Dear Famous Person,
Being famous probably entitles you to the following three things:
Riches beyond your wildest wet dreamslots of money
On the other hand it doesn’t entitle you to:
- think that the smell of roses emanates from the john every time you defecate
- assume that every single member of the population (beneath your oh-so-lofty status) believes that you’re no less than Jesus, Mary and Joseph all wrapped in one neat little package
- imagine that we love nothing more than to pore over relentless images of you, glass in one hand and tits in the other, whilst you schmooze your way through yet another ruinously hedonistic party that only the super-rich and
toadying fuckssuper-sycophantic get invites for
- give birth to (or father) one or more children, saddle them with
fucktardoutrageous names, then palm them off onto the nearest available (paid for) pair of hands, until they either start showing you up in the press or, God help us, they start thinking they’re the next biggest *whatever* and you feel the need to put them back in their place
Face facts Famous People. You’re really not that special. You can’t fly like Peter Pan. You can’t perform real magic like Gandalf. You can’t even (for the main) hold your own fucking umbrellas so let’s be perfectly honest here … it really is time that you got
the fuck over yourselves.
Being famous really doesn’t mean that you are better than us. It is, truth be told, the other way round. We have to strive and work hard to support our loved ones. And by ‘work hard’ I mean the type of work that involves you know … work. We lead real lives, doing real shit, day in, day out.
And we do all that we do without
- a personal shopper
- three maids
- five drivers
- a chef in every house
- three nannies
- fourteen bodyguards
- a wrangler for the 24 miniature leg-humping dogs you insist on treating like babies
- one fucking umbrella carrier
- and not a single goddamn
toadying bastard ass-lickermanager in sight
And you know what? That shit feels good.
And Mimi? Girl of all yo people, no one ever told you that bert & ernie swing lower than Tiger Woods on a bad day? Hell girl, you need to get your cupcakes into some better fitting underwear.