Thursdays with Tina: Celebrity Sin Edition

What is Tina Brown really thinking when she writes her column for the Washington Post? Below, we interpret her latest effort.

Tina SaysTina Means
Russell Crowe's rumble in the Mercer Hotel in New York this week suggests a possible new use for Neverland after the Jackson verdict is rendered. It could be refitted as a rehabilitation facility for stars, CEOs and ersatz billionaires afflicted with the classic symptoms of Narcissistic Celebrity Disorder. Either that or a fun weekend getaway resort where I could get pedicures on a Ferris wheel ride and then go shoot some baby gazelles. I could go either way on this one.
There are rehab centers for every kind of substance abuse, but none for the galloping threat of NCD. A while back, I got totally addicted to ass jerky made from the glutes of aging Euro-models. I thought I was completely alone in my sickness, but it turns out there's this great ass jerky clinic in Sedona. Anna Wintour told me about it, and today, thanks to my sponsor Elton, I've been ass jerky-free for two years now.
We will probably look back on the Jackson trial as the last time a world-class star found a way to be truly outlandish in the grand tradition of Elvis and Brando. Celebrities and their banal delinquencies are now overexposed to the point of being deprived of any capacity to surprise. Russell, if you're gonna break someone's face with a telephone, at least make sure it's a 13-year-old kid with cancer. I mean, how grand would that be!
We are not getting much bang for the buck peeping into famous lives. The silver screen is just a big bathroom mirror. Yesterday, I crammed my maid into my new Whirlpool and dishwashed her for two hours. I bet Russell Crowe doesn't even have a maid!

Jackson himself has been of declining interest since 1993, when we first learned the secrets of his way of life. What the hell, I'm like anybody. Twelve years of vicarious pedophilia and I start channel-surfing. I wonder if Johnny Depp rapes kittens. That would be interesting!
But by the time of this trial we already knew everything important there was to know about Jackson. Some people don't think there's anything important to know about Jackson. What the fuck is wrong with those people?
So what have we gleaned that gives the trial some value added? That he had some older-woman porn around the house as well as the expected Barely Legal stuff? That he wears a rug? That he has a bad back? Bad back? Older women porn around the house? Rug? HELLOOOO?!? I might as well just be watching home movies!
(Pick your favorite family detail: That eldest son Jackie once suffered a broken leg when his first wife ran over him after catching him in bed with Paula Abdul? That Jermaine named his kid Jermajesty?).Omigod, I know more about the Michael Jackson case than his freakin' lawyer does! Is that scary or what?
What's truly strange is that, as Maureen Orth points out in this month's Vanity Fair, the lack of real emotional involvement also seemed to extend at times to the jury. Honestly, though, I'm trying to get help.
It's as if all the exhibitionism about what was once private life is gradually draining us of our own humanity. Oop. Speaking of draining humanity, it's time for my colonic. You'd be amazed at how long it takes to cleanse 800 lbs. of ass jerky from your system.
"SWEAT, FREAK" was the New York Post's cruel front-page headline about Jacko last Friday, as the jury retired to determine his fate. Sometimes I think a world where crass tabloids are rude to creepy child ticklers is just not a world I want to live in.
Could it be that it will take celebrities themselves to break out of the prevailing cultural coma? Brad Pitt cannily insisted with "Primetime" ABC producers that his few evasive sound bites on his private life came at the price of four long segments about hungry kids in Africa.I mean, dear God, yes, those segments were loooonnng! Like, okay, little starving nobodies, I get it, all right? You're in Africa. You're hungry. Do you have to tell me four fucking times!?!
" It may just be a brilliant PR move to counteract dumping America's girl next door for a luscious femme fatale, but it could also be a small sign that obliviousness is getting old. If I am wrong, there are plenty of rooms left for us all in Neverland. You should know, however, that I do have the penthouse suite booked through 2020. So don't get your hopes up too high, bitches!

Fame is No Excuse for the Rest of Us [WaPo]


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