Like many grumpy bastards my age (mid-30′s….) I like to have a rant against the world. Thanks to the internet, everyone can rant away to their heart’s content. Whether people listen… well, that’s another problem, but often, it’s less about who reads the rant as much as it is about just doing the ranting.
There’s a couple of things I’ve seen in recent weeks and months that have just made me weep for the future of humanity. As a grumpy old bastard, it’s my solemn duty to now proceed to berate you with what I see as prime examples of bottom-feeding pond scum living off the goodness of others.
The first is the recent scandal surrounding the recently-Princessed Catherine Middleton, and the smeary French photographer who took about 200 photos of her sun-baking semi-nude on a private estate, which led to an equally smeary French magazine making the decision to, in the name of public interest, publish several of them. In the interest of the public? I think you’re adding an extra “l” mate – I think it’s in the interest of the pubic. Everyone loves to see a celebrity in the raw, a bit of nip-slip and casual cellulite parading ensuring that the general lardness of the population are kept thinking that these “celebrities” are nowhere near perfect and actually, when you think about it, just like you and me.
Probably because they fucking are just like you and me. But we like to know it, to see it, and if we can, probably poke and prod it too.
Catherine – Cate, C-mid or whatever tween-speak nickname currently flying about Facebook she happens to use – was on private property, away from “the public”, in the company of her husband (not some affair or tawdry fling), and not in the least bit expecting to have to concern herself with some dickhead carrying a camera perched like a pervert on the roof of a car some kilometer or two away. Unlike her brother-in-law barely a fortnight earlier, who’d been filmed with his crown jewels out at a private party in Las Vegas (where everyone carries a phone with a camera in it), Catherine had every right to expect some semblance of privacy. Anybody declaring that she should have expected this kind of thing should fucking think about what they’re saying. She was on private property. She was topless. She had her tits out….. dear god, those tits….
By Christ, I wish I’d taken the photos.
Actually, no, I don’t. Because no doubt the furor this whole tawdry affair has caused will not die down until somebody goes to jail – or worse, has to pay up big – and even then, I doubt it’ll stop things like this from going on in the future. A slight cringe from the Royal Family came when Prince William made the link between the paparazzi taking wank-snaps of his super-hot wife (and let’s face it, I’d say there’s a couple of sticky pages in some gossip magazines slid under many a teenage boys mattress dotted around the world, featuring Her Royal Hotness) and the way they hounded his mother, the blameless and faultless Princess Diana, to her death in a Parisian car tunnel. You think the HRH’s would learn to just stay the fuck out of France, right? Linking the two events did seem like a little too much overkill – at least William could have let somebody else make the link instead of doing it himself, because I think it’s a bit of a long bow to draw between Diana’s car-wrecked-evening out and Cate’s lubed-up sun-splash. Cate wasn’t even in a tunnel, although I’d say William hoped he’d be in hers before the day was out…. right?
The media frenzy when this story launched was – and let me state this as clearly as possible, so no mistake is made – fucking disgraceful. Obviously, the photographer went into hiding (and if he/she is ever named, will be hounded into the ground themselves by a future frenzy, I daresay), while the editor of said French magazine (a magazine named Closer…. closer to what, a stay in jail?) declared to all and sundry he had every right to publish the images, and of course, this went against what the HRH’s thought about it all. Inevitably, the magazine did publish the photos, and eventually (because everything salacious ends up on the internet) they turned up in Google’s search engine. So now, forever and a day, people will be able to gaze upon the lovely – albeit slightly blurry – royal funbags and fap away to their heart’s content. I think what that French photographer did was akin to rape – or at least some other kind of rage-inducing act of defilement against a person – in as much as he took images of a person in a private situation and exploited them to his or her own ends. Sure, but what about all the nipple slips and panty-less shots of various female celebrities before this, you ask. I bet Emma Watson’s various side-boobage has embarrassed her no end, but you don’t see her kicking up a stink.
That’s because the majority of stuff we see in gossip magazines is of people in public places, going about their sordid lives for everyone to see. Lindsay Lohan, the execrable, talentless excuse for an “it girl” a few years back who ended up deciding a career trajectory just south of hard-core porn might be a good choice, never gets caught with her tits out at home – no, she flashes those fuckers at nightclubs and other swanky (or, wanky, if you’re like me) soirees to which she’s invited in order to get her bits out to spark a “controversy”….. controversy so overrated it’s like watching two snails screwing. Boring. Nobody get photographed in the privacy of their own home – unless you’re teen sensation Vanessa Hudgens, who took nudie snaps of herself and sent them to her then-boyfriend Zac Efron for his sexual elucidation – and man, did we all elucidate on that! I’m not adverse to celebrities sexing themselves up to heighten interest in themselves, because God knows it worked out so well for Paris Hilton, but when you’re not “on duty” as a celebrity, surely you could expect a modicum of restraint by the gaggling hordes of
fuckwits paparazzi… surely?
Apparently not even private property is really all that private.
My final word on the CateMid saga is this: one day the world is really going to be fed up with this kind of dirty shit, and these parasites are going to go back to the sludge and slime they obviously crawled out of (no, I do not think their business model need be maintained by the appearance of some starlets aureola sliding out from a dress) and we’ll all have to get along with a lot less shit clogging up our Google search engines. And the sooner these oxygen thieves get the message on that, the better. I know, it won’t be soon, but one day…. one day, I’ll be able to walk around the street with my junk out and no fucker’s gonna give a shit.
The second thing that’s pissed me off recently is just how stupid the American election campaign cycle actually is. I mean, does anybody in the US ever sit back at some stage and think, man, people outside the US (whoever is stupid enough to live outside the US) must really think this is…. ultra gay. I mean, neither the Dumbocratic or the Reptillian campaigns have even the slightest sense of humility or humanity. It’s all show and go – money-shot after money-shot of sound-bytes and social media hashtags of ordinary folks going about their daily lives until they’re forced to attend these idiotic flag-waving conventions and rallies where badly dressed political figurines get up and showboat about how good the US is and how voting for them is gonna make that unfortunate global financial crisis just go away. Fuck you, debt ceiling. We don’t want you, so we’ll just vote in a law saying you don’t exist. Whatever I need to say to get elected – hell, I’ll even mention that I’m into Jersey Shore if it’ll gain me the youth vote (which it won’t, you stupid turd, because that show is, like, shit).
Seriously, who the hell thought Clint Eastwood just upfucked the election with one fowl empty-chair debacle? My hand went up when I YouTubed that puppy, I can tell you. Obama must has creamed his pants when he saw that.
I’m no US hater, nor do I love them, but the empty, vacuously self-obsessed election campaign, which has dragged on for what seems like the lifespan of an incontinent septuagenarian, is so utterly without human feeling and any kind of truth, you have to wonder if it’s no more than another event-bigger-than-the-event crap like the Superbowl. Remember when the Superbowl was about football? For most people now, it’s about the cool advertising and new movie trailers that debut each year and cost a small fortune to air. Who won last years Superbowl without Googling it? Or the year before? Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.
I don’t really care about Mitt Romney’s war record, whether he’s circumcised or whether his last stool sample contained traces of nuts. Obama’s campaign has, from what I can tell way over here in the dark recesses of the Bar None, remained seemingly innocuous in its lack of scandal (as I type this, Mitt Romney’s latest gaffe, in which he called 47% of US folks “lazy”…. ha ha, fuck you Romney, you just got punked, dude!) is something of a breath of fresh, “Yes We Can” air. The muck raking and the poo-slinging and the name-calling and the gutter-sniping that accompanies every US election since fucking forever seems to just be a neverending cycle of trash talk and aggrandizing by pompous multimillionaires who lack the common touch the rest of the population craves. Here’s a thought, America. Instead of insisting on your politicians and your President being a douche-bag billionaire with no concept of doing it tough, how about electing – by mandate – somebody who earns sub-$50K a year? If all the rich people in the world can’t get it right, how about letting the poor people have a crack at stopping the whole thing from collapsing in a heap?
No, the US Presidential race is like a threesome with a hooker – it’s okay until you notice the third person is another dude, and then it’s just uncomfortable, avoidance-prone and fucking ugly from below. And at some point, you have to consider the possibility of anal.