollywood one-percenters desperate to  pretend that begging to be a student loan welfare queen by defecating in a ziploc bag in the middle of a park is somehow avant-garde.

Just thinking about all of this makes me want to spend money at Walmart.

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How ironic is this? It just so happens that spoiled, entitled, multi-millionaire celebrities who advocate the government confiscate my hard-earned money to fund their anti-human nihilism are the very people who make me think abortion might not always be wrong. 

And of all the causes to put your celebrity behind, abortion? Really?

Revealing, no?

Yes. Just as revealing as Harry Reid and Barack Obama choosing to fund an abortion mill over the men and women in the military.

The New York Post:

A common gripe about Lindsay Lohan, Chris Brown, Kanye West, Charlie Sheen and the rest of our celebrity monster posse is that they’re immature brats whom genetic fortuity gave riches but not brains, morals or character. They are.

But so were the stars of the ’50s. If their serene glamour persists, it’s in part because the movies are still on TV but the scandal sheets that chronicled their misadventures have crumbled to atoms. …

Taylor’s adulterous, drink-fueled hookup with Richard Burton on the set of “Cleopatra” inspired a letter published in a Vatican newspaper that condemned her for “erotic vagrancy.” When the lovers were out of the country, Rep. Iris Faircloth Blitch of Georgia called for them to be denied re-entry into the US “on the grounds of undesirability.”

Katharine Hepburn, the Camilla Parker-Bowles of La La Land, carried on with a married (and Catholic) Spencer Tracy for decades. Errol Flynn probably had sex with two underage girls, yet avoided conviction when his lawyers smeared the victims by bringing up their past sexual histories in a statutory rape trial that gave us the phrase “in like Flynn.” Flynn was also an anti-Semite who wrote to a friend, “A slimy Jew is trying to cheat me . . . I do wish we could bring Hitler over here to teach these Isaacs a thing or two. The bastards have absolutely no business probity or honor whatsoever.”

You can go back even further to the 1920s and just start with Fatty Arbuckle. There’s also the sleazy murder of film director William Desmond Taylor and all the sexual scandal surrounding the death of Olive Thomas — who some believe might have been poisoned by her philandering, syphilis-suffering husband Jack Pickford — brother of screen legend Mary. Hollywood has always been a small community packed with too many young, good-looking narcissists loaded with ambition and willing to do most anything to get ahead. That doesn’t mean there are and haven’t been a number of truly decent and moral people working at high levels of the entertainment industry, but Smith is dead on with his overall point.

The American people are pretty forgiving of this kind of stuff, though. We know none of us is perfect and normally don’t concern ourselves too much with what happens between consenting adults. 

So what changed? Because something sure did.

How did an industry that was once almost universally beloved despite being as badly behaved then as it is today, suddenly become a polarizing punchline with an approval rating lower lower than that of President Bush when he left office?

I have my own ideas but would like to hear yours first.

So while the Oxygen Network is busy promoting “The World According to Paris” and hoping it is the type of “edgy” television that will make that horrible network relevant to the entertainment world, we are giving you a few celebrities who are more worthy of their own show than Paris Hilton. 

Lindsay Lohan is probably a pretty good candidate to have her own reality show.  There are few things that the American television audience likes more than stuff covered in chocolate.  One of the items on that short list would be watching a celebrity crash and burn.  Ironically, that same list would also include the redemption of the aforementioned celebrity, and their return from a booze and cocaine induced brink of disaster.  Lindsay still has pop culture value and considering the fact that the dress she recently wore to court is now sold out just about everywhere, apparently many still find her intriguing.  Let’s face it; it’s only a matter of time before Ms. Lohan shows up on Dr. Drew’s couch at “Celebrity Rehab.”  If she can stay out of jail long enough to make the pretentious claim of “being off the drugs and high on life,” a show that chronicles this burnt out star’s efforts to reignite may be a ratings draw.  Of course if you want to give the viewers what they really want, cover her in chocolate and let nature take its course. 

Brett Favre can’t decide whether he is retired, seems confused by the concept of “no means no,” and has inadvertently shared pics of his stubby little goal post with the entire world.  While all this has destroyed his legacy as a gridiron hero, it has raised his pop-culture profile.  A show based around his life and exploits as searches for a life beyond football would probably have a lot of viewers.  Well, at least for one season. Hey, if Hulk Hogan could sustain a show about his family for four, full seasons, then why not Brett?  If some network threw him in a house with Ben Roethlisberger, Michael Vick, and Marv Albert, it would be the reality show equivalent of mating “Lord of the Flies” and the “Tailhook” convention with the Manhattan Project.  It would be messy, but lots of fun to watch. 

Finally, a lot of shows have been successful in the past by pulling a Z list star from the nether regions of the entertainment world and giving them a reality show.  Most of these programs seem to wind up on VH-1.  “The Flavor of Love,” “My Fair Brady”, and “Breaking Bonaduce” are some prime examples.  The history of this genre has shown that these efforts work best when the “star” either falls into the “quirky” category or is a complete a**hole.  With this in mind, a show based around the concept of finding Dustin “Screech” Diamond from “Saved by the Bell” or Urkel a mate would probably be entertaining for a season or two.  While the idea sounds silly on its face, who would have ever thought that a washed up, occasionally incarcerated, crackhead like Flavor Flav would score respectable ratings by turning the efforts to find his next baby-mama into a reality show.  

I am sure there is a whole world of washed up celebrities out there who could sustain their own reality program.  Paris Hilton is a bad gamble for any network, and her 15 minutes were up a long time ago.  The only worse decision that Oxygen could have possibly made would be creating a show that featured Mel Gibson discussing Woman’s issues and racial tolerance.

In 2002 I walk out of my last AA meeting because the culture of recovery in Hollywood had changed. It had become a production of hip, slick, and cool. It had lost its shame. Hollywood sent recovery into the mainstream by putting a camera in the room, and turning the shame of hitting your bottom into a chance to be seen on TV.

When realty shows like “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew” put a camera on an addict, it rewards them for bad behavior and puts off the chance at solid recovery. (Dr. Drew himself calls it a media intervention.) But it’s the financial rewards of Nielsen ratings that are helping to slowly kill actors like Charlie Sheen.

Hollywood paparazzi and media outlets flood the public with the comings and goings of troubled souls like Lindsay Lohan, plastering her image everywhere like a car crash you can’t stop rubber necking. Young actors in Hollywood and the MTV crowd see this stupid behavior and the limelight that goes with it and say to each other, “That doesn’t seem so bad. Let’s party.” It’s within that mode of exposure that the addict get’s lost inside the lens of Entertainment Tonight. Most addicts are at some level narcissist. Couple that with being an actor, and you have Siamese twins gazing blood shot into a reflecting pool of flash bulbs.

Hollywood’s long lists of addicts are simply egomaniacs with low self-esteem. However, once the actor/addict gets sober, most are just not that interesting in public and the media looses interest. The upside of this personal discovery are people like Robert Downey Jr.; who has flourished as a performer and person since he really “got it.”

A troubling new trend has taken hold of Hollywood’s production of addiction. The mixture of reality TV and recovery, taking regular people in deep despair and shining a light on their fall from grace so shoes and sugar-coated-cereal can be sold at commercial breaks.

One such show currently playing on The Learning Channel is, “My Strange Addiction.” In one episode the camera follows a young woman who is addicted to eating couch cushions, that’s right, couch cushions. The camera followers her through her day while she snacks on small bits of yellow foam, kept hidden in her handbag.  A family member confronts her and they send her for a free therapy session with a doctor who asks, “So how old were you when your father left?”

There’s no follow up that proves handling her addiction on camera is helpful, so for all we know as viewers, she may be halfway through the living room furniture while waiting for the cameras to return so she can get motivated to do something more about her addiction.

It doesn’t matter what the addict is addicted to, it all acts out in the same way, the endless craving for more. For some, Hollywood has made that endless craving all about the fix of getting more media to cover their own demise.

Shame used to be that place where a person openly cowers in passive emotion while being in a public place. Now with the production of recovery in Hollywood, hair and makeup is put on a person’s shame before they smile for the camera and say, “Look Grandma I’m on TV. Can you Paypal me some money?”

There is no right or wrong way to get sober. There is only the quiet reach of the person who digs within for sobriety because they want it, not because they need it, and not because they want to be on TV. Capturing footage of that process for profit is something only Hollywood could tell the public is good for all involved.

Somewhere deep inside Charlie Sheen is a humble man that desperately wants to get out and sweep the floor. But as long as Hollywood keeps him in the limelight for his deplorable behavior he won’t “get it.” And if he manages to die from his addiction he’ll end up like the rest, a t-shirt or coffee mug sold on the Sunset Strip… A movie of the week at best.

McCarthy is a conspiracy theorist and one of Wakefield’s biggest supporters.  She wrote the forward to his book Callous Disregard: Autism and Vaccines—The Truth Behind a Tragedy, where she states: 

“I believe history will be very kind to Andy Wakefield…For hundreds of thousands of parents around the world, myself included, Andy Wakefield is a symbol of strength and conviction that all parents of children with autism can use to fight for truth and the best lives possible for their kids.”  

I don’t have celebrity status that gives Jenny the ability to get her now debunked message across to an audience of millions like on Oprah, Larry King and in People Magazine.  I have to keep fighting one blog entry at a time (along with many others)—hoping that we can turn the tide around. There are many like me but no one with McCarthy’s appeal.  So even with all the evidence against her message, she is winning.  The mainstream media is beginning to report the fraud and will hopefully continue to push this message.  New generations of parents will hopefully never hear about Wakefield or McCarthy for that matter.  I can dream, can’t I? 

Many celebrities and parents backed Andrew Wakefield (Britain revoked his medical license so I refuse to refer to him as “Dr.”) and worldwide immunizations levels have yet to recover from the fear. Preventable diseases like whooping cough and measles are making a comeback thanks to the Wakefield/McCarthy alliance.  McCarthy is on record saying:

”I do believe sadly it’s going to take some diseases coming back to realize that we need to change and develop vaccines that are safe. If the vaccine companies are not listening to us, it’s their f___ing fault that the diseases are coming back. They’re making a product that’s s___. If you give us a safe vaccine, we’ll use it. It shouldn’t be polio versus autism.” 

Where is her evidence coming from? How does she know they are unsafe?  I sure hope it’s not because Andrew Wakefield said so.   

I get it.  Many parents want an answer as to why their child is autistic. I am at peace with my child’s diagnosis, but that does not mean that others should stop looking for an explanation. Time and time again we’ve seen that there is no link between vaccines and autism, so let’s stop wasting valuable resources.  Maybe we, as parents, can focus our energy towards finding ways to communicate with and educate our children.  There is an entire community of autistic adults willing to help.  Let’s engage them and expand the conversation to more than causation and cure. 

Delusional? Misguided? Desperate? Call it what you want, but McCarthy should apologize for scaring millions of parents from vaccinating their kids and then step down from the autism platform.  Give it to someone who actually knows what he or she is talking about. If you are concerned about these issues, then listen to a vaccine expert like Dr. Paul Offit and check out his new book Deadly Choices (Watch out, now I’ve really pissed off the anti-vaccine folks).  Let’s end this debate in the autism conversation and start to discuss quality of life issues.  C’mon Jenny, I’d love to hear what you’ve got to say on that topic.  And please don’t let it be about your new line of eco-bedding.

I come from a cancer riddled family. My father died of stomach cancer; my sister of leukemia, a niece of pancreatic cancer; another of ovarian cancer. I would dearly love for us to find a cure but I wonder why it is that Breast Cancer has become the darling of Hollywood celebrities. AIDS research is another disease that gets more attention from Hollywood than any other.   

John Stossel reported back in 2009 on the Fox Business Website- “In 2001, AIDS research got $4,439 per patient from NIH, breast cancer $290, Parkinson’s $175.  Diabetes, which killed more people than AIDS and breast cancer combined, got $41.  Heart disease, the number one killer, got $58.” 

Parkinson’s is listed third and could that be because Michael J. Fox is a very effective spokesperson and victim of that disease? Several Hollywood actresses have survived breast cancer and are enthusiastic supporters of the pink campaign;; Suzanne Somers; Kate Jackson; Edie Falco; Jaclyn Smith; Shirley Temple Black and more. Rock Hudson brought the AIDS epidemic to every household watching Dynasty and I can’t count how many of my gay friends died of this preventable disease. 

I wouldn’t be surprised to see osteoporosis climb the research funding chart since Sally Fields has admitted she suffers from this while promoting a drug to control it. 

The problem I have with celebrities fundraising for these diseases and whole months being designated for feverous campaigns is that corporations end up exploiting the sales for profit. For every yogurt you buy with a pink ribbon, the company will send ten cents for research. You would end up eating three yogurts a day for the month just to generate a $36 donation. Why not just send a check directly to the Cancer Society?  Why not support research for all cancers? 

I’ve always identified with Kramer on the Seinfeld show who enraged everybody at an AIDS Walk by refusing to wear a red ribbon. He’s confronted and assaulted by two AIDS walkers after screaming, “This is America! I don’t have to wear anything I don’t wanna wear! “ 

Well apparently we all do, Kramer, bow to the pink and the red and whatever color ribbon Hollywood celebrities will don on Oscar Night. 

The irony about the pink campaign is that it came about in the early 1990’s when a woman with a family history of breast cancer, Charlotte Haley, made peach ribbons with a card that read, “The National Cancer Institute annual budget is $1.8 billion, only 5 percent goes for cancer prevention. Help us wake up our legislators and America by wearing this ribbon.” 

The executives at Estee Lauder and Self Magazine asked Haley for permission to use her ribbon. She refused saying they were too commercial so they changed the color to pink. 

I wonder if this October “pink” campaign would have pissed me off so much if the color was peach. 

 I like peach.

Multiple births are the new Mercedes.

The only married couple I know, Bob and Bruce, come over every so often to teach my boys how to be men, and then take them shopping for child-appropriate skincare and those awesome bio-degradable Chanel onesies I’ve seen on many fatherless celebrity babies.

When Bob and Bruce are busy, the guys I pick up at the bar the night before hang out with them for guy-time. This is handy because I learn these men’s names as they introduce themselves to my brood. Once they are acquainted I can get to work on my new fragrance line without worrying about the rugrats.

Had a real job back in 2008, but that stable, pre-proto-feminist lifestyle is so not important these days. Who needs jobs and money when you can be featured in a reality show and/or dance with the stars while pretending to not exploit your friends, family and children?

I’m in talks with MTV, VH1 and MSNBC (Keith Olbermann is not happy, I am vying for his time-slot to boost ratings). They are really psyched as I plan to release my sex tape (with John Edwards, because John Edward wasn’t available that night. He was communicating with my dead Grandma, who, as it turns out, is totally in favor of me releasing my X-rated shenanigans and likes the samples from my proposed clothing line).

Anyway, so glad I was enlightened — you don’t have to get married in order to have kids. Out of wedlock births used to be taboo. Morals are so 1985! Like the shoulder pads on Sarah Palin’s suits. My friends Alex and Robin are going through a divorce and little Beatrice is traumatized over how she will survive without both of her mommies, but at least they’ve worked out a custody agreement for the nannies.

Before I go on, I need to address a serious rumor that has nearly ruined my life. It’s absolutely false that Michaele Salahi was wearing the same Vera Wang dress as I was on the red carpet at Rahm Emanuel’s annual tutu auction. It wasn’t even the same color! Regardless, Michaele wasn’t invited to crash the event. It is often whispered she didn’t vote for God Jr. because the elections interfered with her regularly scheduled botox appointment. My friend in DC said Michaele once dropped the N-bomb in front of Arianna Huffington, and promptly checked herself into celebrity rehab and missed the Oscars. How gauche.

Anyway, I am participating in a unique green genetic program, implemented by those pro-life freaks, it’s basically embryo recycling and approved by Al Gore. I think I’ve finally found an embryo that is guaranteed African, Asian, American-Indian, Middle-Eastern and Canadian. Canadians are like synonyms for human beings, it’s exactly the same as buying something from a designer’s trunk sale. If you don’t say anything, no one will know the difference. And it’s so politically correct – my next child’s carbon footprint will be blacker than Al Gore’s. Please help me raise awareness for saving the earth, one embryo at a time.

Also, do let me know about your views on the post-modern feminist lifestyle in the comments. Oh, I will be out of town for the next few days, so I might not respond promptly, or my assistant will respond in my absence. I was so traumatized by the latest paparazzi photo of me stepping out of a limo, I briefly considered wearing panties. Instead, I’m headed to Cuba (where they have the world’s best free health care) to get things tightened up down there. Meanwhile, I’m going to hang out with my older children who are 7 and 19, watch some Happy Days reruns, and teach them about wine.

—–

About ten years ago or so I saw Cyndi Lauper live when she opened for Tina Turner. She was very pregnant at the time and sang every one of her hits except the one her fans most wanted to hear, ”Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” The crowd was waiting for it, ready to explode and dance and sing along.

Not only did Lauper not sing it, she got snotty with the audience when they called out for it. At the end of her set she said, “Nope, not gonna sing it,” and  walked off. 

For a decade I’ve waited to get that off my chest.

The anger, guilt, and shame follows Clinton around like the rain cloud over Bad Luck Schleprock. Yet in the tradition of grand Hollywood satire, all these emotions literally explode out of him while auditioning for an adaptation of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Literally chewing the scenery lands him the lead. The lead, however, does not change into a giant bug but rather into a literal pile of shit (hence the adaptation title Turdmorphosis). Hilarity does, in fact, ensue as Clinton’s Method performance captures the buzz and he is propelled into Hollywood’s upper echelon. Alas, the combination of an ill-timed collision with Nicholas Cage during the Oscar telecast, and an evening of amnesia surrounding unruly drunken behavior, and Clinton’s careers ends as quickly as it begins. The nail in the coffin — he outs himself as a Conservative despite repeated warnings from his handlers. In Hollywood, it’s just fine to be a child rapist, a drug-addled fool, make slurs about gays and Jews, and be an all-around asshole, but it’s being a Conservative that’ll ultimately do you in.

Lindsey’s prose is almost too clever for its own good — almost. He pushes the wink factor right to the edge, but for anyone who’s experienced life in the entertainment industry, this won’t matter a bit. Many of the situations are nifty turns on what has already been endless parodied, so Mr. Lindsey also deserves props for his imagination. Then again, it doesn’t take much imagination for an actor to actually be made to feel like a pile of poop. Mr. Lindsey’s gift is that he actually carries this absurdity through from beginning to end. Admittedly, the constant unavoidable references to fecal matter will not win over those with delicate sensibilities, and there’s more than enough bathroom humor to go around. To that end, the material is an acquired taste (so to speak).

Nevertheless, Mr. Lindsey accomplishes a great deal with the material. Clinton Feast is ultimately just like the rest of us — a guy pursuing a dream being humiliated at every turn. That’s why we like him, and that’s why we care as much as we do — which is so difficult to achieve in satire. Mr. Lindsey is endlessly inventive, placing his protagonist in outlandish situations that are sometimes so ridiculous that one cannot help but laugh, and perhaps nod in agreement.

My only quibble with the book is a somewhat misleading title. There is barely any mention of Clinton Feast’s political leanings in the first 80% of the book. Dramatically, it is Clinton’s own self-loathing that is his real enemy — a facet more traditionally associated with the Left. His Conservative beliefs do not affect the drama until the end, when his behavior has already done him in.

But the criticism is a minor one, as Mr. Lindsey’s outrageous, no-holds-barred, repulsive, and shock-value storytelling carries us on a disgusting tour of the Entertainment Sewers.

Just don’t eat while you read.