Sunday, February 11, 2007
Anna Nicole Smith RSVP
Anna, while you were alive I didn’t think much about you. And when I did, I thought you were a blonde, buxom bimbo who had thrived on the leeching public and bloodthirsty yellow journalism industry to keep you alive – you know, alive as far as the public was concerned.
Whenever we crossed paths, it was through the pitiful road of media, when all I could see was a caricature – a pathetic yet gorgeous woman sucking the gullible billionaire and the media dry for money and publicity.
No sane woman living in South Beach would've noticed the fate of the Texas trick. Ah heck, I lie -- we see this everyday -- those sugar daddies with better comb-overs than the Trump are hooking up with hare-brained, silicone-boobed damsels like the sand is a blowin'!
But, Anna, now that you’re dead and your most recent claim to fame is being a mother who has recently lost a child just after giving birth to one, all I can think is that no matter what the medical examiner says, you were born into and died of grief.
Anna, now all these men whose dicks haven’t seen the light of day for years are claiming paternity to your child – which is to say – they’re trying to get their dicks wet with J. Howard Marshall’s fortune.
Anna, did you know your network documentary would be nearly Shakespearian? Follow the trail of money -- it leads to death! Suspect paternity. Libelous suits. Passionate unions. Every time you straddled some man’s loins, Anna, it lead to madness and misfortune.
Anna, what the fuck? You make me feel all Horatio Cane, cheap red wig Revlon back-lit and biting my lips softly, squinting my baby blues with compassion.
Yo girl! Girl with spunk to spare, couldn’t you have waited until your daughter was at least a teenager to croak? What’s Dannielynn going to do now? She’s going to have to deal with being a beautiful, troubled woman in this world, torn, like you were, among the desire of marketing geniuses.
Anna, you were personally responsible for whatever crap you put into your body, but we leeched on your infamy like it was manna from heaven, because we wanted it. And the paparazzi, as well as the inscrutable editors, fed it to you as if by signed medical prescription.
You may have not sucked Hugh Hefner's dick, but you sold Playboy. You may have not slept with George Marciano, but you sold the GUESS line. You created a fashion revolution. I mean those old Italians knew about ass but took them a billion years to discover perspective. Then suddenly, some agency in the twentieth century decided that Ruben had a thing going. Go figure ... yeah, figure.
Anna, you brought Mae West back to life. And who didn't love Mae West? Yeah, it was all wrong too. But girlfriend had spunk and could talk her way out of the toughest cluster fuck. What was not to love, if not the talk, let alone the thighs?
Anna, you were and always will be the Marilyn Monroe of our generation, the seventy-year itch of a world that is so hungry for bodies and scandal that it forgets the bodies and scandals it fed on just minutes ago. We may have eating disorders but we feed on the destiny of celebrity bodies as if they were low-fat frozen dinners.
Anna, don’t laugh. Seriously. The vultures were waiting to pick at your foie gras, which is why I say, don't RIP, RSPV. We need the likes of you. You took your exit when the world forgot it was dying of information obesity. You died when the RSS and XML feeds had had enough of forgiving Kate Moss for doing coke and getting caught.
But you know what, Kate Moss gets away with it because she’s skinny and her fashion clients don’t want the negative PR. Oh, and Paris Hilton, she gets away with it too because she’s skinny and born into money.
Listen Anna, you know you don’t rank up there with Oprah opening schools in Africa. You never were exactly Angelina Jolie and Madonna adopting orphans from Africa, much less the late Princess Diana raising awareness about philanthropy, but there’s still something about you that was real that the average woman could understand.
Why? Let me tell you why. Because you were everything America loves and yet everything America is ashamed of. All wrapped up into some body – everything the media just loves to suck on while it pukes it out in its bulimic relationship with reality.
Yeah, you heard it right people -- er soul and blood sucking industry. I’m getting all Jesus on your ass. Judge lest you not be judged. Or swallow your own hypocritical fucking puke, why don’t you?
Yeah, I want you to get mad at these words. Sure, get pissed off, fuckers. I don’t want you to have erections about Anna anymore. I want you to think long and hard about a world in which a gullible woman sells herself this way for success.
I want you to think of Greta Garbo and Judy Garland, real women of talent who fell into a shallow grave of memory ... reclusive and into ignominy ... how fucking dare you judge Anna Nicole Smith?
Photography courtesy of Mavrix Chatter. Copyright Mavrix Photo, Inc.
Special thanks to MM (you know who you are) for requesting this post!
tags: anna nicole smith, death, celebrity