You Probably Hate Anne Hathaway Because of the Economy

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You Probably Hate Anne Hathaway Because of the Economy

Interesting article, but nope. We don’t hate Anne Hathaway because of the economy. Actually, we don’t hate Anne Hathaway at all. We just don’t give a shit about her particular fairy tale.

It’s not Anne’s fault. She just doesn’t project authenticity. I know that sounds ridiculous, given that authenticity is as manufactured as anything else we absorb from pop culture. Still, authenticity is what it takes for us to scrape off our protective layer of cynicism and enjoy a genuine emotional response to whatever they’re trying to sell us.

In Anne’s case, we’re just not buying it. Sure, she’s talented and lovely and probably holds the world record for never slouching a day in her life, but her humility is false, and even by Hollywood standards her stardom is hyper-calculated. It’s hard to like someone who takes her celebrity that seriously.

Anne has one of the most beautiful smiles in the history of teeth, but you know what? We don’t trust it. We don’t believe that the expression on her face matches the content of her soul, and that slight emotional hypocrisy is enough for us to turn on her.

That’s the fundamental difference between Jennifer Lawrence and Anne Hathaway. We’d all rather imagine ourselves as J-Law’s BFF because when she smiles (or trips or cries or farts) we believe her. She is authentic in a way that Anne just isn’t.

 

I just finished reading Lena Dunham’s $3,700,000 book proposal.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but when publishers start throwing around Hillary Clinton money for a book proposal by a “rare literary talent,” I certainly expect more than this.

It’s not funny. It’s not insightful. It’s not the least bit entertaining. It’s just a tepid exercise in neurotic navel gazing by a privileged white girl from New York who just happens to have her own show on HBO.

That’s fine, I suppose. The folks at Random House can squander their millions however they see fit, and kudos to Lena for cashing in on her Woody Allen meets Candace Bushnell schtick.

Still, in a book that purports to be about advice, you’d think the voice of a generation might have something to say about the world that exists beyond the end of her nose.

Then again, maybe not, and maybe that’s the larger point about a generation.

Jenny McCarthy

 

I understood Jenny McCarthy’s generic appeal back in the days of Seinfeld and slap bracelets, but someone needs to remind this ignorant old whore that her fifteen minutes of fame had an expiration date in the mid-nineties.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but this bitch’s incredibly selfish and misguided anti-vaccination activism has done more to legitimately endanger children than the Penn State football program. Fame like hers is never supposed to be more than a cheap plastic toy, but she managed to turn it into a weapon that caused actual societal harm.

I don’t give a flying fuck how great she looks for her age. She is a monster, and she’s got to go.

 

Hip-Hop Helen of Troy

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For those of you who appreciate a little Greek mythology, I thought I would share with you my notes on the recent club brawl that occurred between Drake and Chris Brown:

Helen of Troy = Rihanna

King Menelaus = Chris Brown

Prince Paris = Drake

Trojan Horse = Ace of Spades Champagne

Troy = The VIP section of the W.i.P club in Soho

Achilles = Tony Parker

So yeah, feel free to start referring to Rihanna as the Hip-Hop Helen of Troy.

 

Please stop asking for my opinion of Courtney Stodden.

I talk shit about pop culture. She doesn’t qualify. The world is full of train wrecks and teen brides. She is not culturally significant just because she married some creepy D-list character actor.

Maybe I’d raise an eyebrow if she stabbed him to death during a vicodin binge, but even then, we’re barely talking Lifetime Movie of the Week territory.

Come on, people. You’re better than this.

Debbie

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“…so just when I thought I was finished picking glitter out of David Bowie’s foreskin, Warhol tells me the camera ran out of film. That meant two more hours of listening to von Fürstenberg chew ice and complain about her razor burn. We ended up having to get fresh sushi for all the midgets and before you know it, the sun was up. I mean, seriously, do you know how slippery the leather gets on the booths at Studio 54? What am I talking about, of course you know. Ugh, I’m so hung over…”

 

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